I was sitting in NYC's Tick Tock Diner this morning, munching on some waffles and ice cream when the most hideous sound registered in my auditory cortex. It was a cackle, shrill like Witch of the West; its sheer volume rising above the relaxing breakfast clamor. The aromas of brewed coffee, eggs, and bacon lilted through the expansive dining floor, and I did not want to break the magical spell Tick Tock had cast upon me. But cautiously, I looked up from my plate and whilst taking a sip from my creamy cookies and cream shake identified the culprit.

He was a man in his upper twenties  with skin the color of an overdone pancake; not white but not quite yet brown. Think of a mug of instant coffee with just a smidgen of milk stirred inside. The man had significant scruff on his cheeks and chin and his gray-speckled black hair was not brushed. A baggy t-shirt sagged off his shoulders and extended down way too long with some stupid, probably custom, insignia stamped on the front. He was part of a rag tag crew of  five people, guys and gals, and they all seemed to be having a grand ol' time.

Damn, But his laughter. Louis C.K has a great bit in which he talks about the horrible things we feel comfortable saying about people when they can't hear us. This was one of those moments. "You sound like a tickled hyena on laughing gas." That's what was going through my mind. Then I saw the laminated card that was dangling from the dude's neck. It struck me: today is Comic Con NYC.

I chuckled to myself cynically. Of  course. These losers were going to Comic Con. There were going to finish their pancakes and hash-browns and head right over to the nerd-zone festivities where they'd finally reclaim they're long lost manhood by zipping into jumpsuits that exaggerate their crotch. And that's just the guys. The ladies, they take days such as these as opportunities. A time to express their womanhood. I'm taking everything off except the bra.  Then they'll walk around meeting and greeting with the shittiest and most muscularly bulbous actors in Hollywood , drooling over their chiseled chins and sexy bods. They'll hear these very excited artists talk about "The Walking Dead" fan theories and asking David Mazouz how he gets his Jew-fro so nice and straight.

I felt my mouth begin to foam (maybe I'm exaggerating); I was seething with... with... with anger. The realization hit me like a rogue monster truck tire. I was angry at these people. But why? Not just because of the lunatic hyena?

So  I did some introspection and  a whole new paradigm overtook me. I react extremely to Comic Con people and others like them because they are able to do something that I have not so far been able to do. They  sit and attain massive amounts of enjoyment, even meaning, from watching and following television shows and comics. They achieve even more satisfaction when presented with the opportunity to meet the people behind the shows and pick their brains, even if it is with silly questions. The same is true of those who follow sports (with whom I have had similar experiences). They live and breathe the action on the field, court, or green and would practically give their lives to spend some time with a real life professional player. I can't connect to these things. I do not get the same high( although "The Walking Dead" is quite addicting) from reading comics, watching these characters on screen or watching sports. I have to search elsewhere for my fulfillment.

Turns out, I'm not angry at Mr. Laughing Hyena, nor do I hate comic conners; t. I'm jealous. I'm jealous of the folks who went out today to touch Spiderman's rippling pecs (they do that at these things, right?) I'm jealous that Mr. Cackle-face could be so simply happy, among his friends while I'm sitting there alone, staring at my waffle.  I only wish he had been a little quieter.

Published by Gavriel Guttman