I started New York Comic Con the way I start so many of my conventions: waking up, having breakfast, getting dressed, and then going up the avenue to get my hair straightened. The only time I ever visit the hair salon in my neighborhood is for conventions, and the woman I go to (who believe it or not, I went to school with way back when) finds my pastime utterly fascinating, if a bit incomprehensible. I always leave Alexandria's feeling like a million bucks. The small change for this con was that instead of going home and changing into costume, I packed my costume into my bag instead, for I had a very special reason to want to be in regular clothes this time.

So, here's a con where Crissy is not in costume, is not heading for the main area, and is visiting the CGC even though she's never had a comic slabbed in her life. What's going on? To explain that, I'll have to give you a bit of back story.

Picture it: New York, 1994. My parents are in the middle of a moderately cantankerous divorce and custody battle. I've just had to leave my home of three years in upstate New York, and I'm thrust back into the rhythm of the big city. Girls that I grew up but whom I haven't seen in three years are suddenly decades beyond me developmentally, I'm the new student in a graduating class, and I'm sleeping in a boiler room. To put it mildly, I was a little disoriented. The weekends I did not spend visiting my mother we spent with my father and my upstate friends in our country home, and large portions of those weekends were spent watching the pay-per-view movies my uncle taped off of cable. One of those movies was The Crow.

To this day I still can't articulate how I felt when I watched that movie for the first time. It's going to sound so overdramatic, but I'm going to have to try, so you can understand everything that followed afterwards. I felt like something within me shattered--my heart? My soul? My worldview? My sense of self? I honestly don't know. That night when I went to bed I felt like the shattered pieces within me were whirling, making giddy kaleidoscope patterns as they tried to reassemble themselves into some sort of coherent arrangement. I woke up the next morning a different person than I was the day before. I can't explain exactly what changed. My life, I suppose.

I also can't tell you how I eventually learned that the movie was based on a comic book; this was just before I discovered the internet. The mall I often visited with my mother, when I went to visit her on her visitation weekends, is very small, and yet has a comic book store, so it's possible that I drifted in there out of lack of too many options of other places to go. But then, how did I discover the comic? It was never very popular, would it have been out front, when there were so many other things going on, like Scott's marriage to Jean, or the Clone Saga (...ugh, the Clone Saga)? I suppose it's possible. I believe it was; certainly I can remember seeing the first issue in a special, hard plastic cover…and its $80 sticker price. The second, third, and fourth issues were only slightly less. I must have looked at those comics every single visit we made to the mall, every single time I visited Mom. My mother's not unobservant; the comics showed up under the tree that Christmas. They were among the very first comics I started collecting. (The Mask was around the same time.)

I can tell you why the comic affected me so deeply, why it did end up outstripping my love for the movie in time (although I take nothing away from Brandon Lee's incredibly inspired performance.) The introduction John Bergin wrote for the trade says, "James wrote a love letter called 'The Crow', the most beautiful love letter I have ever read," and that's better than I could ever put it. I've never felt like such an intimate witness to a person's soul, who I had never even met. I've never seen someone take something so painful, and make something so beautiful, a terrible beauty, but beautiful nonetheless. It's gorgeously drawn, of course--James O'Barr draws Eric Draven as a mix between a kung fu master and a Greek god. And it's well written; this is not the work of a man who's aiming for merchandising, but a man who spends his times with poets. But the story has a power that transcends the medium that is used to tell it. I can't describe it any better than that.

I dreamed about meeting James O'Barr for years, not because I thought it was possible; after all, I was *just* getting into comic books, I had never even heard of a convention, but because I was 14 and you tend to daydream all sorts of impossible dreams at 14. I dreamed about what I would say to him: how I would tell him how his work affected me, what it meant to me. I won't say I thought about it constantly, because I thought about other things, too, especially as the years went by: my own stories I was writing with my friends, the romances I tried to start and pursue and preserve, the new fandoms I'd be introduced to that would end up being an even larger part of my life, the graduations, the new jobs, the marriages and deaths and births that sweep you out of your early teens into your late into your twenties into shouting distance of middle age. But I never *stopped* thinking about it. I was always rearranging and shifting the words in my head, much like the shifting I felt the night I watched the movie, only this time deliberate, because I could never hit on the right combination of words to explain just how important the work was to me, and it seemed important to me to get it right, if only to explain *me* to *me*.

This past June, I found out--I forget how, probably in an e-mail sent out by Wizard World--that James O'Barr was going to be at the Philadelphia Comic Con. However, I found out literally one week before the con. I already had a conflicting appointment on my schedule (twenty years later, and I'm still spending at least one weekend a month with my mother) and it was too late to make travel arrangements, even if I could have gotten my hands on a ticket. For a week I schemed and plotted, but ultimately there just wasn't enough time to figure out the logistics, so I didn't go. I tried not to let it get to me; I just tried to make sure I would never miss him again. I went on Wizard World's website and tried to get information about bookings and commissions. I didn't hear back for about another month and a half, only to be told he was going to be at Chicago, San Antonio, and Little Rock, which was too far even for me. So I put it out of my mind--heck, if he liked Philadelphia, maybe he'd be back next year. With enough advance warning, I would make sure I'd get there.

