My wife returned from her trip to Las Vegas bearing delicious Popeye's biscuits and swanky new threads. Then she fixed my computer, which has been unable to log on for days now, which is why you get Monday's post on Wednesday.
For my part, the weekend offered various delights at the pinnacle of Fanboy fun, the Toy and Collectible Fair. I managed to blow my wad of tax refund cash on Doctor Who action figures, used $5 Anime DVDs, and the classic 1984 Transformer Jetfire, now living under the assumed name of Rick Hunter's VF-1 Valkyrie Veritech fighter on my living room rug.
Now that I see it on the screen, this post seems rather more like a confession than a record of an event: as an adult I should really be beyond this sort of behaviour.
I mean, do I really need to hug an astromech droid? (If it's R2-D2, then yes! If it's that ill-fated R4-P17, then... well, yes.)
Do I really need to pick a fight with a loudmouthed moron in a Toxic Avengers T-Shirt trying to harass a Happy Harbour vendor for his "outrageous" Canadian prices? (Apparently. Like I told THAT boob: Are you here to have fun or complain? Buy something or move down to the States.)
And did I REALLY have to calm down afterwards by shaking the hand of Boba Fett? (Too frakkin' right. His backpack's got jets!)
And did I somehow feel the need to pre-buy tickets to the much BIGGER convention in Cowtown later next month? (Do a pair of Exxorian wonder twins wear purple?)
There are more sensible things to spend my pittance on. I know this. I know also that at 33 I can't possibly derive as much joy from my toys as the boy of 3 I saw bashing his new Hulk against his stroller. Sadly, there IS no way to defend these choices. Except my partner-in-crime Anthony's tride and true rejoinder: if we're blowing money at least we're not blowing it on blow.
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