"Samuel", we'll call him, an affable, casually t-shirted executive at a prominent, East Coast-based comic book distributor, sat next to us last night at Jolt 'N Joe's in San Diego's Gaslamp Quarter, after the Con closed its doors.

"Let's see," he started, looking up and to the right as he counted silently in his head, "I guess I've been coming to Comic-Con since 1994. It's nuts. Each year when you think it can't get any crazier, the next year is worse. Each day gets worse. Friday will be crazier than today, Saturday crazier than that."

"When did you notice it start to grow so wild?" I asked over my Dirty Shirley, a Shirley Temple with Vodka.

Again, he looked up and t the right, his lips counting the years. He swirled his Budweiser bottle and, upon settling on an answer, set it down with a clink.

"2004, I'd say. When Hollywood started paying attention. That's when it really changed. Hollywood realized, 'Hey. There's a key demo here and they're trapped."

My Viking took a sip of his G$T and said, "Totally trapped. Nowhere to go but Mexico."