Tonight, I Dream of Caped Heroes, Dire Wolves, and the Tanned Thighs of a Woman

A Story by Jonah Valdez

Set in the 2014 San Diego Comic-Con, this essay discusses the themes of desire, objects of our fantasy (sexual and non-sexual), and the Western cultural tendency of escapism. Enjoy!

Tonight, I Dream of Caped Heroes, Dire Wolves,
and the Tanned Thighs of a Woman

By Jonah Valdez

The last time I felt this much testosterone and adrenaline rush through my body, I was thirteen, in the seventh grade, standing in the hallway next to my room. I had just been kissed for the first time. The scene's details left lasting impressions. I was wearing my navy blue Chargers t-shirt, she was wearing a black tank-top. We both smelled like chlorine and our hair was still damp. It was a pool party and we were high on sugary drinks and grease laden pizza. She leaned in to say good bye. I was ready to give her an awkward hug. She surprised me with a kiss on the cheek. Sure, it wasn't on the lips, but at that age, a kiss was all the same, and every inch of teenage sexual curiosity and desire reached peak levels. Romantically, this girl and I never became anything beyond a six-month crush, late nights texting or on AIM Instant Messenger, and a lot of what-ifs. Still, I remember that moment as a sort of sexual awakening. Probably not in the deeper sense of intimacy, but more so the raw desire that these sexually charged hormones tend to elicit. As with all teenagers, it came in heavy dosages. In the next seven years, through high school and several relationships, this concept of desire would be explored, along with the notions of love, and the difference between the two. At the end of this seven-year span, this internal dialogue would be re-ignited. I had just met Jessica Alba, an old celebrity crush. On a more graphic note, I held her as the object of my teenage sexual fantasies. It might even be fair to assume that I was joined in doing so by nearly every male (or female) that spent the 2000s as a teenager. More on my intricate history with Alba will come later.

After seeing Alba in body and flesh, meeting eyes with her and exchanging a few words, I began to ask a host of questions that rooted themselves in my adolescent years and have lingered into adulthood: After all these years, have I not grown from the immature fantasies of my teenage years? Is this sexual desire actually immature, or naturally human? Therefore, is getting rid of these unobtainable sexual notions healthy, or is it ridding a part of my humanity? Why do I hold these fantasies in my head? Why do our human bodies yearn for things that we cannot have? Is it because we are constantly trying to find ways to escape our own reality? Is it possible to improve upon our reality, or must we settle for fantasy? Should we be content with this mode of thinking and existing? What exactly does this loaded word, "desire" really mean in middle-class, 21st Century, Western society? And where, how, and when does it drive us to tangible action? My celebrity-on-fan interaction and the subsequent contemplation took place in the middle of downtown San Diego on a hot Saturday afternoon, during a comic book convention.

I. Evolution of the Con

With over 130,000 fans in attendance, the 2014 San Diego Comic-Convention International (Comic-Con; SDCC) shook the city with its eclectic hordes of comic book readers, science fiction geeks, gamers, anime lovers, cosplayers, cinephiles, Hollywood celebrity fan-boys/girls, and San Diego natives, curious of the major event that annually puts the city on the media's grand stage for three consecutive days. I have lived in San Diego since 1999; my family made the move when I was five. I have loved the city since. Although not a native since birth, I call it my own, valuing and often bragging about the amenities of this Southern Californian vacation destination. I love not only the beach, but how I can see Point Loma from the Coronado beach, it's silhouette during sunsets like a distant shadow along the coastal scene. I enjoy the food, not because it is cultured or exotic, not because it makes me full, but because it makes me smile, feel, and cry while I eat it in the company of friends and those that matter to me. Some refer to San Diego like a good dream, a fantasy, a place that tourists flock to because their own reality is nothing more than a nine to five job, an unhappy marriage, and too many unanswered questions about the future. They wish to escape and San Diego is often the object to numb their pain, reduce the swelling, and for once, smile at something that appears better, finer, fuller, even if it is not their own. San Diego offers so much that can cast this weird getaway spell. Just ask the millions that annually generate $6 billion for the city during the summer season. And even natives, no matter how long their stay, tend to become caught in its vacationy embrace. Comic-Con is certainly among the long list of what San Diego has to offer, yet for the past seven years, I have been able to tune-out the international waves, centered in the city's downtown convention center. Much of my choice to ignore it was allowed by the particular ridiculousness of trying to get inside.

