The Girl with the Tattoo and other ComicCon stories

Although my experience inside the halls of ComicCon was interesting, only made less so because my leg problems prevented me from roaming the aisles, the most enlightening part of the trip took place on the 4PM train returning to LA. It was so packed that many had to stand or sit on the floor for the entire three-hour trip – made longer by 45 minutes because we had to wait for a train pulling one car to pass before we could continue. The packed aisles made it impossible to buy a bottle of water or snack from the concession stand and I hadn’t had a drink since early morning when I left home.

But I am not writing about these minor physical complaints. Sitting next to Jason Williams gave me an opportunity to learn much about my ex partner, Bill Osco, who Jason confirmed was as deranged as Donald Trump. I’ll leave it to Jason to reveal in his forthcoming book, “I fought the Sex Ray” to tell the whole story but will mention at this time that he told me how Bill managed to get a pirated 35mm copy of “The Exorcist” one week before its official release and four-walled a theatre to show it before any other exhibitors had a chance to bid for its rights. By the time Warner Bros discovered Bill’s chicanery he took the 50K he made in one week  and disappeared.

As I listened to Jason I was indulged in a battle of shame with the young lady sitting, because there were no seats available, on the floor next to my seat. Tall and pretty and wearing a mini skirt, her glasses did not detract from her beauty as much as – at least for me – her tattoos. Sitting on the floor made it hard for her to deny me, from time to time, a glimpse of her black lace panties  and though I tried to avoid being obnoxious she began to imagine that I was “a dirty old man” and turned her legs sideways to prevent any more violations of her privacy. But that still revealed the large tattoo  on her upper thigh of what appeared to be a cockroach . She also had a tattoo on the inside of her upper arm that looked like a tombstone with some writing on it that was illegible. When she saw me looking at her leg tattoo she pulled her skirt down to cover it as best she could. That I was not in the least bit interested in starting a conversation with her and the brief peek at her panties was only a momentary infatuation, I had to laugh to myself how silly shame still is thousands of years after Eve plucked the forbidden apple off of the tree in the garden of Eden.  Fortunately for her, a slightly built gay oriental artist who spoke with etherial cadence, boarded the train at the first stop and took a seat next to her on the floor. They hit it off trading stories about each others tattoos. He had one of a pair of big red lips on his neck. At least he wasn’t a “dirty old man.”

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