One of the windfalls of attending the Consumer Electronics Show has been meeting a bunch of Princeton Review folks I previously knew only by their email addresses. Every one of them is smart and capable and 'good folks,' and I'm not just saying that because some of them might read this. I was initially drawn to working with TPR many years ago because it attracted bright, creative, interesting people, and I'm glad to learn that, despite other changes at the company, this has remained a constant.
I've been dining with them every night and, like everything else in Vegas, the dinners have been extravagant. I suspect I've gained 5 pounds over the last 72 hours, but the meals have been great fun, the sort that encourages one to overindulge, and even under the most favorable circumstances I am incapable of saying no to a well-grilled steak, or a glass of wine, or a grappa. Still, I woke up this morning with a very clear plan in mind: a very small breakfast and a salad for lunch. I've stuck with that plan, and can happily report that it was a welcome return to normalcy.
Last night I gave back the rest of the $100 I won on Wednesday night, and I'm hoping I'll have the restraint to call it quits. Not losing is winning in this town, so I should be happy I had some free entertainment and count my blessings. A friend commented on an earlier post that I should leave the slots behind and check out the craps or blackjack tables. I'm sure his reasoning is solid but I'll decline all the same, and here's why: in Vegas there are games of skill and chance, and games of pure chance. My skills are nonexistent, so any game in which skill is a factor is one in which I am at an unnecessary disadvantage. At least with the slots I'm on an even plane with all the other suckers.
Yesterday I finally made my way over to the Las Vegas Convention Center, site of the main CES exhibits. I guess I am not a techy, because I just couldn't get excited about most of it. There are tons of large screen televisions on display, but I have a large screen television at home and it looks pretty good; these may look better, but if they do, I can't tell. There's also lots of audio equipment that will allow us to annoy fellow motorists with the bass rumbling from our cars even more in 2009 than we did in 2008, digital cameras that will send your pictures and video directly to your computer or pretty much anywhere else, all sorts of data storage do-hickies, and cell phones that do everything. I don't imagine I'm breaking any news in reporting that cell phones appear to have won the gadget wars, and they are now being redesigned to perform every function that the war's losers perform. I just saw one that monitors your blood pressure... cool but also a little unsettling. What won't my cell phone eventually know about me? Finally, stuff related to Guitar Hero or Guitar Hero-like video games is ubiquitous. I truly do not understand the game's appeal; to me it looks like a video-game version of Simon, but simpler. Of course, I also don't understand why people spend enough money on pornography to turn it into a multi-multi-billion dollar industry.
Speaking of which: Big boobs are everywhere. Tonight is their night, as the adult entertainment industry' Oscars, the AVN Awards, will commence in a few short hours here in the convention center we share. Like Las Vegas itself, the proximity of scantily clad porn stars has gone from seeming unimaginably bizarre to normal, even mundane, in a few short days. Indeed, I'm surprised at how quickly I've adapted to the weirdness of this city: the smell of cigarettes, the clang of one-armed bandits, and the thwack of the passes that accompanies every shill's entreaty to attend a particular "gentlemen's" club have all now become part of the landscape, all easily ignored. If there's a Hell and if as a result of some clerical error I'm sent there, this experience gives me hope that it won't seem all that bad after not too long a while.
So there you go.
No.... more.... pie!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The Second in a Series of Digressions: Just When I Thought It Couldn't Get Any Weirder...
Today was the first day of the Consumer Electronics Show. That's why I'm in Las Vegas; I'm here to help The Princeton Review, an education company, hawk its new test prep game for the Nintendo DS and also hawk the podcast I create for them.
CES is an industrial show. I've never been to one before, but it looks and feels very familiar as soon as I step inside, and I realize that it's because I recently watched The Conversation and this show is exactly like the surveillance-industry show Gene Hackman attends. CES is more high tech, but it's basically the same: row after row of booths with sales reps shilling whatever it is they're here to shill, all gathered in an unnaturally large and unappealingly lit room. I walk past one booth and catch this snippet of sales-guy spiel: "Here's my honest opinion..., " and I try not to laugh. No one is here to give an honest opinion. We are all here to convince each other that our widget is the best damn widget in creation.
As I walk around the conference floor, I notice that sales people don't look me in the eye; rather they stare directly at my chest, which is where my conference badge dangles. I realize that this is providing me some previously unheld insight into what it's like to be a woman, and I'm oddly grateful for the unsettling lesson. Because my badge identifies me as a member of The Princeton Review contingent, I receive one of two reactions. Those who recognize the company name realize that I have nothing to offer them and leave me alone. Those who don't look confused; they are probably wondering whether The Princeton Review is some sort of journalistic enterprise, and whether they shouldn't be foisting their widget upon me.