In 2005, my two brothers, my dad and I, filled in line at around 8:30 AM, waiting to attend the final day of that year's Comic-Con. After about one hour, the line was moving and we proceeded to pay a reasonable price of about $30 per badge. Once inside the convention center, little time is spent doing or participating in anything, but rather seeing, observing and soaking in the otherworldly environment of the main exhibition hall. Although the convention offered us the opportunity to meet film directors and actors, comic book artists and writers, it did not appeal to our dreams and fantasy of childhood. Batman was the "Capped Crusader," "the Dark Knight," not a British actor named Christian Bale, or a protagonist of a Frank Miller graphic novel. It was the creations, not the creators, that we were interested in. We spent the day perusing fantasy artwork, new video game demos, towering display booths from Dark Horse Comics to Viz Media and promotional items such as Ghost Rider's motorcycle and Bruce Wayne's Batmobile. We bought Lord of the Rings and anime merchandise, salivated before authentic displays of the original Power Rangers costumes, Star Wars light sabers, and watched the freakishly real cosplayers, from Wonder Woman to Freddy Kruger. Footage samples of the Superman Returns and King Kong dominated the news headlines and garnered the most attention from the 103,000 fans in attendance.

In 2006, getting into the convention became more of an ordeal. Badge prices were normal, but purchasing one was no longer as simple as standing in a short line of a few hundred, the morning of the convention. My brothers and I struck gold with friends of ours, also brothers, one who put together an impressive blog about the TV show LOST, and the other, a budding color artist for D.C. Comics. Without that connection, we would have been rendered as Comic-Con rejects, a term that can be applied to more hopeful fans each year. Our group that consisted of a few friends and my brothers did much of the same, as my brothers and I did in 2005: we were absorbed by the elements of of the exhibition floor, bought merchandise and marveled at awesome displays of our favorite fictions. The largest media pull was Snakes on a Plane, starring Samuel L. Jackson, a curious downgrade from 2005's more acclaimed headlining film previews. Oddly enough, the attendance rose by about twenty percent to 123,000.

For the next few years, my brothers and I began to spend our summers in McAllen, Texas, a growing suburb along the U.S.-Mexico border, where my dad had decided to move and remarry. This meant the end of a tradition, less time in San Diego's oasis, an increase to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit (plus intense humidity), and a lot of watching and wishing from afar.

During this span between 2007 and 2013, my brothers and I huddled together with our laptops, watching live streams of panel discussions and exhibition floor interviews, reading headlines and articles of the latest news for incoming movies, video games, and TV shows, surveying from afar the enormity"and in many ways, the absurdity"of Comic-Con's growth.

In 2007, all badges were sold during the convention weekend, as lines for purchasing the passes grew to new lengths.

In 2008, all badges were sold weeks before the convention's opening night.

In 2009, all badges were sold months before the convention's opening night. Some fans clung to the possibility of winning a bid on Comic-Con's official eBay page that sold refunded passes.

In 2010, all badges were once again sold months in advance, yet this time, the convention's opening night was capped by a violent altercation. One fan had stabbed another in the face with a pen, during a preview for the Resident Evil franchise's new film. The aggressor was apparently disgruntled with the position of the other fan's seat, which was "too close to the other."

In 2011, all badges were sold eight hours after being available for purchase online. Non-fiction violence was absent at the Comic-Con's opening night.

In 2012, all badges were sold a mere ninety minutes after online availability. Stabbings at Comic-Con are at an all-time low, enjoying the peaceful number of zero for the second straight year. However, a day before the opening night, on the road that runs directly in front of the convention center, a fifty three year old women was hit by a Subaru Outback and was killed. The woman had crossed hurriedly against the traffic signal, perhaps in urgency, or a die-hard fan's sprint of desperation. She had been camping to save a spot for the Twilight film's talent and creator discussion panel.

In 2013, history repeated itself in what was starting to become customary for purchasing a Comic-Con badge with all badges selling out online in the span of around ninety minutes. This summer generated a little under $200 million in city-wide revenue, attendees spending $77 million out of pocket in the immediate convention. This was also the summer where I decided it was time to stop watching from afar and rejoin what was once an object of my childhood and teenage dreams.

By now, my brothers and I were no longer the children that once drew movie plots and acted them out with our costumes, action figures, and plastic arsenal of weapons, or talked for hours about science-fiction scenarios of a dystpoian future and where each would fit in, we instead talk about ideologies presented in the films and shows that we love, or discuss the particularities of each character and what they have come to metaphorically suggest and represent, and still finding time to enjoy the simply bad-a*s moments of visceral reactions that comic book and fantasy genres present. Along with this maturing perspective on the world of the comic book genre, came the respect for the brains and talent behind each movie, TV show, video game, or graphic novel. The once faceless names on the title pages and credits were now as much an object of our dreams as the worlds they molded within their creations.

In many ways, Comic-Con makes fantasy into reality, fiction into a tangible experience, and celebrities and titans of the fictional genres into actualized people. An attendee could now talk to them, shake hands with them and see their gratuitous smiles, as adoring fans showered them with applause and inquisitive questions for new projects, juicy details, information from the background, hidden from the public eye.

