No Such Convention
I walk around the main building at Vassar, operating under the mistaken notion that having taught at this campus means I have the slightest idea how to find the convention. It does not matter that I didn't actually teach in or ever before enter this building. My navigation skills should be generalizable.
I found out about No Such Convention from reading the news post at the bottom of a "Something Positive" comic and would not otherwise have seen cause to attend. Given that I certainly wished to meet Randy Milholland, having wasted what likely amounts to days reading his comics over the years, but wouldn't wish to travel outside of my comfort zone without the accompaniment of at least one buffer friend, Vassar seemed a nice concession. That Jeph Jacques of "Questionable Content" fame was also going to be present sweetened the deal more than enough to be worth my $15 admission fee for the three days.
When - by diligently following hand scrawled signs - I find the room, I apparently look as though I belong or at least am confused enough to justify my presence, since I get out of paying. By the time I figure out where exactly I should have deposited my money, I had been at the convention for an hour and feel I grandfathered in. This will persist for all three days I attend, no one organized enough to notice I lack a nametag.
In my wandering, I stumbled past the webcomics table, consisting of two couples expectantly sitting and watching the geeks graze off anime swag. I indulge what I am certain is a common pathology of webcomic fans: I assume that the artist directly fashions their characters after themselves. The man behind the Questionable Content table looks little like a scrawny, emo musician Marten, the comic's protagonist. Instead, I can picture him at one of the keg parties my older brother held in his adolescence. Likewise, while Randy Milholland occasionally draws both himself and Davan as having beards, it does not do justice to how he actually looks, somewhere between Alan Moore and your coolest undergrad TA. 
Randy actually spots me, or rather the shirt I am wearing, as it features his characters Peejee and Choo-Choo Bear next to the legend "Take Care of Your Pussy!" It was originally designed by The Betsy for a production of The Vagina Monologues at MIT years ago, which I stammer to him when he asks if I bought it on-line. He knows the story, as he is a starring character. He is the one who drew the picture when she overtly said she would just take the panel she wanted. However, I am mysteriously unable to shut myself up. He asks how long I've been reading the comic and I yelp, "Years!" as though anyone ever says something else. For want of something useful or memorable, I offer my admission money at him and motion to a t-shirt asking him if he accepts cash, making a rectangle in the air and calling it "the cash" because I have some kind of horribly contagious, sudden onset idiocy. If I am a customer, I become less useless in this interaction and I imagine selling merchandise is a main reason for an artist to waste his or her weekend at a con, possibly second only to increasing readership among the valuable demographic of geeks who will then order merchandise on-line. It's a vicious cycle. 
I have little surplus cash to throw at Jeph Jacques, who is thankfully distracted by exceedingly cute fan girls. Instead, I queue up to ask for a free sketch. In mere seconds, the girl before me gets a picture of my favorite character Hannelore, a genius girl with severe OCD. He mentions to the fan girl that when people don't know what they want, he usually just draws a singing penis. I know what I want, but that girl just got it and I feel strange saying, "Play it again, Jeph," though he most definitely will be drawing several more of her before the night is out. Instead, I say that I would like a picture of a singing penis. He gives me an odd look and, in a matter of seconds, sketches out Faye, one of his main characters. I nod my acceptance, startled and impressed at how quickly she appears on the page. I break into a grin of delight when I notice that she has a singing penis on her shirt.
Pleased with my new acquisitions, I poke my head into doors until I find the room containing a sufficiently earthy looking woman and decide that this must be the scheduled henna panel. I'm not sure how much interest I actually have in henna. I've had it applied more than once and it gels well with my latent hippy genes, but am happy enough not marking my body for the next few week. Honestly, I mostly needed something to fill time until the belly dancing panel and this more than fits the bill. Mind you, I don't actually wish to learn to belly dance either - such is not the providence of men - but am keenly intrigued at the prospect of watching others learn.
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