Our exhibit is in the Sands Convention Center. It's an adjunct location for CES; the main event is in the Las Vegas Convention Center (I'll be visiting tomorrow). As a result, our site is a little light on blow-your-mind cool stuff, but there is some. A group from MIT is showing off some very cool projects; they're not even selling anything, just letting attendees know that no matter how geeky they are, they are still several standard deviations toward the center on the geek bell curve compared to the folks at MIT. I'd describe what they're displaying but I'm sure I didn't understand it, so I won't embarrass myself. I see some video games that look like they were designed by some of the old Raw magazine crowd, and that makes me feel good. Mostly, though, our pavilion is populated by mainstream overseas electronics whose chief selling point is price. Very few 'wow' moments at the Sands, sadly.
Because we're just a sideshow, we're sharing our building with another show. And not just any show, ladies and gentlemen... No, our cohabitants are none other than the adult entertainment video (AVN) awards, and so the place is crawling with porn stars, porn purveyors, and, I guess, the media that cover the porn world. Here's a picture my TPR compadre Steve snapped in the lobby that the two shows share:
At the outset of the day I amused myself by wandering the lobby and playing a game I made up. The game is called AVN or CES? The object is to guess which show a random person in the lobby is attending. There are two flaws in the game however; (1) there is almost no way to confirm whether I have guessed correctly, short of following people around in a way that would be creepy under any circumstances but which is especially creepy at a porn convention, and (2) there is no need to confirm, because the game is waaaay too easy. All the middle aged guys who are dressed either in biker gear or faux gangsta gear are here for AVN; all the dweeby guys are here for CES. As for the women... well, let's just say it's much, much easier to discern between the two crowds of females and leave it at that. Just look at the picture above and you should understand what I mean.
Today was not a good one in the casino. The machines that had been so friendly yesterday today treated me as though we had never met, and I quickly gave back a chunk of yesterday's booty. I hope I will have the good sense to accept my losses and try again tomorrow, but the night is still young, so we'll see. The high point of the day for me was performing one of my podcast songs at a press conference. The response was quite good, and after spending the last few days wondering what I'm doing here I am finally beginning to see that there may be some opportunities for me.
I'm not sure I'd lay any money on it, though.
So there you go.
CES is an industrial show. I've never been to one before, but it looks and feels very familiar as soon as I step inside, and I realize that it's because I recently watched The Conversation and this show is exactly like the surveillance-industry show Gene Hackman attends. CES is more high tech, but it's basically the same: row after row of booths with sales reps shilling whatever it is they're here to shill, all gathered in an unnaturally large and unappealingly lit room. I walk past one booth and catch this snippet of sales-guy spiel: "Here's my honest opinion..., " and I try not to laugh. No one is here to give an honest opinion. We are all here to convince each other that our widget is the best damn widget in creation.
As I walk around the conference floor, I notice that sales people don't look me in the eye; rather they stare directly at my chest, which is where my conference badge dangles. I realize that this is providing me some previously unheld insight into what it's like to be a woman, and I'm oddly grateful for the unsettling lesson. Because my badge identifies me as a member of The Princeton Review contingent, I receive one of two reactions. Those who recognize the company name realize that I have nothing to offer them and leave me alone. Those who don't look confused; they are probably wondering whether The Princeton Review is some sort of journalistic enterprise, and whether they shouldn't be foisting their widget upon me.
Our exhibit is in the Sands Convention Center. It's an adjunct location for CES; the main event is in the Las Vegas Convention Center (I'll be visiting tomorrow). As a result, our site is a little light on blow-your-mind cool stuff, but there is some. A group from MIT is showing off some very cool projects; they're not even selling anything, just letting attendees know that no matter how geeky they are, they are still several standard deviations toward the center on the geek bell curve compared to the folks at MIT. I'd describe what they're displaying but I'm sure I didn't understand it, so I won't embarrass myself. I see some video games that look like they were designed by some of the old Raw magazine crowd, and that makes me feel good. Mostly, though, our pavilion is populated by mainstream overseas electronics whose chief selling point is price. Very few 'wow' moments at the Sands, sadly.