During the registration period in 2013, anticipating 2014, I consciously made the decision to schedule next year's trip to Texas earlier in the summer, avoiding any contradiction between the two events. Once again, I would be a part of San Diego's famous, multi-billion dollar summer season.

II. Commercializing Desire

Crammed between classes, lectures, exams, reading, writing a novel's worth of essays, registration day had arrived, March 21, 2014. My younger brother and I decided to join the process together. The entirety of signing up, creating a Comic-Con online profile, and the actual registration was through the Internet. We waited around our respective computers. My little brother was sitting at home and I was in my college dorm room, crossing our fingers as we waited in the infamous online registration waiting room. I have heard many horror stories of the waiting room: frozen computer screens, accidentally refreshing the webpage and losing their spot in line, waiting every year and still no success. The official Comic-Con website has a list of tips, intended to provide a "better experience" when registering. But even they admit it themselves:

"Gaining admittance to the waiting room does not guarantee you a badge or a registration session; there are simply far more people who want to attend than there are badges available."

In other words, the process of obtaining a badge is equivalent to the lottery. Registering is like driving to a gas station and buying a lottery ticket. The waiting room is like waiting at home for the lucky numbers to be announced. And the sentiments are identical: hope, uncertainty, anxiety, and in most cases, disappointment. Luck seems to be the common factor. As most of those who have tried and still try again, my younger brother and I were unsuccessful. It was the first time trying to register since 2006. It was also the first time trying and evidently failing. Analyzing the statistical reality before the process began, we had prepared ourselves for this reality to set in. Still, afterward, the process was less of a lottery and more of a slug-fest, a mob full of dreamers, lovers of the comic book genre, wanting to escape for the weekend, nudging their way to a spot, pushing, pulling, thrashing, clawing, and stabbing. My discontent with the system raged on.

Cesar, a friend of mine texted me on the Tuesday before the 2014 convention:

"Let's go to downtown during comic con on Friday."

Cesar and I graduated high school together. Although there was never any premeditated plan, we ended up at the same university, the same floor in our dormitory, and one door down from my own. This would give us a lot opportunities to talk about our mutual interests: movies, television shows, and occasionally video games (I myself am not a gamer. Yet, I have a respect for the art form since both of my brothers can, and sometimes do, game from sunrise to sunrise). It made sense for the both of us to be eventually drawn back to Comic-Con. However, I had already done such a good job at what many Comic-Con rejects eventually revert to"finding steps to avoid the experience, all together. This looks like a combination of many things to many people, but everyone has their own coping mechanism of attempting self-induced ignorance. So far, I had committed myself to a strict regimen of watching Netflix, eating a lot of Snickers, Sour Patch Kids, and Ruffles, sleeping around 4:00 AM, and waking up past Noon. Given Comic-Con's recent outward expansion, alternatives became available.

Starting in 2011, Comic-Con has been expanding beyond the convention center. Now, the surrounding parks, hotels, restaurants, parking lots, the baseball stadium (Petco Park), and side-streets are occupied by some sort of free exhibits that allow the badge-less fans to wander through the area, appeasing their restless desires to be a part of the weekend. I thought I would give the newly added scenery a chance. And I hoped that maybe, as the city often does, I could shake free from the normal drudgery of summer boredom and meet a better type of reality, like being the kid with wide-eyes and drool streaming down his face, experiencing a dream, even for just one day.

I responded:

"I'm down."

Deciding to take the trolley, avoiding the logistical mess of parking near the convention center, Cesar and I rolled into the area a little before noon on Friday. We had gotten off a few stops early, but navigating our way was easy. There were small streams of cosplayers, some dressed ready to attack incoming Titans, others fit for boarding the USS Enterprise with either Picard or Kirk at its helm (Whichever you prefer. It's a generational thing). A few blocks later, heavier currents of fans began to form. If it was not cosplay, fans displayed their fanaticism through more moderate terms, showing up with t-shirts or hats with iconic logos and symbols. I wore a Game of Thrones shirt, bearing the popular direwolf banner of House Stark. Cesar chose a more esoteric mark, wearing a shirt with Columbia propaganda for the Songbird from BioShock Infinite. We joined the current and drifted wherever it took us.

The trolley cost seven dollars for the day pass, which put us at a deficit of that amount. We were hoping the day's experience would put us at a surplus, metaphorically, and some how, financially.

