Archive for February, 2008

26
Feb
08

Sheep thievery? Yes this is what we’ve come to.

By lenatic Leave a Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Friday night I had a random walkabout w/some folks in my neighborhood, played piano duets and made out with a random guy. Saturday I met up with dear friends and tried–unsuccessfully–to steal a sheep. The sheep-thieving was way more entertaining.

Probably because the sheep was not alive, per se, nor had it ever been. It was, in fact, a miniature reproduction possessed of surprising authenticity and charm. Its wool was woolly, its legs were stocky, its eyelids were heavy in a way that suggested it was thinking deep thoughts and was perhaps a little world-weary.

 It was one of a family (a herd? a pod?) of many fake sheep that hung out in the lobby bar of the new Custom Hotel in Westchester, which may be the most surreal property I’ve ever seen. Think Berlin decor, random West LA clientele (not Venice, nor yet Santa Monica, and certainly not Hollywood) mixed with business dudes on layover and the occasional suspected “working girl.” Then add in a pretty bomb-ass DJ and a few live puppies, wandering amidst the sheep. There. Now you’re getting me. This place was weird. But you know, I like weird places much more than normal ones, so I had a good time.

The entirety of our time in the bar was spent in huddle mode, trying to figure out how we could sneak out one of the fake sheep. We had become strangely enamored of it, and even took turns throwing our coats over it, tucking it underarmed like a large football (with legs), and doing dry runs around the bar. We even tried to stuff it inside Jenna’s oversize handbag. Sadly, it was not oversized enough. And there were security guards and cameras EVERYwhere. So we left the sheep behind, with promises to return.

“That sheep will haunt your dreams,” I told Alex, a scrappy young Jewish man who had even, for a moment, been ready to to use his wife’s bosom as a diversion while he sprinted out the door. (His wife, mind you, was at the bar at the time… the idea died on the vine once she returned.)

 Anyway. Fake sheep = fun. Random neighbors = not. Two of ‘em saw me eating alone in a sushi bar…which is not too unusual on weeks when I’ve worked 80+ hours and gone out almost every night. They immediately took misguided pity on me and insisted that I come out drinking. So I did, to the lamest bar, where I met the lamest guy, proceeded to go back to the lamest house party, made out with him at some point just because I was bored, and then took a taxi back home vowing never to hang out with strangers again.

“I don’t like smart women. Actually, I don’t believe they exist,” he told me, mid-snog.

“Hmmm…” I said. “That’s…repulsive.”

“I was just kidding,” he said, looking wounded. “Don’t you know it’s a joke?”

Don’t you know I will never speak to you again? I wondered as we wandered back inside.

Apparently he didn’t know, for he texted me and asked me for a date the very next day.

Silly Neanderthal. When a woolly, football-shaped piece of wood with legs has more charm than you…well, that’s when you know you have a problem. Sadly, there is nothing I can see that you will ever be able to do about it.

Stay tuned for pics from the Custom Hotel.

25
Feb
08

The Pounder

By shawnster Leave a Comment
Categories: Shawn
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We were at the Lava Lounge when we caught the Pounder’s eye. Actually, I spotted her latest victim first, a punch-drunk-looking dude swaying near the bar. “What happened to you?” I asked.

“She gave me a massage,” he said, nodding at a young redhaired woman at his side. The girl smiled, then placed her order. “Two rum donkeys,” she told the bald, bespectacled bartender, who looked like a featherless bird. Then she eyed M. and I. “Make it four.”

It was Friday night, and we were in Seattle. The five-hour (counting border delays and stops at Walgreen’s) road trip was a more or less spontaneous decision made that afternoon when my L.A. trip was postponed. M. and I love our Seattle trips–the open road, the cheap and plentiful alcohol, the hours spent picking apart other people’s lifestyles. One glimpse of a happy-looking hipster couple with a baby stroller could fuel a three-hour rant.

This trip was a little bit different in that neither of us was undergoing an emotional crisis. Not like, say, New Year’s Eve last year, when we found ourselves at an abysmal “’80s party” in Capitol Hill with some socially inept Microsoft types, and tried to make conversation while waiting for our respective hopeless causes to call. Or the time before that, a drunken debauch at the height of summer when we were, yep, waiting for our respective hopeless causes to call.

