Things were a bit complicated this year. With Joel and myself now gainfully employed all things rested on the lofty shoulders of Jerry and Skabs. As has been noted during past Otakons, things don't tend to go well when they're out of my hands. This year was no exception, but surprisingly these problems had nothing to do with Skabs's retarded friends wanting to go out to breakfast in some random diner at the exact same time we had to check out.

This year the hotel decided that it would be a super cool and super smart maneuver to bill both Skabs's credit card and my own. While stopped in Delaware to pick up cheap alcohol and cigarettes, Joel and I attempted to scavenge some wonderful Taco Bell before embarking on our long journey. What a shock it was to me when my ATM transaction was denied because of insufficient balance. I had $9. Which is weird, because that morning I had $700. When we were unable to raise any information on the subject beyond the fact that my card had been charged we embarked for Baltimore. Sometime during our route south it was made clear that I was a jerk for blaming Skabs and in fact the hotel had billed my card. In my talks with them, where I raised my voice more than my fair share of times, it was revealed that they had somehow mistakenly put a hold on my credit card for no reason at all. But the fifth woman I talked to confirmed that the hold would be released momentarily. This soothed me, and I assumed the worst part of my trip was using up 40 of my anytime minutes and missing Yoko Kanno's Information High while verbally attacking hotel employees.

Sadly I was sorely mistaken. We'll find more about that later.

With arrival in Baltimore came excitement! Joel and I pulled into our spot, secure in the knowledge that we were in for a good time. With a brief call on the cellphone Skabs, Jerry, and our long lost friend Andrew, who had traveled five hours to meet us there (and he doesn't even like anime) trundled up the many ramps of the parking garage and we commenced with Operation: Get All The Beer upstairs. It went off without a hitch! The room was amazing. Jerry and Skabs's words on the phone could not do it justice. It was a cavernous stronghold, a full living room and kitchen in addition to the bedroom. A fold out couch was there to greet us! And all this for only $169/night! Little did we know that the hotel was not as perfect as it might've seemed. In less than 24 hours woe would befall our traveling troupe.

But at the moment there was nothing but joy. We reminisced about old times with Andrew while in the attendance of a retro-styled 50s restaurant. Over enormous onion rings and mushroom cheeseburgers we shared tales of the past year. Our remarkably upbeat white trash waitress kept the Mr. Pibb flowing like water and things were so right that I didn't even mind the broken jukebox that refused to play my Four Seasons songs. And back on the streets of Baltimore we beelined for our favorite bar with the 32 oz beers. I was on such a high that I could not be bothered the bartender's sullen information of early shutdown times. A single beer was quaffed by the majority of us and, on the outside terrace, we reveled in conversation and discussed important website affairs. At the hotel we would play Lumines and devour Cheez-its by the box, all in good fun! Soon it was time for sleep. An early bedtime promised an early morning!

Turning the TV as I rolled out of bed on Saturday morning provided me with the unpleasant screeches of Tokyo Mew Mew, which I guess in America is called Kitty Mew Mew or Hollywood Mew Mew and is equally as crappy in its dubbed, localized version as it was when it was a legitimate Japanese release, surprisingly the changed name has nothing to do with how much this show sucks. Deciding that the rumblings of my bowels were more of a priority, I escaped the bedroom and took care of my daily hygienic needs. A shower, shave and quick brush of my teeth put me far and above the 99th percentile of the general Otaku populace of Baltimore at that moment. So refreshed I was ready to face the day, and the hotel that was convinced it deserved my money. Multiple calls to the help deskinformed me that the bank had to release the hold, multiple calls to the bank informed me that the hotel had to TELL THEM to release the hold. After 2 hours of intermittent phoning I finally managed to get a clear answer. The hotel sends a fax and I get my money back, says the bank.

Easier said than done!

Realizing that there was no time to spare we sent Jerry and Joel to acquire breakfast while Andrew, Skabs, and I returned to the hotel to battle it out once more with their less than helpful staff. It was just about 10:30 in the morning now and already I had quaffed about half of my bottle of Coke (which contained very little actual coke). Stress and alcoholism are conveniently linked with me. With the appearance of the hirsute and obese on duty manager my stress level rose to meteoric heights. He was convinced, intractably convinced, that the hotel owed me no money. I struggled to maintain my composure like Moses before the Pharaoh, suggesting that if he didn't think they owed me any money then what was the purpose then there was no harm in sending out a fax to my bank that stated exactly that. Fatty didn't seem to agree and it took the better part of an half-an-hour to convince him to WRITE DOWN MY CREDIT CARD NUMBER AND CALL THE BANK. Apparently at the Tremont Hotel the customer is not always right, even when confirming this fact takes all of 30 seconds. A rather contrite chubbo returned in the area of 10 minutes later to inform me that he was indeed wrong (and stupid, and ugly) and that I would have my $500 back within the hour. Well wonderful.

As we exchanged good-byes I did my very best to maintain some aura of "good customer"ness. This was somewhat ameliorated by the fact that I had yelled at somewhere in the range of six hotel workers and one Best Buy employee in the past week. Also I now had about four shots of Rumplemintz in my belly before noon. So suffused with alcohol and soon to be equally rich in money I joined my traveling companions in the room. I had to restock on alcohol and Skabs had to gulp down water from the faucet so he didn't dehydrate after swallowing about a pound of "Thermogain", or whatever bullshit energy supplement/meth derivative that GNC is trying to get you to buy now.

Some three hours and 50 minutes after we arose we found ourselves in the Artist's Alley, what would be our home for the majority of the con. We had spent the past month in the worry that no table would be provided to us. Fortunately we were wrong, and enough people didn't show up on the Art Room floor that we were granted our space. Triumphantly I plunged my finger down on A16. I let out a warbling hoot of pleasure! For a mere $40, we were back in action. Unfortunately we were 'back in action' next to strange androgynous videogame doll characters and across from a triumvirate of artists that seemed to spend the majority of the convention dealing out furry porn. Beggar's can't be choosers, I guess, and it allowed me to get rid of the 100 "Content CDs" I had so hastily slapped together over the course of the few days prior.

For the next ten hours, barring brief recesses, Skabs and I sat in the Artist's Room and pimped the hell out of our comic. Other time was spent with Skabs drawing a really excellent Marv and me recalling Final Fantasy Tactics joy with our tablemate, who was a rather jovial fellow. Our friend, who was too nice for his own good, apparently fell prey to some hecklers while I was away. Armed with a video camera, the men, described by Skabs as "Fatty" and "Greasy" teased our poor friend and captured it to DV tape. I would've loved to have been there, because I'm so super aggressive and not all that smart and I don't doubt I would've tried to escalate it into a fight. I don't know if you know this, but I'm a pretty big guy and Skabs is ripped like a house. Between the two of us we're 6'3 (me) and made of muscle (him). It would've been worth it just to inform Fatty and Greasy that they didn't have a leg to stand on. Then I'm sure I would've said something like 'break your shit', because I'm dumb like that.

But why wasn't I there? Well I was at the dealer's room! With a great amount of excitement I managed to convince Andrew to come with me in my quest to find half of the creative team behind my new webcomic golden boy Alpha-Shade. Joe Brudlos was a mountain of a man, content and saturated with pride in his work. Also in attendance was his wife and father, two companions as stalwart as my own, they handled the throng of well-wishers and potential clients with ease. I went with the intention of glancing over their books. I would make a big show of gazing over each page fondly, running my fingers over the glossy material. Finally I would plunk my $20 down and shout to the heavens that I was convinced. I would purchase their book!!

It didn't exactly happen like that. It took us nearly twenty minutes just to find the booth, which was buried amidst a mass of deritus that I wouldn't touch with the sawed-off appendages of another man. Rape hentai magazines, strange bomber jackets with crap sewed on them, more $40 samurai swords than one could legitimately imagine. Though I bumped into my fair share of really hot cosplayers, my resolve was waning and Andrew was just about ready to take a nap. Just as hope seemed to be lost I spied a curious combination of letters in a neighboring aisle. There it was! It was just around the corner!

As soon as I met the guy I'm sure I said something like "Ah duh... ah duh... CAN I BUY BOOKZ PLZ K THNX?!" and he was all like "Shut up honky!" Promptly, and quite fairly, he slapped me like a little bitch. I'm sure this is roughly proportional to what I deserved so it's all good. After brief introductions and discussions I put down money for not only a book, but also a shirt, because I'm a colossal tool. Joe, a noted admirer of the work Skabs and I have put out, saw fit to include a signed poster which now hangs on the wall in the auspicious spot next to my sexy Bubblegum Crisis 2040 ensemble. No other wall hanging has ever occupied the coveted spot, but it's a beautiful piece that I got gratis from a rather benevolent fellow named JB. This was about the highlight of the convention, and my book sits proudly next to the official Front Beat computer. Joe's signature of "Dave, keep up the great work!" really made my day. Yes! He underlined the great! Some day I hope to return the favor.

And now that I've been a total suck-ass I guess I'll continue.

Somewhere along the way the night dissolved and we managed to get rid of the Front Beat CDs. We stumbled our way back to the hotel with enough time to watch the majority of the Eagles-Raven's game. It wasn't as exciting as I hoped it to be, but we had our fair share of fun and pizza to boot! I had been pulling for seafood, as I do every year at Otakon. But just like every year at Otakon I get turned down and I leave Baltimore without the chance to consume any crabs!

But despite my spit and vinegar, it was alright. The Eagles pulled out a victory in a stadium not too far from our very hotel and I felt invigorated. The Domino's pizza only sweetened the deal. I knew that I was ready to party, and ready to party hearty.