Cesar and I came across a booth that advertised, "One Free Dollar!""just what we needed. The catch, however, was to watch a four-minute informational video about animals being raised and processed for meat. Its thesis was more or less: the meat industry is corrupt, farm animals are treated like the dirt beneath them, and since consumers control the market, stop eating meat, poultry, and dairy products! Become a vegan! The depictions were graphic and were not preceded by any sort of warning. Breakfast began to churn in my stomach, as nausea set in. I had seen this all before in one of my humanities classes; the video's information was old news. Still, my expectation was some stupid promo, a typical commercialized advertisement about a largely unreliable product that claimed to make life (usually domestic life) easier. Instead, it was an ideological ambush, contradicting with the hyper-commercialized environment of Comic-Con, promoting a lifestyle that stood in antagonism toward big corporations, a symbolic and economic protest. It all felt too real on a day and in a place that was to strike some semblance to childhood dreams and fantasies. Eliciting this weird, layered reaction of surprise, guilt, and revolutionary angst was probably the booth's intent. The two of us ended the session with a four-day pledge to be vegan, a pledge we knew we would not keep. Jokingly, Cesar asked if we could watch the video again for another dollar. The lady tending to the booth, who had pink highlights, smiled and turned him down. Her tone sounded rehearsed, as if she had received the same question too many times, but was being monitored and paid for her pleasantness. Soon after, a middle-aged couple with stained and tattered clothes, pulling a small cart of drinks, food, clothes, and toiletries, came to the booth and asked the same question. The lady with pink highlights still declined, this time with a bit of pity and reluctance.

We collected our dollar bills and went on our way.

Rejoining the crowd, Cesar and I floated toward the convention center doors. The cold air conditioned breeze blew into our faces, seemingly taunting us. Separating us from the exhibition floor was a security guard wearing polo shirts that were blue with a tacky shade of yellow. The two of us felt our resentment for the system flare. The idea of being in the area and not having a badge was unsettling. We almost felt like marginalized, second-rate citizens, a lower class of rejects and outcasts, disconnected from the élite class of privilege and entitlement.

The rest of the day, we drifted past a parkour stuntman, re-enacting scenes from Assassin's Creed on a padded obstacle course, a fifteen foot dragon looking creature bearing armor, a pack of Michael Myers from Halloween, the Headless Horseman, Hello Kitty cosplaying representatives passing out flyers and kitty ears, a group of people staging a mock-riot in the middle of the Gaslamp Quarter, comprised of red-shirted volunteers holding Sharknado 2 "warning" signs, handing out foam finger chainsaws, and a cluster of bagpipe players and kilted marchers carrying Outlander banners. Such blatant product placement would usually annoy me, no matter how entertaining to look at. But in Comic-Con, it is sort of what is expected. Media production companies and studios attend yearly to generate buzz about their latest film, television show, or video game.

Tucked beneath the massive production companies, such as Marvel, D.C., FOX, and NBC, or beyond what Brian Doherty, Senior Editor of Reason Magazine, calls "a clusterfuck of a TV and movie fantasy-geek-industry trade show," there is still a good, honest comic-based fans to artists sort of exchange. In a lot of ways, Comic-Con has stuck true to their mission statement:

"Comic-Con International: San Diego is a nonprofit educational corporation dedicated to creating awareness of, and appreciation for, comics and related popular art forms, primarily through the presentation of conventions and events that celebrate the historic and ongoing contribution of comics to art and culture."

While a nonprofit corporation, it is certainly a lucrative generator of money in itself, aside from the media corporations, making about $10 million in 2011's convention. Still, Doherty recalls on what saw as a hopeful 2014 Comic-Con experience:

"The number of independent artists doing serious non-genre work there is the same, or more. The cool indie publishers are still there, with more great work than ever. At pretty much any given moment, you could be inside a not-overly-crowded room listening to panel discussions related to great comic book work and artists of the past and present. It's still an amazing comic book convention"though admittedly one embedded in a larger cultural context."

It is this "larger cultural context" that has brought Comic-Con to its greater commercial heights. To some fans, this has made the convention all the more enticing, while others deem the changes frustrating. I find myself caught somewhere in between these sentiments. The recent growth of the convention also stands as a testament to the growth of the comic book genre, as production companies, both for the silver screen and small screen, are lining up to produce media based on the genre's heroes and villains.

Production companies know that business is generated by mixing the value of finding good talent to present a genre, having this talent create and portray this genre, and presenting it to the fans of the genre, capitalizing off these eager viewers, readers, or gamers, allowing the company to dig into the fan's pockets, as deep as would allow them to generate profit. At this point, I often wonder who is more important: the artists that create things for the fans, or the fans themselves that have these wanting minds and willing pockets, keeping these production companies afloat, along with many of the artists.

This voluntary exchange of our resources to be entertained and socially fulfilled is what fuels Comic-Con. And no matter how disgruntled we are about the system, its capitalist expansions, and its steady polarization from the common fan, the object of the system, comic books, science fiction, and fantasy genre media, is still what we crave and are reaching for. It is not so much corporate brainwash, such as the economics of buying cars, beauty products, or taking vacations to lavish resorts. The exchange is more of satisfying the social need to be both creatively entertained, amongst a community of what Cesar later explained to me as being "sort of like church." "It is the coming together of like-minded individuals. That's what makes it great."

