Ahhhh, the weekend. A time to relax, to renew. A time for quiet contemplation, a time to recharge for the week ahead. I, of course, did none of those things. I dove into this weekend headfirst, because this past weekend was Supermegafest in Framingham, MA. This small-but-proud gathering of all things fandom drew us in like a mosquito to a bug zapper, and at 6 o'clock Saturday morning we leapt out of bed, watched our favorite episode of Star Trek*, and headed off to the convention center.

Comic book conventions run in my blood. I started attending with my father just as soon as I could walk, back in the days when most were nothing more than a few middle-aged guys renting a conference room to trade books and argue whether the Kessel run can truly be measured in parsecs.** But in the last 20 years the Convention has grown into a behemoth encapsulating every piece of pop culture a person could possibly imagine. In keeping with tradition, Ryan and I went with my father and helped a friend of his to run a comic book booth. This meant one important thing to us: dealer passes. We got to rummage around the sales booths over an hour before the rooms officially opened to pillage the loot to our hearts desire. We met Tia Carrere and Sala Baker, sufficiently embarrassed ourselves to each one, and collected their autographs. Our favorite movies are Wayne's World and Lord of The Rings, respectively, so by the time the doors opened we had already achieved 60% of our goals for the day. Almost.

Once the doors had opened, the real insanity commenced. My favorite part of a convention is always the attendees. The costumes, the social awkwardness, the unrecognizable aromas, the furious devotion. Some costumes were amazing, some were terrible, some were completely unidentifiable, and some were just sad. But none have ever stolen my heart like Mr.T. Not the real Mr.T., mind you. Convention Mr.T. He attends public events dressed as Mr.T., takes photos with people, shakes hands, gives hugs, and does it all in character all day long. Just for the hell of it. I had to get a picture with him, if only to take a small piece of that enthusiasm home.

 I intend to hire him as my life coach.

The main event for us was still to come. The Q&A panel with Sir Patrick Stewart! We met up with our friend Shane, grabbed our tickets, and started queuing over an hour before the doors opened. When they finally let us in I was shocked by how small the room was. I have failed college classes larger than the attendance allowed. It was amazing. 

You have every right to be that smug, You're Captain Picard AND Prof. X. Work it. 

He came out and casually talked about the weather, fruit, and how his homemade jams are coming along this season. A few times he looked me right in the eye! Or maybe the cleavage. I wasn't leaning out into that aisle for nothing. He took a few questions, gave some amazing  'typical Patrick Stewart' type answers, and showed off his incredibly buff 71 year old arms. He hasn't aged since 1966.

After 13 hours of fans, sweat, toys, comic books, too much coffee and junk food, celebrities, and  a thousand blurry pictures of Patrick Stewart, we were exhausted. Most cons end with a party in the hotel bar, and this one had a free concert, too. We were a little too wiped out to go party, but we got some first class people-watching in from the couch near the bar. And I'll always have Mr.T. 

 Oh, and this happened. You figure it out. 

See ya next year, nerds!

*It's TNG Ep. 101 "Darkmok"  

**It can't. Anyone who says it can is a George Lucas sympathizer or scientifically illiterate.