Then, in September, my friend Pete sent me the following screen shot of the New York Comic Con website:

And I promptly lost my mind.

No, seriously, I honestly don't remember the next few hours. I'm positive I cried. I know by the next day I had started a Word document where I tried to say everything I wanted to say to him without sounding like a potential stalker. I can't remember if I had my costume schedule in place already (most likely; I knew I wanted to wear my Sailor Mars fuku on the most popular day, and I already knew I was wearing Catra to NYCC), but no matter what, I knew I wanted to try to meet James O'Barr as my very first act at the con, so that if, God forbid, something delayed me, I could try again and again and again until I finally did. I knew I was going to try to get his signature, as long as I didn't have to sell a kidney to get it (and even then, it wouldn't have been an automatic "No", just that I would have had to think about it). But really, I just wanted to meet him. To thank him, if I could.

So that brings us back to Friday of New York Comic Con. After much soul searching, I had decided to bring a CGC Signature witness with me when I met James O'Barr. I hate slabbing comics; to me, the primary purpose of comic books is to *read* them, not to *collect* them, but this would be possibly the single most important autograph of my life, and I knew I would be heartbroken if anything ever happened to it. And I had the trade for whenever I wanted to read the story. (Also, I'm not ruling out buying another copy someday. They're a lot less than $80 these days.) As I mentioned above, there was a little bit of a wait; apparently I wasn't the only genius with the cunning plan of making sure I got an autograph first thing on Friday. But before too long, a witness was free, and we made our way over to James O'Barr's booth.

It actually made me a bit happy that there was a little bit of a line to see him; selfishly, of course, I would have loved if I could have had him all to myself, and had a chance to speak with him at length, the way I did with Peter Beagle at Otakon 2008. But I want people to know and revere his work as I do, and I want all of the monetary success he's worth to come his way. I will say, though, that rather than give me a chance to collect my thoughts and myself, instead it gave me time to get more nervous. There were two lines; one, to pay his manager for whatever you wanted (I hadn't even thought there would be options; I'm lucky I had managed to tie my shoes that morning), and then you moved to a second line to the man himself. I concentrated on remembering how to breathe. I paid for one signature.

I finally was face to face with him. I gave him the comic book and he bent his head to sign it. I tried to start what I wanted to say. "I've been daydreaming about what I would say to you if I ever got the chance to meet you for twenty years." He grinned at me. "Were you even BORN twenty years ago?" His manager kind of gave me the stink eye. Between his smile and her eye, my throat closed. I knew there was no way I was going to be able to continue. Luckily, I had prepared for just such an emergency, and digging into my pocket, I took out the Word document I had started on paper a month ago that contained the words I had started in my head 20 years ago. "I knew there was a chance I wouldn't be able to get it all out, so--here. And, just--thank you. Thank you."

I just kind of stared at him for a moment. He looked down at my shirt. "I'll believe that *shirt* is twenty years old," he said. "It is," I answered. It was. "I should sign your shirt," he said. "She only paid for one signature, Jim," his manager muttered. "This one's on me," he retorted. I held my shirt out in a triangle so he could sign it. Still I stood stock still--I had waited twenty years for this moment, and I didn't know how to end it. Finally, I asked, "Can I hug you?" So much for not wanting to sound like a potential stalker. "Of course," he said. I struggled to get enough feeling into my arms to be able to move them like regular human limbs, and put them around his neck. He put his arms around my waist. "Oh, you can hug harder than that," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. I don't remember much after that.

When I came to, the Signature Witness from the CGC was supporting me on his arm as we walked back to the booth. "Did I just meet James O'Barr?" I asked him. He grinned down at me. "Fans like you make this all worthwhile," he told me. Apparently I posed for a picture. I vaguely remember needing help filling out my CGC form, both because I never had before, and because my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I finally got my comic back in January of 2015; apparently they had tried to send it to my address on 20th Street (I live on 70th.) I staggered into the women's bathroom to change into my Catra costume. Did you ever try to change your contacts with trembling hands? I don't recommend it; I was bloodshot for hours. I needed help getting into costume; thankfully, as I've mentioned before, cosplayers are a surpassingly helpful lot, and some of the steampunk ladies who entered after me took pity on me and helped me pin and lace and button.

Finally I was all set. I reemerged into the Artist's Alley, and ran into my friends Pete, Ramón, and Penny of Pete's Basement, and I decided to follow them around for a bit, since I had the brain capacity of a particularly disadvantaged turnip at the moment. Pete was dressed as Tony Stark from Iron Man; I had missed his cosplay debut the year before, but remembered he had told me that he couldn't believe it; at times he felt like he was being treated like a movie star. (I told him I knew. I remembered getting to jump lines as both Rogue and Lara Croft. Some characters just inspire respect.) I was starting to feel a little better, so I jokingly challenged him to a contest; to see which one of us would be photographed more often.

