Man of Steel Meets Woman of Yarn

So, here's the Stitches story. Better late than never, I hope.

Red picked me up B&E Saturday morning. Our plan was to arrive in Rosemont by 9:00. We spent the whole ride up there giggling like little kids on Christmas morning. Oh, the yarny goodness that would be waiting under our tinseled trees! tee hee! As we pulled off the expressway and came within sight of the convention center, we noticed hordes of people waiting to get in the building. First thought: dear god, how will I ever fight through that horde to get to the Socks That Rock? They'll pick Toni's booth clean and leave me with nothing!

And then, with great relief, "They're not knitters," sez I. "And the reason I know this is they're standing in a long line that's not moving, and not one of them is knitting."

As we got closer, we noticed that not only were they not knitting (imagine that!), but they were almost all men under the age of about 35. And, well, let's just say that these men came from a certain segment of that population group. Not, um, gym rats. And, er, not the kind of men who have style conversations with their barbers. Or who match their shirts to their pants. Or match their clothes to their socks. Or their socks to each other.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

"Must be some kind of comic convention," sez I. "Except, maybe not, because none of them are in costume."

I don't know a whole lot about comic cons, but hey, I watch Entourage. I know Johnny Drama wears a costume to these things, and so do many of the fans. Se we scanned the line as we were driving around to the parking garage. I saw a woman or two in the line, and lots and lots of graphic t-shirts, but no costumes. We were still mystified until we parked and started walking across the tunnel into the center.

And then we saw them. The costumes. Men wearing donkey ears, goat horns, and troll feel. Matrix black jackets. Plastic breastplates and shinguards tied on with faux-leather straps. Face paint. Helmets. Horse tails -- I shit you not -- tied onto men's butts. That's one fashion statement I still don't understand. "I'm not in costume, but my ass is!" Hmm, maybe I don't want to understand it.

Not that there's anything wrong with it.

We came to a fork in the habitrail tunnels and the crowd split in two. Men to the left, women to the right, each to their own brand of geekery. Red and I collected our registration packets, found our name tags, pawed through our class schedules. All that good stuff. And then, with a little extra time to kill, we decided to try to check in early at the hotel.

By this time, I was convinced that in order to attend a comic convention -- or whatever the hell that thing was -- you have to be a certain type of male. But we walked into the hotel, and the first thing I saw was this:



Swoon! Come to momma, you big boys!

I wish the pictures had turned out a little better, cuz let me tell you, Superman was that hawt! And Batman? Ooooh, hubba hubba! I don't care if every other guy at that convention was a troll, a donkey, or a horse's ass. These two superheroes redeemed the whole thing for me.

Also, I've decided that I like men in lycra. No further comment.

We weren't able to get into our room that early, but we did meet a very nice young desk clerk who was kind to us all weekend. And then we went off to the market, where we were probably about tenth in line to get in. In fact, we were in the part of the line *inside* the doors to the market. So we got to stand there and smell the yarn for a good ten minutes before we saw a single skein.

Y'all know what yarn fumes do to me. I get a little high, and giggly, and blissed out. I want my whole house to smell like that. I mean, really, who wants roses and lavender and eau-de-baking-cookies when you can have something sheepy with the barest undertones of dead silkworms? I could sit in that scent all day, happily knitting, blissfully ignoring the world and getting a little dotty from the fumes.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, either.

Later -- the Stitches experience, part two.