No, this was a care-free trip, more or less, so we didn’t object when the crane-like bartender poured a mixture of Malibu and Captain Morgan’s rum with pineapple and orange juice into four glasses. M. and I toasted our new American friends–who, immediately after downing their rum donkeys, got into an argument about how much the guy should tip the bartender ($15, claimed the girl, who had paid for the drinks). The guy left and the girl stayed to talk to us. Her name was Elizabeth, she was from New Orleans by way of Tennessee, and she worked in Seattle as server. While she talked she pushed her pillowy bosom into M., then positioned herself behind my friend and travelling companion to deliver a shoulder-and-back massage that made M.’s eyes pop out. ”Oh yeah,” said M., taking a sip of her Jameson’s (the rum donkey long gone by then). I was next. Elizabeth the Pounder violently pushed my head down on the bar and began pounding my back and shoulders with her meaty ham sandwiches. Now I was finding out why the guy had looked so shell-shocked–she was using my back like a punching bag. “You’re so tense,” she said.

“Well, I had a girlfriend for two-and-a-half weeks,” I said, only half-joking.

“Doesn’t he ever relax?” she asked M. Then she leaned into me to ask, “This might be a weird question. But do you love yourself?

Okay, enough was enough–a good pounding was one thing, but I didn’t come to the Lava Lounge in Seattle for psychoanalysis. We finished our drinks and headed back to the hotel, the always welcoming and budget-priced Moore.

We spent the next day, a warm, cloudless Saturday, engaging in Seattle-ish activities–shopping at Nordstrom, lunch at McCormick & Schmick’s, browsing at Elliott Bay Books, oohing and awing an R. Crumb exhibit at the Frye Art Museum, filling up on the happy hour bar menu at Brasa. In the evening, we headed east towards Capitol Hill to Neumo’s. Indie-rock act the Mountain Goats was halfway through its set when we squeezed into the packed bar, its unventilated air hot and heavy with the scent of hipsters in Value Village wear.

And who should we run into on our way back to the hotel but the Pounder herself, just off work from the restaurant next door, sitting at the bar of the Six Arms brewpub. We sat with her and she told us all about her Mexican boyfriend before catching a ride home with us in our cab. After we dropped her off M. and I both agreed–the Pounder was a nice enough girl, but she was way more fun when she was drunk, horny, and pounding our backs.

18
Feb
08

It’s Up to You New York New York

By lenatic Leave a Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

That subject line really has no direct relevance–I just felt like quoting Liza Minelli.  

Moving right along, the luster of NYC hasn’t faded in the past week, and I’m still so ready to move there I can’t even express it. What a city!

I hit the ground with no sleep, having taken a red eye, and zoomed straight out the gate to the Hearst Building, where they took finger prints, a retinal scan and a DNA sample before letting me up 1, 108, 214  stories on the world’s most confusing elevator to meet w/Cosmo and Marie Claire.

Then met a friend (she is a Brides editor, but somehow we get along) at Stone Rose Lounge for a quietly gossipy cocktail surrounded by suits. On the dot of 7 she went buzzing off to a dinner while I found my way to CraftBar, where two rowdy drunken PR chicks awaited me.

I had invited my friend Carlton, but he was DAMN LATE, and was texting me requests like: Order me a glass of wine, say it’s for your imaginary friend. I ended up ordering him wine, an appetizer and dinner, much like I was his wife. (Actually all my interactions w/Carlton thus far have made me feel as though I was his wife…which is extra strange considering we’ve only met twice.)

From CraftBar it was off to Gramercy Tavern, and thence on an insane walkabout of underground mixology bars where the music is low, the patrons don’t speak, and the mixologists perform strange magic with infusions and tinctures. Around 5AM I simply couldn’t walk anymore and found myself curled up on the couch in Carlton’s suite showing him photographs of my family members on my laptop. My phone was dead, I couldn’t figure out how to get back to my hotel, and I had to be at a meeting in 4 1/2 hours, and…

…next thing I knew a phone was ringing, it was 8:30AM, and I hear Carlton saying: “I hope I earn brownie points for giving you the duvet and freezing to death all night long.” 

Ehh? Moments clanged by as I foggily realized that

a) I was in Manhattan

 b) I was on a couch

c) I was still fully dressed in last night’s clothes, and

 d) I’d have to wear them to a series of the most important meetings in my life

PLUS BONUS e) I’d only gotten 3 hours of sleep in the past three days.

Sweet!