As we left the Artist's Alley and made our way along the corridor to the Exhibit Hall, Penny and Pete stopped to get some coffee. I had taken out my own camera, to try to catch up on taking pictures for my own report, when out of nowhere about six or seven photographers appeared and started snapping my photo. Then about four or five more came up, flashes going off everywhere. Pete sauntered up with his coffee in hand, and I turned to smirk at him, but before I could say anything, he grumbled, "That only counts as one!" I had to laugh.

We made our way to the Exhibit Hall and wandered around there for a bit; as I said, that's usually my first stop to get the "lay of the land", so to speak, and now my brain was so discombobulated that I was still trying to orient myself. The only other thing I was even interested in accomplishing was getting to the Viz Media booth, both so I could see Tristen and Katie again, but also to see if I could buy the Sailor Moon t-shirts that had been sold out at Otakon. I was lucky that there were still some mediums left! But, sadly, they were all out of Sailor Moon shopping bags to take it home in. Which is really okay; I can't imagine going anywhere without my trusty bookbag, anyway. It would have been just another collectible; I would probably never have used it.

After that I was more than content to just amble along, sometimes separating from the Pete's Basement Crew when they would go off to do their own thing, often catching up with them afterwards. I got to see Roger again, who has the unfortunate task of trying to keep the Basement Boys (and Girl) more or less organized. I kind of want to buy him a taser. Roger's an amazing person; I remember spending one party during our teenage years, sequestered in a corner of the basement...talking about the practical possibilities of personal rocket packs. I remember Rog drawing a graph for me to show me the maximum thrust that would be required to achieve liftoff for the average grown man, and I remember understanding not a word of it but being breathlessly impressed all the same. I also got to meet Cheezeburger, another friend of theirs that I had heard of (seriously, you don't forget a nickname like Cheezeburger) but had never met, and took to him instantly.

By this point everyone was a little hungry, except for me. I had passed beyond such trivial, mortal concerns such as food; I was living on rarefied air and fulfilled dreams at this point, up until the very moment I smelled it, and then I was absolutely ravenous. We were all too tired to trek out into the city to buy reasonably priced food, so we commandeered a table in the food court area of the Javits Center (which I had only really ever passed through before) and took turns getting food. I was surprisingly overheated; normally I run cold, if anything, and it's not like the Catra costume is excessively modest. My only guess is that the velvet cape, and my overexcited emotions, are to blame. Regardless, it's lucky they suggested we all stop for food and a break, or I may possibly have passed out. Ramón fanned me. I can't stress enough the how helpful a "con boyfriend" can be; they help with bags, they point out when someone is trying to take your picture, they keep the creepers at bay, they're really wonderful.

Lunch/dinner over (question: why do we have a word for the meal in between breakfast and lunch, but not between lunch and dinner?), it was time to head back to the Exhibit Hall again, and see the other half of it that I hadn't gotten to yet. I actually ended up accidentally meeting another NYCC guest; I inadvertently made eye contact with Tim Seeley, who was there to promote a book that he coauthored with his brother, "The Art of He-Man and The Masters of the Universe." He looked a little stunned. "Are you dressed up as Catra?" I was so happy! People had been mistaking me for Scarlet Witch all day. Tim came out of his booth and posed for a picture with me. I should have dressed up as a character from MotU years ago!

It was starting to get a little late, and Pete's Basement was hosting an after-hours party at a local bar, so we started to head towards the entrance, but who should I see but Helene! Since meeting her 2011, her Wonder Woman costumes have gotten exponentially more and more impressive, and her boyfriend Shawn makes an equally incredible Nightwing. The PB boys were so impressed they ended up conducting an interview with them on the spot--seriously, there's a reason her nickname is Queen Helene. (And yet, she's so incredibly nice! Not all super hot women are you, know.)

This was my first time going to a sponsored con after-party (or really, *any* after-party, unless you count the small room parties I've gone to with Patti and Steph, and those have been more like girlie slumber parties, which are also awesome), and I surprised myself by having a really good time! There were a bunch of people from the convention there, and I ended up meeting a ton of new people and swapping drinks with them. The bar even had a costume contest, with a gift card as the grand prize, and though there were a lot of awesome costumes, a group of athletic looking teenagers dressed as the basketball team from Space Jam were far and away the best of the night! (I had my own James O'Barr moment: were these kids even *born* when Space Jam came out? That was 1996! Well, I guess if they were old enough to be drinking in a bar, they had to have been.)

However, by midnight, I had had enough. This was by *far* the latest I had ever been out at New York Comic Con, and I still had an hour to get home. Not to mention, my plan to be Sailor Mars the next day!

Another picture of me and Ramón

Another picture of me, Tristen, and Katie

Yes, fan me, man slave!

Loki attempts to control Tony

Loki's attempt is unsuccessful

The Avengers!

Ramón likes to pose with female cosplayers

80s kids unite!

It'sa-him, Mario!