It was the second day of Realms Con 2008 and I was sitting in a dark screening room where the only light source was an LCD monitor sitting on top of a rolling cart. Uneven rows of plastic chairs were huddled in the center of the room. An empty package of Pocky lay on the seat behind me. Three other people were starring at the screen which was playing Gonzo’s Origin: Spirits of the Past. I wasn’t finding the film particularly riveting, but it was enjoyable nonetheless.

In days gone by, watching anime with your comrades was the focus of anime conventions. As anime has become more readily available, the need for showing anime has nearly diminished. Still, I was glad to have an opportunity to see the movie without having to buy it. From the impressions that I had heard, I wasn’t confident on spending thirty dollars on it. I was able to see if it warranted a purchase while taking a break from the crowded isles of hollering con-goers. I was especially frightened of the very large catgirl who kept walking the halls while “nya-ing” at people; eventually she was leading a trail of keyblade-wielding, cat-ear wearing followers. I just wanted to watch some cartoons, not get nya’d to death by the “nya-brigade”, as I chose to call them.

The four of us watching Origin were suddenly interrupted as the door swung open and a young man ran in and glanced at the screen and ran back out. Moments later he returned, yelling something about how he needed a cord for another panel. This cord was currently being used to show the movie that we were watching. He recognized that fact: “The movie isn’t almost over- there are still fifteen minutes left! The panel that needs it has been delayed!” Appearantly fifteen minutes of footage left is not “almost over”. Now I do not recall exactly what that panel was that need the cord. I do remember it being of the silliness that now defines anime conventions- especial small local ones. Think about, say, the panel where some girl shows off her collection of Hello Kitty items. This panel wasn’t even that cool.

The lights turned on. The film was turned off and the cord removed. We had seen the end of Origin. There may have only been four of us, but we were living up to the original purpose of the convention- to hang out in camaraderie and watch Japanese cartoons. A man sitting a few seats away stood up and faced the stealer of cords. Upon his head was an orange felt hat with cat ears- the kind sold frequently along the artist alley. “This is unacceptable!” he angrily proclaimed. This man was my father.