Adam May is not attending Comic-Con this year. “I’ve only been to Comic-Con once,” he tells me on the line from his home in Atlanta. “I have a panic attack just looking at photos! It’s sensory overload for me.”
 
Adam May who describes himself as “Atlanta’s answer to the wrong question” has the distinction of being the first openly gay Star Wars action figure. Many are called; few are chosen.

Adam’s plastic obsession began the first time he saw Princess Leia. “Carrie Fisher with those buns on her head – she really was my first gay experience.” Star Wars helped Adam grow up, in a manner of speaking: he had a speech impediment as a child, and by repeating Luke Skywalker’s lines over and over he helped himself “talk it out.”

[Redacted overlaying segment of copy directly unrelated to subject, see OUT Magazine, October 2009 — Featuring the Fabulous Donatella Versace Cover. Page 51 is the best place to start.]

Other gays mostly recoil in horror though when they discover Adam’s plastic habit. “They typically assume I’m some strange man-child. I joke that the ’80s jingle—‘I don’t want to grow up, I’m a Toys R Us kid!’—wasn’t just a jingle. It was an oath!.”

“I’ve reached the point where I don’t care what anyone thinks about my toy [obsession]. That said, I do try to keep my gay friends away from the Three Story Toy Box. I have a collection of about 10,000 action figures* — with all of the accoutrements that go with them (space ships, play sets, lightsabres). The stairwell in my house has a wall that is 2 1/2 stories of shelving, acrylic risers and every Star Wars figure that Hasbro has made.”

Now ladies and gentlemen (and gentledroids, I suppose), I present to you the Hasbro Cookie.

So, since it’s a holiday weekend, and there’s probably Sweet FA to do, it’s open blog time. Write what you want, as long as it’s not spam, and have fun.

Normally I’d be covering Dragon*Con here in Atlanta, but they do not consider my efforts to be beneficial to the convention. So this particular Labor Day weekend, I’ll actually be laboring on my own homestead and hoping for toy news to pop up.

Part of this I posted in a previous blog. I hired a make-up and hair person. I’ll affectionately call this person Helena Handbasquiat. Apparently San Francisco’s Pride Festival isn’t the best time to hire someone for this type of job. Helena Handbasquiat, showed up really early (she probably hadn’t been to bed yet — to be honest) to put on my slap (that’s theatre for make-up) and attempt to do something with the mangle of hair and weave I have on my head. (No, I don’t actually have a Shatner Turbo, it’s just a joke.)

I think that this was the first time she had ever (tried) to do masculine make-up on a man. Hey, even I was befuddled. I’m just happy she didn’t come at me with the weird eyelash squishing things women use. They give me nightmares.

Eventually time ran out, and I was lucky to get out of there alive.

The photo session was the very last thing at the end of the tour, and they need to shoot from multiple angles. I was terrified. In the past three years I’ve lost enough weight to basically build another person. I had considered having surgery before the trip, but, well, it’s expensive and it hurts. Don’t let Nip/Tuck fool ya. So I’m jutting out my chin a bit, and doing all the things I’d learned from power-watching America’s Next Top Model and Make Me a Supermodel. (I think I lingered over Make Me a Supermodel a little too much because of their bromance plotline.) I thought about calling my personal style and fashion icon, Naomi Campbell, but I think she was in court for beating up a flight crew or pretty much anyone she wants. She’s Naomi Campbell. She can do that.

So the inimitable Paula set me at ease a bit. (She’s one of those people who is so "up" and cheerful that I wonder what her doctor’s prescribing that I’m not getting? Curse those HIPPA laws!)

Right profile. Left profile. Up. Down. They had to stand on something to get a shot from overhead. (I admit, my hair is big enough to require its own accessory, but I’m from the South. I grew up on Elvis, and I’m a Morrissey fan. The higher the hair, the closer to G*d, as we say.) Pretty much everything has to be documented from the neck up. I’m sure a few readers wouldn’t mind this, but I’m camera shy. I think my partner and I only have four pictures of the two of us together after 12 years.

I have to commend Paula from LFL because she snapped excellent shots, and made me look better than I thought I would. (Or maybe ILM fixed them?)

I had to pick an existing body to be, well, me. I chose Darth Nihilus, and my friend Doug made a mock-up using the fantastic "Darth Morrissey" head. I also asked Hasbro for a lavender double lightsaber (like Asajj Ventress or Maris Brood). If you read the blog, you’ll get it.

Just to give Hasbro a little more reference, I created a gallery of me including some more casual shots. (No, I never keep the same hair color for long, but I doubt Hasbro has perfected rapid-hair-color-change technology (yet).

Finally the last part was to make up a montage of photos over the years. (Yes, I wore black t-shirts as a toddler, but you’ll also see me rockin’ my Boba Fett Underoos t-shirt.) There’s even a shot of me acting as commando bartender at the Stonewall Inn in New York City. No, I’m not directly linking that one. I even offered to fly up to Hasbro HQ if they’d like some live reference, but I think they said something about kids and candy stores or hands and cookies jars. Who can blame them?

Now my fate is in the hands of Hasbro’s sculpting masters (and I believe the lead sculptor) out there in Rhode Island. (If you went to Celebration 2, you probably saw him in action as he put on a demonstration for us obsessive collecting types.)

So for those of you who ask and those of you who ask about its progress, there you have it. (I’m not going to rush a guy who’s trying to make me look cool in toy form.)

Of course what would I be if I didn’t shamelessly self-promote? From a few Q&A sessions back: