Word just broke that "the man, the myth, the monotone" is going to be making a triumphant return to Comic Con this year. Hell yeah. (Oh - that was a reference to David Duchovny in case the subject title of this post didn't let you know that aka you are stupid).
Oh wait, I am not going to Comic Con. My third summer in LA where I will not be traveling with the masses on this holy quest.
The thing is? It would be SO easy. I mean, I could probably even get interviews if I wanted, could probably tote around some HuffPo press credentials, use various contacts to crash some parties, but the thing is - at the end of the day, I am not going to go to Comic Con until I am going under legitimate pretenses. So, for work. Like, work, work. And I'm not talking about this here blog or the other freelance writing I do for spare change. I'm talking about the day when I am no longer an assistant and I get to go because a show I work on is at the convention, whether I am going in a marketing capacity, or as a creative exec (as the many people I work for are), or as a writer or producer (those last two are most likely in the far away future). Am I sad about this? Sure. But not really. I think my reasons for abstaining from making the trek are good ones. Hey, I need to maintain any remaining shred of "coolness" I can.
But then... but then... there was Duchovny. He might be the only celebrity of any medium I have ever geeked out over. Last summer when I was home my brother and I spent some time sorting through our old stuff. My X-Files collection was quite impressive. Here's a glimpse:
There may or may not be action figures hiding behind that mountain of magazines.
Alas - no Comic Con for me. Not this year. Unless Duchovny himself sends a personalized invite, I'll be spending that weekend in what will likely be a quiet LA.