I just wrapped up my first Comic-Con International, often called “San Diego Comic-Con” by fans, and just “Comic-Con” in the press. It wasn’t my first convention. I frequent Cons on the east coast every year, Baltimore in particular. But this was my first San Diego, and for sheer size and scale it definitely warrants the hype.

I’ve only seen more people forced into a space once, and that was a Presidential inauguration. The San Diego Convention Center is more than half a mile long, and fifteen minutes after the doors open it’s a living, breathing, sweating, stinking thing, with less floor space than it takes to do a jumping jack. The air conditioner blasts around the clock, struggling to maintain a manageable temperature. In the middle of the day you won’t notice it, but sit in a room by yourself at the end of the day and you’ll freeze your ass off.

Hundreds of custodians circulate the building like antibodies, sweeping and scrubbing and bagging garbage and replacing empty canisters of soap and paper. Convention Center staffers in yellow coats and volunteers in blue check badges at every door and escalator, barking at those who dare enter through an exit, or sit near a wall that’s meant to remain clear. It’s an immense self-sustaining pop culture ecosystem.

Comic-Con has grown so much in recent years that even the convention center doesn’t hold it all. Hotels and parking lots on either end are also used in service to the convention. There’s a one-mile outdoor zombie-themed obstacle course. Trailers and tents are set up as gaming lounges, photo booths, novelty shops and concession stands. At nightfall, an outdoor movie theater screens cult classics like The Goonies and Beetlejuice.

Because of the skewed portrayal by media coverage, I was expecting a lot more cosplay (costumed roleplaying) at San Diego than I’ve seen at other Cons. Per capita, it might be a little more than average (maybe two percent of patrons are cosplayers), but not what you’d expect. Still, some people get away with stuff here they might not have the stones to try elsewhere.

Some of my non-comic friends label me as a “hardcore fan.” “Oh, you saw Amazing Spider-Man on opening night, you’re hardcore.” “You went to a comic convention? You got a book signed? Dude, you’re so hardcore.”

Having seen my first San Diego, I can say with authority: You have no idea how not-hardcore I am.

This guy on the left, in the Batman armor? He’s hardcore. This costume probably cost in the neighborhood of $8,000-10,000, and I bet he’s packing another $1,000 of limited edition books and collectibles in an off-camera rolly-bag.

This guy’s hardcore. Not only can I see his nipples, he’s wearing 80 pounds of crap, and he stands about nine feet tall in character. This means that anytime he wants to enter a room, step onto an escalator, use a restroom, eat a pretzel dog or do pretty much anything, he has to take it all off and put it all on again. And there’s no place to store his gear, so I guess when he’s not suited up he’s hauling around four huge duffle bags. Or a Lowe’s lumber cart.

The people under these tents are hardcore. They’re waiting to get into Hall H for the Twilight panel. That panel happened on Thursday. I took this photo on Wednesday afternoon. Many of these people were here since Sunday. They brought food, water, sleeping bags and canvas chairs. I suspect a few are wearing adult diapers as a precaution. The day before this photo was taken, a 53-year-old woman ran into traffic to avoid losing her place in line, was struck by a car and killed.

So, yeah. I’m not hardcore. I love comics, but next to some of the people here I’m barely even a fan. I came here to work. I spent the week meeting industry professionals, attending panels geared towards writers, and buying books by creators I love and other creators I should know. And despite all the other stuff that’s grown up around the comics aspect of the convention, there’s still no better place for that kind of thing. Longtime professionals and attendees that bemoan the commercialization of Comic-Con are definitely not wrong, but it remains the most important event in the industry, for the simple reason that everyone is here.

Yesterday I spent 15 minutes talking to Dave Gibbons, the artist for Watchmen. He’s doing some writing for a company called Madefire, who are pushing their new iPad comic-reading app by the same name. I had a man-date with Ron Marz, who wrote one of my favorite DC stories as a kid, is now writing great stuff for Top Cow and CBR, and I was gratified to learn is one of the cooler guys in the industry. I finally met artist Scott Hampton, who I’ve collaborated with but had never met face-to-face. I got to reconnect with Blair Butler: tv personality, comics/MMA journalist and author of the great new MMA book Heart. All-star writers Ed Brubaker, Joe Hill and Scott Snyder had a big presence here. Newcomers David Accampo and Jeremy Rogers, who have written films and radio dramas together, are here pushing their new comic Sparrow and Crowe. Two guys from the TV production scene in L.A., George and Eric Peters, are two of the most knowledgeable comic fans I’ve ever met. (They also love Friday’s and sub-par competitive trick bartenders.) There are other great conventions out there, but you can’t find another event with such a vast and diverse pool of talent in which to network.

It’s impossible to concisely sum up the Comic-Con experience. It’s too many things at once, and more every year. But if you strip away the comic, TV, movie and game industries, SDCC is where people who love pop culture go to do whatever the Hell they want. It’s like Mardi Gras on Halloween. Want a video for your grandkids of you doing battle with the real Luke Skywalker? Only here. Want to try to pick up women in a bar wearing a full suit of 15th Century armor? Go get ‘em. Want to play Halo with people just like you for four straight days, with no parents around to make you bathe or feed yourself? You can do that. Want to show off your new boob job dressed up as a slutty version of Malificent from Sleeping Beauty? You may not be the only one, but sure, that’s fine.

You always wanted to sing and dance in front of thousands of people wearing galoshes, bikini briefs and a Santa hat with a cast-iron pisspot on a chain around your neck? In mime make-up? Teletubby in each hand?

Nobody’ll give you a second look.

Seriously.

At Comic-Con International, anything goes.