Further domestic undertones ensued once I managed to free myself from the bowels of the couch. I staggered like a zombie to the shower as Carlton (who is, from the perspective of a woman oft mistaken for his wife, 1000% marriage material and the wife should count herself lucky) got back on the phone and ordered me coffee, a pastry basket and fresh fruit.  Then I banished him to another room so I could slap on some makeup. He bustled around tying his tie and so forth while I tried to come to grips with the fact that I was wearing my night-time going-out clothes (red knee-high ultra-suede boots, black stockings and a very small black dress) into the inner sanctums of several publishing houses. Before noon.

Finally I decided “Screw it. Start as you mean to go on.”

“Atta girl,”  said Carlton.

Off he went to tour Ian Schraeger’s new $10 million condos. Off I went to woo the publishers. And then to lunch at Blue Water…and then to the W Lounge at Bryant Park…and then and then–oh, there’s so much I can’t even track it.

New York is amazing. 

(Except for that club whadyacallit? Tenjune. The one where Britney Spears puked or whatever. Total ghetto. Four-foot dudes w/ jeri-curls, girls twice as tall and thrice as wide, and a meathead bouncer clearly suffering from small-penis syndrome. Don’t go there. Not worth the cab fare.)

But other than that…I’ll take another bite of the Big Apple whenever and however I can get it. And hopefully I won’t have to wait too long. 

15
Feb
08

When Vegas escapes…

By lenatic Leave a Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Oh man oh man. That ‘what happens in Vegas’ saying isn’t just a catchy ad line. It’s a RULE, and it is in place for a reason.

That is what I have learned in the two weeks since returning.

Diary confession: I flirted with a boy in Las Vegas. We actually went to a strip club. That is IT. Nothing happened, not even a kiss. (I would tell you if it had. After all, I have no idea who you are, and you could be anyone in the world including my mother, a stalker or a potential client. See? Totally safe.)

Anyway whatever. Nothing happened b/c I asked him whether he had a girlfriend and he said ‘yes.’ I said ‘DAMN’ and that was kind of the end of it. I’m not a homewrecker.

Next day, the texting begins. And continues, all the way back to LA, and thence to New York (where I was the last week…more on that later), and then back to LA again. At first it was rather innocent: i.e. You wore me out last nite…

Hum. that does not look so innocent, now that I read it. But it was. It referred to miles walked and sleep lost, not rigorous athletic sexual activity.

Anyway, I must confess I brought the whole game up a notch, demanding that he come out and meet me the first evening he was back. Not that I actually wanted to see him that badly–I was having drinks w/friends and then going to a show at Spaceland. I was just curious to see what he would do. (Curiosity is one of my major personality traits. I wouldn’t call it a flaw, but it does complicate life sometimes.)

Anyway, he didn’t, but has been fishing and trolling to see what I’m up to ever since. AND has upped the ante beyond fun and risky to downright sleazy by implying that he split with his lady. For 10 days, implying this. Meanwhile I’m in New York, going ehhhh? While my GFs (dating writers, pole dancers, all-round cynics) are like “YEAH RIGHT!” in a Greek chorus fashion.

Back in LA this week, things come to an awkward finish when I discover on his Facebook acct that he is very much part of a twosome, and that we apparently have mutual friends. Right away I message him–The world is too small–and he replies in a friendly way. We shoot the shit for a while. We log off.

He texts me at 9PM w/a couple hours free, wanting to know what I am doing.

What am I, a pay-by-the-hour hooker? I want to say, but don’t.

I say nothing, and continue working on my LA Times column about the strange impulses triggered in men if you take them for a first-date nightcap in a strip club. Coincidentally, a man whom I’d had a similar evening out with two years ago (I think he and I even sat at the same table) had texted me that evening as well, wanting to know whether I could be his date to some big televised event in Las Vegas.

At least that potential sleazy tryst would stay in Vegas. The guy promised me. Still, television is too close to reality for me. I live in Hollywood, what can I say? And even though I write this blog, I am not actually a big proponent of sleazy trysts.  Or men who screw around on their ladies. Actually I hate those men.

Back to Mr. LA-via-Vegas. This morning I got a little bitchy via email. And he got a little wounded-innocent, saying perhaps I’d daydreamed the whole thing. At which point I offered to copy-paste our text exchange. At which point he apologized, sarcastically. At which point I turned into Level III Hurricane Lena. (I can go up to Level VI by the way. You should see it. It’s fun…from a distance.)

Anyway, I think after many huffy messages we have worked things out. Mr LV-V-V thinks I am ‘mean’ and I think I am ’stupid’, but apart from that, we’re good. I hope. And I have learned a valuable lesson, which is that next time I meet a random guy in Vegas, go out dancing and wind up in a strip club, I’ll leave without getting his number. Or his name.