Because we're just a sideshow, we're sharing our building with another show. And not just any show, ladies and gentlemen... No, our cohabitants are none other than the adult entertainment video (AVN) awards, and so the place is crawling with porn stars, porn purveyors, and, I guess, the media that cover the porn world. Here's a picture my TPR compadre Steve snapped in the lobby that the two shows share:
At the outset of the day I amused myself by wandering the lobby and playing a game I made up. The game is called AVN or CES? The object is to guess which show a random person in the lobby is attending. There are two flaws in the game however; (1) there is almost no way to confirm whether I have guessed correctly, short of following people around in a way that would be creepy under any circumstances but which is especially creepy at a porn convention, and (2) there is no need to confirm, because the game is waaaay too easy. All the middle aged guys who are dressed either in biker gear or faux gangsta gear are here for AVN; all the dweeby guys are here for CES. As for the women... well, let's just say it's much, much easier to discern between the two crowds of females and leave it at that. Just look at the picture above and you should understand what I mean.
Today was not a good one in the casino. The machines that had been so friendly yesterday today treated me as though we had never met, and I quickly gave back a chunk of yesterday's booty. I hope I will have the good sense to accept my losses and try again tomorrow, but the night is still young, so we'll see. The high point of the day for me was performing one of my podcast songs at a press conference. The response was quite good, and after spending the last few days wondering what I'm doing here I am finally beginning to see that there may be some opportunities for me.
I'm not sure I'd lay any money on it, though.
So there you go.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The First in a Series of Digressions: Day 1 of a Vegas business trip
Las Vegas is probably not the most fucked up place in the world. I mean, there's Pyonyang; that's got to suck big time. And then there's Myanmar, Somalia, the Gaza Strip, Iraq--indeed, the world is full of fucked up places, all much, much more unpleasant than Las Vegas. But Las Vegas may be the only place that is so intentionally fucked up, and all purportedly in the service of making a visit here more enjoyable. I am dumbfounded by this place.
I'll give it this much--there's nowhere else on earth like it, leastwise not that I've ever visited. Everything is big and bright and loud; the word "garish" was probably coined here. It's as if someone dropped a beach resort in the middle of the desert, then fed it a steady diet of architectural steroids to turn it into the Jose Canseco of cities. The trip to my hotel took me past many gaudy casino hotels, including the Venetian and Palazzio, both Frankenstein monsters of Italian architectural styles, and Caesar's Palace, which evokes the Roman Forum (a Hard Rock Cafe nearby is styled after the Roman Coliseum, clearly an homage to Caesar's). The folks who built this city had a thing about Italy, apparently. In comparison, my hotel--Treasure Island--is an exemplar of design restraint. It merely looks like a miniature golf course.
I detect a certain gambling theme throughout this city. A bank of slot machines greets you as soon as you deplane. No need to wait until you've collected your luggage to start losing money, right? This arrangement also offers departing vacationers that one last chance to win back everything they lost on vacation, or to give back what they've won. From the second you arrive until the second you leave, the opportunity to gamble is never more than a few hundred yards away. As I hit the button in the hotel elevator to get to my 14th floor room, I can't help shouting "C'mon, lucky 14!" My fellow passengers are not amused. I suspect they're Vegas regulars and that they've heard some variant of this lame joke many times before.
The hotel is another disappointing revelation. Someone once told me that everything in Vegas is cheap because the idea is to lure you out here with low prices so that you will spend all your money in the casinos. Imagine my surprise, then, when I was told that Internet access in my room would cost me $15. "A day?" I ask incredulously. "Well, we don't call it a day, because it's for 24 hours," the check-in lady replies, and I fear that my head will explode; I have apparently lived my entire life misinformed about the length of a day. I ask if there's a workout room. "Yes," she replies unenthusiastically, and I know what's coming next. "You have to pay to use it." I later find out that it costs $20. A day.
I take a walk though the lobby and see that Wayne Brady is performing tonight, but he likely won't choke a bitch during the show, so I'm not going. Elsewhere on the strip there's Blue Man Group, Cirque du Soleil, Barry Manilow, some acrobats performing to Beatles music, Rita Rudner, Bette Midler, Donny and Marie, and George Wallace, whom a large sign proclaims "The next Mr. Las Vegas." The picture of Wallace is so evocative--in pose, in clothing, in facial expression--of Bernie Mac that I suspect Bernie Mac must have been the previous "Mr. Las Vegas," and they're hoping most vacationers won't know the difference. "Yeah, and we saw that funny black fella, he was good! Not as good as the blue guys who spit paint, though!" Man, when Rita Rudner is your best entertainment option, things are rough. Where the hell is Rickles?