Somewhere along the way Jerry and Skabs decided to try and meet up with Jerry's "street crew", the people at Otakon that invariably end up distributing more fliers than we do. It's unfortunate this year that they really wanted to get laid or something, so they only gave the fliers out to girls. Here's a hint: girls at a dorky convention like this that want to go to a party already have a party to go to. I was mostly concerned about hanging out with people, not getting laid at Otakon. The act is not only improbable, but also the sort of thing you probably don't want to do with anyone who'd want to do it with you. What girl at a cartoon convention that wants to have sex after meeting you two hours prior? I got no interest in that.

Eventually, long after Andrew had went to bed and Joel and I had played many a round of Soul Calibur, as is our custom, people did indeed show up. Nowhere near as many as the massive throngs of prior years, but enough that I was no longer worried about how we were going to haul a hundred cold beers back to Philadelphia. Sometime during the night I went out to smoke a few cigarettes and ran into a polite Asian fellow. He and I chatted for some time about abusing the party potential of Otakon. During the ride up in the elevator I conversed with a rather attractive little Asian woman. I felt that between the two my necessary quotient for Far Easterners had been filled.

Now, up in the room, disaster struck! The fifteen or so of us were having a good time, talking, drinking, listening to Del (Tha Funky Homosapien). I will make no bones about it, we were being loud. But it seems logical to me that any convention is going to be loud. And if the hotel is offering a special rate FOR said convention then they would probably stick these convention-goers on the same floors in an effort to avoid bothering other guests. Such has not been the logic of any hotel I've attended in my four years of Otakon attendance. This year was no exception, but the result was slightly different than expected.

A woman who looked like someone had poured the "Sassy Black Woman" stereotype into a giant funhouse glass was accompanied by a rather large man who she said was a cop. I find this claim extremely spurious, considering that if he was a cop I might expect him to be doing cop stuff and not WORKING IN A DAMN HOTEL. But what do I know? I guess Baltimore is a city so free of crime and drug trafficking that the cops have nothing to do, so they lend their wonderful services to the hotels in the area to avoid being bored.

When told to quiet down we attempted to comply, as per the usual. What differed in this situation was that nary two minutes later, less time than it would take to wait for the elevator, our fat n' sassy little friend was back in full effect. At first we thought she was breaking up the party, and complied in the standard manner of ushering people out and offering apologies. It was not until the last guests walked out the door that we realized our fatal error.

We were getting kicked out too.

Somehow Ms. Fat n' Sassy had jumped from "Verbal Warning" to "3 AM Eviction". I don't know how to explain how much this enraged me. We were being loud, I have admitted this, but no louder than you'd expect ten or fifteen people in a room to be. We weren't jumping up and down on the floor or holding impromptu WMAC matches. It wasn't a horrible, disgusting cosplayer orgy. Just some people having fun and a few drinks. And, let me tell you something Ms. Fatty, when you break up the party it's not loud anymore. I was especially infuriated because this was the very same hotel that barely offered me an apology after charging me half a grand by mistake and wasting something like four hours of my time. I guess the customer isn't always right. It's a crazy time we live in.

Now thrust out onto the streets of Baltimore we had no options but to sulk for awhile and meander to our cars, looking like lost little puppies. I offered profuse apologies to Andrew, who was put out of his way by a five hour drive in the middle of the night, but he seemed almost elated by the idea of driving home so early. Like one of those guys that drives to the beach at 4 AM so he can beat the traffic, Andrew seemed positively excited by the prospect of getting home not long after the sun rose.

The rest of us were not so happy. I smoked more than a few cigarettes while we dispersed and regrouped and tried to figure out how to get out of the most complicated parking lot ever. We left most of our beer for a group of strange Asian kung-fu motorcycle ninjas and rode off into the night. During the trip even exciting tunes from Le Tigre and Guitar Wolf weren't enough to assuage my grief. It also didn't help that I'm not the best navigator with a few beers in me and probably gave Joel the wrong directions for quite awhile. Baltimore is no Philadelphia and streets magically seethe and recede without a care for the workings of the modern man. What you think might lead you to I-95 in reality will take you to the horrifying reality of Baltimore's slums... which is not a place that one wants to visit at 4 AM. I'd estimate that after 45 minutes of mindless wandering we escaped the city and managed to jump on the road home. Each road sign back to Philadelphia was like a crushing defeat. 62 miles. 60 miles. It was all the same. At a lonely gas station we stopped for petrol and gum.

Surprisingly nobody really cared about being kicked out, aside from the fact that driving home at five in the morning isn't really as much fun as you'd think it'd be. If nothing else it'll be a good story to tell in future times, and I got to sleep in my own bed (at 7 in the morning). Loaded down with CD Players and free posters and bags hastily backed while under the surveillance of hotel security I clambered my way inside and threw everything down in as haphazard a fashion as I could muster. Law & Order was on the TV and everything was right with the world.

But next year I think I'll be staying at the Radisson.