I hear the most succinct "dialogue" of the weekend, from the point of view of Floor Trolls:
The Scene: Man in mid-twenties, standing upright, chest out, feet shoulder width apart, he's Mercury, he's Hermes, he's wearing BirkenTevaCrocs, cargo shorts and a No Fear T-shirt. He has no fear.
Said Man faces what looked like his girlfriend: Woman in mid-twenties, pulled down through arms with a fake tattoo of hooker herpetic kiss, two big muumuu-like sacks full of catalogs, postcards, probably an Eddie Campbell drawing sticky with dreams of Paul Pope, knock-kneed and wearing matching BirkenTevaCrocs and possibly about to throw up and cry at the same time.
"Well I'm having fun."
They probably stayed at the Con an extra few hours, but he probably also lost any bed privileges for the rest of the week, including the right to sleep on one not made of sofa cushions stained with Paul Pope love marks.
Best neologism I hear from the Booth Trolls:
Twitties. Firstly meaning "people who use Twitter." Secondly as demonstrated by accident in the following sentiment:
"She's got a really popular blog...and has major Twitties."
This turns into reappropriation of common phrases into such gems as:
I like a girl with big twitties
I would twittie f**k her
(Anne would like to apologize to anyone with titties...but not twitties.)
I somehow end up in a tiny red Honda with the Samehat crew, Viz editor Kit Fox, Hellen Jo and her man Calvin. (I'll give you a second to figure out the car seats-to-passenger ratio.)
Cheek to cheek with my San Francisco treats, we pull up to an intersection. At the corner nearest us, is a blonde in high heels and a black handkerchief expertly draped to look like a dress. Long legs, big twitties, the whole deal. Behind her is a shorter man, in Banana Republic and crew cut. He is so stoked to be with this woman. She is on the prowl for a cab.
The contents of the tiny red Honda all make fun of them because they only wish they were one of us: slack-jawed, unevenly proportioned bodies, myopic, known mostly by avatar...From inside the car, we're invincible.
Calvin, who despite being mega-awesome, does epitomize the very je ne sais quoi of nerdiness: slight underbite, glasses that reflect all light...asian...After we each take our turns mocking the frat party on the corner ("How did you tan your boner, Kyle?" "Does my anus look fat in this dress, Kyle?"), Hellen's man Calvin takes his turn and says to them under the protections of a sound-proof car:
Yeah...I bet you don't even know anything about comics.
I bet they don't...I bet they don't.