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Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Rearview Mirror: NAB 2008

Why do we torture ourselves this way every year?

Sunday’s talks went without incident, spiced by the services of two free masseuses (masseusi?) reserved for the PPW presenters. We fully intended to go to the PPW part at Pure Sunday night, but I got the memo that dress clothes would be required after we already left Los Angeles. Trish can always be counted on to look marvelous (one word: Chico’s). However, after a serious double-breasted suit and then smoker’s vest stages several years ago, I can be found most days in jeans and a distant, post-modern relative of a Hawaiian shirt; alas, that wouldn’t pass at Pure. Instead we had Sunday Dinner at the aforementioned fine Irish pub.

Monday was the last of our talks - carefully planned, as we had a full schedule of parties planned Monday and Tuesday nights. After lunch with Paul Temme our acquisitions editor at Focal Press, we finally made it onto the show floor about 3 PM Monday - just missing Peder Norrby’s demonstration of Trapcode Horizon (damn!). After the show was the essential Media Motion Ball to catch up with old friends and learn the hottest rumors from the show, and then Peder’s Trapcode user party at the Crib Suite at The Palms. Peder’s party last year (which we missed; had to present the next morning) was one of the talks of the show last year, and The Palms is one of the “It” places in Las Vegas, so no way we were going to miss it this year. VIP Vibe? You had to get past three layers of security just to get to the room. In addition to the living area complete with staffed bar and pool table, the suite had an amazing bed set (we’re staging our house; we notice such things), and a bizarre shower...with a stripper’s pole...and a window...which opened out behind the aforementioned bar. No one got drunk enough to perform; just as well, given the high nerd quotient in attendance. We did hear, however, that Peder went nightclubbing afterward; now we know why he didn’t have a demo scheduled for Tuesday!

Tuesday we got to catch more of the show (hot tip: the Green lot behind the South Hall was free this year), managed the impossible task of gathering together nearly the entire PVC staff for lunch, and had three more events lined up that evening: The Focal Press author’s reception (nice spread), the Lynda.com author’s dinner (at Alize at The Palms - where the foodies went into cataclysmic fits over the wine menu, we went gaga over the cool tiles in the bathroom, and Trish finally got a real cup of tea), and finally at an English pub for the Adobe beer blast.

When we parked our car at the pub, we noticed a cute little for-rent scooter next to our parking space. When we left at 2 AM (at least we got back to the room after the rollercoaster was done for the night), none other than Brendan Bolles of Fnordware and The Orphanage was hopping onto it. Now, a pair of individuals in our industry are blessed with the look of eternal youth, partially because of their diminutive size (more than offset by they very large hearts and brains): the cherubic Dan “Filter Boy” Wilk of Adobe (who still looks young, regardless of the length of his hair), and the more devilish-looking Brendan Bolles. I only say that to point out, you could not have cast a better person to ride that scooter.

The next morning, Trish could not find her purse. She was convinced she had removed it from its hiding place in the back of our car, and must of dropped it on the way to our room. Being the chivalrous hero that I am, I slapped on some clothes, retraced our steps, and found her purse - still in its hiding place in our car.

Let me tell you: Even in today’s supposedly progressive society, and even in a thoroughly decadent city such as Las Vegas a mere day’s drive from one of our country’s decadent coasts, when you’re a man with a purse, you are suddenly very, very alone. No one wants see you; no one wants to admit you’re actually in the same room with them. People in elevators try to pretend you’re not there, despite attempts to engage them in friendly conversation; normally chirpy hotel maids look straight through you rather than wish you their customary “good morning.” I felt very small.

Gas was about 40-80 cents/gallon cheaper in Las Vegas than Los Angeles, so I topped off during the show. As we got in the car to return to Los Angeles (actually, to first slip over to Paris for a righteous buffet and tea before the long drive home), I noticed the needle was suddenly about a third of a tank lower than it was the night before. Somewhere between 2 AM and 8 AM, someone had siphoned 5 gallons out of our PT Cruiser. (While Trish’s purse was still inside.) Just another reason to Loathe, if not Fear, Las Vegas. But somehow, I know we’ll do it again next year…

(Postscript: Of course, I caught the traditional NAB flu anyway. No surprise, given a gathering of 100,000 show-goers who have all crippled their immune systems by cramming for a week to get ready for the show, then getting blind drunk during it. So far, I haven’t given it to Trish - but that’s why this “report” is a bit late. My apologies.)

NAB 08 •

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