Peace out, and happy Valentine’s to all.

14
Feb
08

How dense one guy can be

By shawnster Leave a Comment
Categories: Shawn
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Kirsten has frizzy hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and she is telling me she works as an elementary school teacher by day. She has to yell, though, because of the dance music pounding in the club, a Davie Street institution called Celebrities. Meanwhile, behind her, a tall, lanky guy is jumping up and down and waving his arms in wide arcs at me and practically shouted, “Kino! Kino! Kino!”

“Kino” is short of kinesiology, and what Jason Rude of Lifestyle Transformations (www.lifestyletransformations.com) was trying to get through to little ol’ dense me was that I should be touching this girl, Kirsten, more than I was—which was barely at all. For some reason—my Prairie upbringing, my aversion to pepper spray–the idea of touching a relative stranger, on the elbow or back or wherever, takes me far out of my comfort zone. If only to get Jason to stop his attention-drawing jumping jacks, I touched Kirsten’s arm again as I said something. To my surprise, I did not encounter any violent opposition.

After Kirsten leaves to find her friend, I return to where Jason is standing with several of his buddies. I had already touched her arm a couple of times before he began his calisthenics—wasn’t that enough? Jason and James, the two guys within earshot, shake their heads as though they were addressing a particularly thick-headed child. “That’s what I used to think,” says James, a curly-haired, bespectacled guy in a denim shirt. “But you can’t do it enough.”

“If she doesn’t like it, she’ll let you know and move away,” says Jason.

This past Tuesday was my second night out with the guys from Lifestyle Transformations, a dating/attraction coaching business that just opened up here in Vancouver. The first time, Stefan had taken me to a local shopping mall and instructed me to say “hi” to passing girls as a way of quelling my “approach anxiety.” Jason, who on this night has wound himself up into a Tony Robbins-like trance of positive energy, was also pushing me to approach girls (Kirsten, at 30, was one of the rare actual women at the club) and into situations where I would have to think on my feet.

If I had any doubt I still have lots to learn in this area, i.e. understanding the whole man/woman interaction thing, it was dispelled not just by the kino incident but by what happened a little later. I spotted Kirsten again, looking for her friend. We started chatting again, and she dropped the b-word—“boyfriend”—and I said whatever, we’re just talking. After this, she seemed to really open up, and as we talked about past life decisions (I forget how we got on this topic) she mentioned that she used to be a stripper, but that she hasn’t told the guy she’s seeing for fear of his reaction. “But I was a good stripper,” she said. “I never got involved with drugs.”

Typically, just when the conversation’s getting interesting, I decide to end it—on what I supposed was a high note. After Kirsten returned to her search, I walked over to Jason. As they say, you could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather after what he told me next.

“She was totally into you, man,” he said. “You could’ve gone home with her.”

“Get out.”

“Believe me,” he said. “I know men, and I know women. You could’ve gotten that girl to do anything you wanted.”

“No way.”

What had I missed? Kirsten and I had just had a pleasant conversation, and perhaps even connected; Jason’s news could not have surprised me more if he’d said that he’d noticed a little blue alien growing out of the back of my head. Could what he said be true? Have I really been on this planet this many years without being able to pick up on these kinds of signals? And more importantly, will I always sound like a character out of Wayne’s World when recounting my experiences with women?

Stay tuned.

 

11
Feb
08

“Boob soup”!

By shawnster 1 Comment
Categories: Shawn
Tags: , , , , ,

img_5908.jpgThe other end of the pool was barely visible through the steam rising off the surface of the water. A battered orange tarp was draped over the yard, which was behind a bungalow in suburban Vancouver. On this Saturday night in early February, drops of freezing rain leaked through the holes and spattered the swimmers and water-treaders. The water had been heated, with propane, to hot tub temperatures. Rubber duckies, air mattresses and buoyant Styrofoam “noodles” floated by. Nearly everyone was naked, and lithe, beautiful women were everywhere. I, who grew up with a swimming pool in the backyard but had never been witness to something like this, should’ve been in heaven.

So why was I so anxious?