III. It's More Than Just the Sex, Right?

At the promise of "free stuff," Cesar and I revisited the Sin City 2 booth. We were handed black poker chips, which we used as currency for t-shirts with the Sin City promotional poster silk screened onto the front. After shooting a few pictures at a green screen photo booth with some of the Suicide Girls, tattooed women who get paid for their openness to a lot of butt and b**b action, the two of us caught word about a signing the next day. We were told that at the same booth, from 11:15 AM until 12:15 PM, the Sin City 2 talent and filmmakers would be signing posters for free. This would feature Frank Miller, Robert Rodriguez, Rosario Dawson, Josh Brolin, and, you guessed it, Jessica Alba.

For me, the final name on the list offered obvious intrigue, while Cesar, a more refined fan in multiple ways, longed to meet comic book titan, Frank Miller. Meeting Jessica Alba would be a long time coming, in the most shallow usage of the adage.

On our trolley ride back to the suburbs, over a large, stuffed crust cheese pizza, Cesar and I laid out our options for the following day. Cesar presented the idea of infiltrating the main exhibition hall. He had cousins who knew this guy from Tijuana that could guarantee passage into the convention center. Be at the convention center entrance at 11:00 AM and this mystery man from Tijuana would charge $40, but only after safe entry. The option was illegal. The threat of an arrest, an embarrassing escort, or maybe being blacklisted, loomed. The vagueness of the plan was a bit unsettling. Yet the price was reasonable, the Comic-Con coyote's confidence in the system was undeniable, and either way, you would have a novel story to tell, afterward. The second option was meeting the cast and creators of Sin City 2. It was legal, scheduled, details about the process were given online. It was the safe option. It also started at 11:00 AM so we had to cut one of the options off the list. I cut the first, Cesar cut the second, and although torn by our decision, we held on to what we valued: actualizing our fantasies and fulfilling our compelling interest in the fictional desires that Comic-Con offered.

My history with Alba began in the fifth grade with a re-run of the 1999 Disney Movie, P.U.N.K.S. Alba was one of the primary characters of the film, the older cousin of the protagonist. It was an innocent movie about kids rebelling against a corrupt company that posed a threat to the protagonist's father. Alba's character pitched in by using her expertise in starting cars and picking locks. I would remember her face, but it was her famous body that I had gotten to know a few years later, during a random Google Image search, "Jessica Alba hot." This sexually charged desire was most intense around the junior high years, but slowly tapered off during high school, once I started dating. However, in the wake of Instagram, I came across a picture highlighting a recent magazine cover photo shoot on Alba's profile. She caught my attention with her familiar dark eyes, soft lips and powerful stare. I decided to give her a "follow." My interest in Alba slowly began to resurface.

By this time, I was no longer aloof to the deeper implications of sexism in society. High school Bible class had taught me that lusting toward a women is morally bad. I eventually moved past the looming Christian, Puritanical-rooted belief of "forbidding lust toward a women for the very thought is a sin." My view toward women has more to do with establishing basic human decency, or validating an individual as a human, not an object or thing. I had read more into feminist ideals, dialogued with feminist professors in my university, read studies and books that analyze gender roles in the workplace and home, the sexual objectification of women in the media, unceasing misogynist stereotypes of a woman's personality, emotional intelligence, and physical ability. I do not count myself a part of the feminist movement, yet I understand and align myself with its most honest strides. I am not an expert in gender studies either. But I do think I am trying my best to be conscious of the language men use about women, the way men view and treat women, and the many pitfalls of marginalizing them. While I am, more or less, socially awake, I still feel as though my awareness has not come to totally inform my lifestyle, and that begins with the way that I dream and fantasize.

My two-toned, experience with Jessica Alba is an example of such.

To sort of morally justify my sexual attraction to Alba, my interest in her took a more personal spin. I did not want to see her as just an object of my sexual attraction. I began to read articles and commentary concerning Alba. Through this, I know that Alba is married to producer, Cash Warren, and that she is a mother of two daughters, Honor and Haven; she is the co-founder of The Honest Company, which looks to provide non-synthetic, non toxic baby products, such as eco-friendly "Honest Diapers" and pure mineral "Honest Sunscreen;" I know that since having her children Alba has committed herself to a higher selectivity when it comes to movie roles, choosing directors of more artistic decisiveness, noting the sacrifice of time away from her new family; Also, I now know that although she has been among the top of almost every Most Sexy/Sexiest/Hottest/Most Desirable list known to the Internet, has posed for Maxim and FHM, and continues to accept roles with obvious sexual allure (Machete Kills and Sin City 2), Alba asserts that she has never used her sexuality to land a role:

"That's not part of it for me. When I'm in a meeting, I want to tell you why I'm an asset, how I'm a commodity, how I can put asses in the seats, not 'There's a chance you're going to be able to f**k me.' That's never been my deal."