Strip eateries are dominated by celebrity chefs. Mario Batali is EVERYWHERE, as is Wolfgang Puck, and others are nearly as ubiquitous. I eat lunch in a section of the Venetian done up to look like a piazza, complete with a fake sky that, due to jet lag, I confuse for real. "Are we outside?" I ask hazily, and upon being informed that we are not I realize that I really, really need a glass of wine. The restaurant is a virtual copy of Batali's Otto in Greenwich Village, except that everything on the menu is approximately 30 percent more expensive. "Sweet mother of God," I realize, "I've finally found a place more expensive than Manhattan." A glass of aglianico, thankfully, takes the edge off. At least until the opera singers, jugglers, and harlequins arrive in the "piazza" to give a joyless, completely over-the-top performance. I hear they do this every hour, all day long. I shit you not. Now I know why everything's more expensive here than in Manhattan. It's because it's "better."
I am ready to write this city off entirely when, as luck would have it, I win $100 in a slot machine, and my attitude improves considerably. A few more wins like that and I'll be able to cover my Internet bill for my stay!
I'll give it this much--there's nowhere else on earth like it, leastwise not that I've ever visited. Everything is big and bright and loud; the word "garish" was probably coined here. It's as if someone dropped a beach resort in the middle of the desert, then fed it a steady diet of architectural steroids to turn it into the Jose Canseco of cities. The trip to my hotel took me past many gaudy casino hotels, including the Venetian and Palazzio, both Frankenstein monsters of Italian architectural styles, and Caesar's Palace, which evokes the Roman Forum (a Hard Rock Cafe nearby is styled after the Roman Coliseum, clearly an homage to Caesar's). The folks who built this city had a thing about Italy, apparently. In comparison, my hotel--Treasure Island--is an exemplar of design restraint. It merely looks like a miniature golf course.
I detect a certain gambling theme throughout this city. A bank of slot machines greets you as soon as you deplane. No need to wait until you've collected your luggage to start losing money, right? This arrangement also offers departing vacationers that one last chance to win back everything they lost on vacation, or to give back what they've won. From the second you arrive until the second you leave, the opportunity to gamble is never more than a few hundred yards away. As I hit the button in the hotel elevator to get to my 14th floor room, I can't help shouting "C'mon, lucky 14!" My fellow passengers are not amused. I suspect they're Vegas regulars and that they've heard some variant of this lame joke many times before.
The hotel is another disappointing revelation. Someone once told me that everything in Vegas is cheap because the idea is to lure you out here with low prices so that you will spend all your money in the casinos. Imagine my surprise, then, when I was told that Internet access in my room would cost me $15. "A day?" I ask incredulously. "Well, we don't call it a day, because it's for 24 hours," the check-in lady replies, and I fear that my head will explode; I have apparently lived my entire life misinformed about the length of a day. I ask if there's a workout room. "Yes," she replies unenthusiastically, and I know what's coming next. "You have to pay to use it." I later find out that it costs $20. A day.
I take a walk though the lobby and see that Wayne Brady is performing tonight, but he likely won't choke a bitch during the show, so I'm not going. Elsewhere on the strip there's Blue Man Group, Cirque du Soleil, Barry Manilow, some acrobats performing to Beatles music, Rita Rudner, Bette Midler, Donny and Marie, and George Wallace, whom a large sign proclaims "The next Mr. Las Vegas." The picture of Wallace is so evocative--in pose, in clothing, in facial expression--of Bernie Mac that I suspect Bernie Mac must have been the previous "Mr. Las Vegas," and they're hoping most vacationers won't know the difference. "Yeah, and we saw that funny black fella, he was good! Not as good as the blue guys who spit paint, though!" Man, when Rita Rudner is your best entertainment option, things are rough. Where the hell is Rickles?
Strip eateries are dominated by celebrity chefs. Mario Batali is EVERYWHERE, as is Wolfgang Puck, and others are nearly as ubiquitous. I eat lunch in a section of the Venetian done up to look like a piazza, complete with a fake sky that, due to jet lag, I confuse for real. "Are we outside?" I ask hazily, and upon being informed that we are not I realize that I really, really need a glass of wine. The restaurant is a virtual copy of Batali's Otto in Greenwich Village, except that everything on the menu is approximately 30 percent more expensive. "Sweet mother of God," I realize, "I've finally found a place more expensive than Manhattan." A glass of aglianico, thankfully, takes the edge off. At least until the opera singers, jugglers, and harlequins arrive in the "piazza" to give a joyless, completely over-the-top performance. I hear they do this every hour, all day long. I shit you not. Now I know why everything's more expensive here than in Manhattan. It's because it's "better."
I am ready to write this city off entirely when, as luck would have it, I win $100 in a slot machine, and my attitude improves considerably. A few more wins like that and I'll be able to cover my Internet bill for my stay!
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