The quote shows not only an understanding of her own sexuality, but an adeptness of the business side of the industry, as a whole. Her self-commodification suggests that she generates capital through some means. If not sex, is it her acting abilities? According to the aggregate Rotten Tomatoes system, the average rating of the films she has appeared is at an abysmal 31.66%. These depressing ratings also lay in the hands of the screenwriters, directors, producers, and other cast members that may have missed the mark, but numbers like these certainly do not help Alba's acting credit. If not solely acting, what then does Alba have left? A pretty face and testosterone inducing body? Or in other words, her sexuality? Alba knows that sexuality plays a role in publicity and rising to stardom, yet she does not see herself as a sex symbol. Instead, she sees an actress, a professional, a selling point for production companies. Alba has given herself to the business of selling tickets and DVDs/BluRays, but selling her body sexually is not her motive. While many men, including myself, have held Jessica Alba as the object of sexual fantasy, Alba appears to be in total control:

"I have to go to certain lengths to use sexuality to my advantage, while guiding people to thinking the way I want them to."

When Alba gives the world sexy, she gives it because sexy sells, especially in an outlet such as Comic-Con. Alba has no allusions about this sexual promotion and public image. As empowering as her promotional techniques may be, it still seems to be a reluctant acquiescence to the social reality of our time and times since the dawn of man and woman; it is also a piece of further evidence, a topic of debate, for the actuality of sexism in society. This is where my view on Jessica Alba takes a dip into the irrational, the mindless reverting to idolizing Alba for her sexual appeal, studying tanned thighs, impressive hips, seductive lips, and fair-sized breasts, playing it all in my head, the perverted what-ifs and if-onlys. When I see a picture of Jessica Alba, I undergo a nuanced reaction, both visceral and cognitive, characterized by the dissonant perspective in which I view Alba"standing up for her as a person with rights, aspirations, an individual life and personality, yet marginalizing her as my object of sexual fantasy. Time would only tell what a real-life look at her would elicit. The prospect of it excited me, as much as it chillingly haunted me. Facing Alba in the flesh would humanize her in ways unknown to me and most of her salivating admirers. Carrying a hyper-sexualized, objectified perspective of Alba while staring into her eyes, would be far more difficult, complex, and in some ways, unsettling. But I had to know for certain. I wanted to chase this foreign feeling, no matter its shape, or size.

IV. Sexy Dreams and un-Sexy Reality

Saturday morning, I woke up early (before 8:00 AM). I never wake up early, unless it involves an important class in school, a promise to a friend, or an obsession, whether it is reading the latest in American politics, watching a show on Netflix, which may, at times, engulf my utter existence, or in this case, meeting Jessica Alba.

I showered, threw on a baseball cap, brown shorts, my old Superman t-shirt, and I drove over to the trolley station on Euclid Avenue. I boarded the Orange Line bound for 12th and Imperial. Leaping off at the downtown stop, I ran to the Sin City 2 booth. I was expecting a long line, stretching beyond the booth, snaking into the side streets and sidewalks. Instead, there were about thirty people in line, mostly men, middle-aged, some in their early thirties, and all appeared to still be waking up. While finding my place at the end of the line, I was joined by a lively man, probably in his early fifties, average height, Hispanic with thickly gelled hair that was styled into a slick, singularly backward moving wave of shiny hair. "Is this the line to see Jessica Alba?" I told him yes. "Oh man, I have to see her. If I can just take one picture of her, that's it, I'm good for the whole day," he said, smiling, followed by a nervous chuckle. A shorter fellow, about my age, who also stood next to me, leaned in a whispered, "I'm going to keep my eye on that guy when he meets Jessica." I ask him what he means. "Who knows what he could do" (If something outrageous were to happen, say harassment, a conversation for such concern is already underway). I turn back at the man with gelled hair and smile.

The time was 9:08 AM. The signing was scheduled for 11:15 AM. Having two hours to kill, I started to make small talk with those around me. I have always hated small talk, but at this point, it was a necessity. The gelled hair man starts to talk to me about the Simpsons exhibit and how hilarious it was. I admitted that I never watched a single episode of the cartoon sitcom. I told him I grew up watching Family Guy instead. He then asked me if I'd heard of the cartoon, Wait 'till Your Father Gets Home. Apparently Wait was a template for shows like Family Guy.

"I have never heard of the show," I said. "Is it new?"

"It's from the early 1970s," the man said "Wait, how old are you?"

"Twenty."

"Oh really? I'm old enough to be your . . . yeah, ask your parents. They might know what it is."

Directly behind the gel man, a woman in her early forties started talking to us about her past Comic-Con experiences. The woman was wearing yoga pants, Nike running shoes, a Puma sweatshirt, and a small hat that conveniently shielded her eyes from the sun. She held a backpack with some food bars and a water bottle. Everything about the woman displayed a physical preparedness for what is often a marathon for most Comic-Con goers, walking the exhibits and around the Gaslamp Quarter, standing in lines for hours such as these, and fighting through the masses of crowds. Trading a chance to cosplay for dressing in comfortable athletic gear is mostly a sign of a savvy veteran. The women recalled the times of when she first began attending in 1998. She talked of how much smaller things were back then. That year, 42,000 people attended the convention. This allowed enough space for a sense of intimacy between the artists and writers of comic books, novels, films, and shows. She often sighed, as if dissatisfied with how gargantuan the convention has become. Still, she claimed to have attended every year since her 1998 experience. I should have asked her why she kept coming back, despite her frustration with Comic-Con's growth. Maybe she was chasing what everyone in this line was chasing"a real taste of their own dreamy fantasy.

At 11:00 AM the sun began to increase its shine and we had eventually ran out of things to say to each other. So, we just stood there silent, miserable, holding on to whatever raw idea motivated us to file ourselves in line to begin with. The line had since quadrupled since I arrived. I wondered how many were here for Jessica Alba. I knew the gel hair man was, but beyond him, the common theme, again, was what the 1998 veteran called, "A bunch of old, divorced men." Either they were fans of Frank Miller's work, Josh Brolin's gritty roles, Robert Rodriguez' gun-slinging films, Rosario Dawson's lesser known flicks, or the household name of Jessica Alba. A lady with short blond hair, round plastic shades, and an annoying, artificial Hollywood vibe began to hand out wristbands to the crowd. She was apparently one of the organizers of the event, trying to get things to run smoothly. Everyone in front of me got orange, plastic wristbands. I, along with everyone behind me got a rainbow colored papery one. I was assured that it was merely for counting purposes and did not signify any cut-off point during the signing. I was still skeptical given the dichotomy and barriers that Comic-Con forms for itself. The 1998 veteran wasn't buying it either. "Whatever, b***h," the veteran muttered under her breath.

At 11:30 AM, the Sin City 2 filmmakers and talent finally arrived. The line began to stir a bit, but everyone was already hot, sweaty, and agitated. As the Hollywood stars shuffled in, posing for a few pictures here and there, the hype man couldn't hype the crowd"neither could the scantily dressed Suicide Girls as they hopped and danced around to the rhythm of the DJ's up-tempo playlist. What the Comic-Con crowd lacks in party-like enthusiasm and noise, they make up in dedication with their cosplay costumes, money to pay for badges, or patience to stand in lines for hours. Our silent stance was our way of showing we gave a s**t in the first place. We stared from behind the line barriers as the Jessica Alba and the rest signed, smiled, thanked, and repeated.

Regardless of the unglamorous environment, it felt surreal to be in the same vicinity of Jessica Alba, like an actor walking out from their side of the movie screen as the film rolls, breaching the fourth wall, entering our world which seems so minute and boring compared to theirs. Alba wore a long colorful skirt and a black top that hugged her breasts and left her tanned abs exposed. Her hair was braided on the left with her brown and blonde highlighted, straightened hair, flowing to the right. As always, her mascara was generously applied, framing her deep brown eyes. She wore dark, spear-like earrings that dangled from her earlobes. Alba was picture perfect, staring into the crowd like a fierce gaze into the camera lens of a Glamour Magazine photographer.

After only about thirty minutes, my turn had come. I whipped out my iPhone to rehearse some lines that I carefully prepared on my notepad app the night before. I also used the phone as a video camera as I made the anticipated procession. In the span of one blurry minute and nine seconds, rushed by one of the event organizers with a headset and a stern face, these exchanges were made:

To Miller:

Rehearsed: "I truly appreciate what you have done for the comic book world. Thank you." Reality: I was shoved along before I managed a single word.

To Rodriguez:

Rehearsed: "Thanks for creating such awesome, visually inspiring films!" Reality: "Thank you very much."

To Dawson:

Rehearsed: "In your film Alexander, you were the fiercest woman of royalty I ever saw on screen. Thank you." Reality: "You were great in Alexander. Great film!"

To Brolin:

Rehearsed: "You were excellent in True Grit. Absolutely devious. It was my favorite role of yours. Thank you." Reality: "You were great in No Country for Old Men. Great film!

And to Alba:

Rehearsed: "Ms. Alba. You are a true inspiration. When i first saw you in the 1999 film, P.U.N.K.S. on Disney channel, you represented that anti-establishment sentiment and feeling that I could identify with even at a young age. Thank you for your work. Truly."

Reality: "I know this is weird, but 1999, the movie P.U.N.K.S. Do you remember that?" I said.

"Yeah!" Alba said, shifting her attention from her phone to me.

"That's the first time I saw you," I said.

"Oh, wow!" she said. We continued to lock eyes. But she began to shuffle in her seat, seemingly anxious to check her phone.

"I don't know, it really appealed to the anti-establishment sentiment when your little and everything, but yeah, thank you very much."

"Oh, that's funny," she said with a chuckle and a smile, and then immediately looked back to her phone.

I grabbed my poster with the signatures and walked on my way. I honestly didn't see what was funny about my comment. It was certainly quirky. I thought it was unique. At least I was trying to be. But Alba has probably heard so many of these quirky comments, to the point when quirkiness just turns into a bland hodgepodge of gibberish. She looked at me! (She looked at everyone) I made her smile! (She gets paid to smile. It's a promotional event) She thought I was funny! (Don't lie to yourself)

I was doing my best to fend off these more grounded, honest thoughts. I wanted to allow myself to enjoy this moment with my head in the clouds.

When it was time for Jessica Alba and company to leave, they hopped into their black SUVs"Suburbans and Escalades, one for each actor/creator"and drove off. I was curious which hotel they were staying at, so, on bizarre impulse, I decided to follow their entourage. I was, of course, on foot, and my quick walk became a sprint. I must have looked so desperate, running wild in sandals, sweat dripping, my signed poster flailing in the wind. Due to a few red lights and traffic, I was able to follow them for at least five blocks. Eventually, I lost them someone near Harbor Drive.

My walk in the dreamy surreal was officially over.

To cool down, I circled back and walked towards the convention center where I would rejoin the crowds. I had no plans, no lines to stand in, and no predispositions for the rest of the day. That was it. Goal: accomplished. Day: made. Dream, although shallow, sexist and pretentious: obtained.

There is always something particular about freely wandering about in a city"no real direction or destination. The space allows for a sort of contemplation and a deeper recognition of the immediate environment, differing personalities, subtle ideologies, mirroring moments of introspection, all caused by complete strangers and random occurrences.

In this space, I twisted through Link from The Legend of Zelda, families with strollers, Jean Grey of the X-Men, couples holding hands, a zombie Spiderman, and loud arguments between soap box preachers with megaphones and the irked pedestrians, angry subjects of the preacher's "love for one another." I continued to clench on to the signed poster.

A few hours later, environment, tone and circumstance took a one-eighty turn.

In my car I shed my Comic-Con attire and slipped on some jeans and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt. I did my best to tidy my disheveled hair. My friend's grandmother had died and I was making my way to a Christian academy chapel that my church was renting out for worship services. Everyone shuffled into the structure, a square room with white walls, one solitary painting of Jesus talking to children in the corner, and lit by florescent office lights. Everything proceeded as most funerals do, the prayers, testimonies, obituary, pastoral homily, hymns, a video montage, a lot of teary eyes, some regrets, and in the more hopeful moments, fond memories. I only met my friend's grandmother a few times at church and some house gatherings. She always seemed healthier and more vivacious for her age. Still, she was diagnosed with a severe form of cancer. It was swift, relentless, and a shock to her family. After the main service, members of the church served quality home style cooking at the reception, but it did little to raise the damp mood.

When I had gotten enough to eat, I drove two hours north to San Bernardino to pick up my grandparents. Both are no longer able to drive. My grandmother's arthritis makes it hard for her to sit for so long while still having the energy to grip the steering wheel, push on the gas and brake pedals, and manage to stay alert. My grandfather's fading vision causes him to run through red lights quite frequently.

I got back home at around 2:30 AM. I put my poster on a shelf in my room for temporary storage before framing it. After slipping into my basketball shorts and a fresh t-shirt, I collapsed onto my bed. I was exhausted. I was also amazed, mainly at my efforts of the day, the time I committed to catch face and say a clumsy line to an actor I have idolized for years, an actor who was the object of my fantasies and unreal idealizations of a woman, an actor who forgot my face and my words once the next sweaty nerd shuffled along to meet her. My dad, who we visit in Texas, once commented on my elementary school dream of meeting Chargers running back LaDainian Tomlinson and wanting to get my football signed:

"Why do you want his autograph? He's just like any other person."

There is a sense of pettiness in my attempt at actualizing my shallow dreams. When measured with reality"what some call the minutia of life"my Comic-Con dreams almost appear to be a laughable escape.

Before I caught some sleep, I still found time to check my Instagram feed. Close to the top, posted about four hours earlier, was a picture from Jessica Alba's account. It showed her sprawled out on her bed, similar to my own position. Underneath the caption read, "Pooped." As I shut my eyes, my introspective analysis, anxieties, and discontent with reality faded, as I continued to visualize the Instagram picture. Jessica Alba, the actor who would forget my face and the honest words that I told her, slowly started to morph back into the young, relatable actor, the sexy face and body, the provocative model, the fierce entrepreneur, my dream woman.

Comic-Con succeeded in doing what most things in San Diego do best: perpetuating the object of one's fantasy, and even for just one day, providing an escape.