Well, for one thing, I didn’t really know anyone, except for my date. For another, many of the guests, and definitely the hosts, were veterans of Burning Man, the six-day annual event held in the Nevada desert devoted to freedom of expression, wild behaviour, and (in my wildest dreams) unparalleled sexual debauchery. What if people started asking me what my favourite part of last year’s Burning Man was? What if they discovered I wasn’t One of Them—would they run me out of the pool, chasing me down the suburban street with poi? I also fretted over looking too long in the wrong place(s) and/or giving off the wrong vibe, like the guy who’d approached my date with the line, “You look just like this other really beautiful girl that’s here—you could be sisters.” Sheesh!

Fortunately, I was there with J., who was not only familiar with this crowd but, from the amount of nude, wetly glistening hugs I witnessed, one of the most popular players in the scene. While her re-acquaintancing left me to cool my jets for the first part of the evening, after an hour or so I began to relax and get in the rhythm of meeting new nudes. J. certainly smoothed the way by introducing me to friends like Allison, with a flower tiara in her hair and Meredith, who shared her frozen mango and Jameson’s Irish. More than once I brought my male energy over to where J. was with a couple or trio of girls, only to find them discussing their breasts and nipples—someone by then had even coined the term, relative to the pool, “boob soup.” Meanwhile, with everyone as excited as kids on the eve of the release of a new Harry Potter tome, voices rose and fell, and a cycle of “Shhhhhhh!” continuously spread as a reminder to keep the noise to a minimum to avoid the neighbours’ wrath.

I didn’t spend all my time in the water—there were other areas to explore.  On the living room in the main floor, a massage table was set up; people relaxed on the couch or on the floor. In the kitchen, a Russian girl tended to a pot of pea soup and tray of latkes. In the basement, one room was set up as a dancefloor, complete with a bar, a DJ booth, and a stripper pole. In one corner of the “chill and art” room, a guy in coveralls painted an East Van cityscape that included the orange dock cranes visible from my apartment, a detail I found significant at the time. On the art room’s floor, partygoers lay on futons, some having a sexytime. Those feeling especially frisky could avail themselves of the nearby “play room”, which was a barely curtained off nook. All in all, it was undeniably the wildest party I’d ever been to. I mean, there was that lingerie party back in the ’90s—that was pretty hot. And then last year I was at a “half-off” party, where people were either topless (black duct tape covering naughty bits) or pantless. That had been fun. But this was like being at the Playboy Mansion but with more dreadlocks and fire sculptures.

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Finally, by the time we left, I felt completely comfortable. It helped that I’d relaxed enough to make small talk—no one even asked about Burning Man. Having J.’s seal of approval was a huge benefit, and I’d even known more people as the evening wore on, including a former music industry pal now with his own travel show on OLN (check it at www.moderngonzo.com), as well as another popular member of the community and two people I recognized from my gym. The party was still in full-ish swing by the time J. and I left, somewhere before daylight, while the music still played but after the rain had ceased, and the water had cooled off. 

04
Feb
08

Attraction coach face-off

By shawnster Leave a Comment
Categories: Shawn
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If I needed any more convincing, the text messages did it. “Last night was the best night of my life.” “What are you doing now, sweetie?” And the clincher: “Come over, I’m making dinner.”

Okay, I get it already, Zan, thanks. You can put your cell phone away now.

Friday night I went for a drink with Zan Perrion (www.zanperrion.com). One of the featured pick-up artists in Neil Strauss’s The Game, Perrion is an international man of mystery who spends much of his time jetting around the world to give seminars and talks on his life, his philosophy, and women. Occasionally he’ll make a public appearance in his hometown, which is how I met him in the fall at, appropriately (or inappropriately) enough, at the Vancouver YWCA. 

Anyway, our get-together—at the Cactus Club Cafe (www.cactusclubcafe.com) in Yaletown, part of a chain known for its attractive-waitress policy—was about the possibility of making me the guinea pig of a new program he is putting together. According to Zan, it’s still in the planning stages, but it would involve some one-on-one interactions out “in the field”, as well as follow-up emails and phone calls. The idea would be to teach me to be more successful with women.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “But Shawn—you’re a great guy, you’ve got an interesting job, a car, your own place, you’ve got your shit together (more or less), you’re moderately good-looking, you’ve been known to tell a decent joke or let off a decent witty remark on occasion, you’re social, and you can play ‘Tangled Up in Blue’ on guitar. How could you possibly need more success with women???”

Good question. But the truth is, I’ve had few dates in the year since my last breakup. It seems like the minute I express interest in someone, it backfires; or, worse, I get put in “the friend zone”. And if I see a girl I’m attracted to, I immediately start thinking of reasons not to talk to approach her. Usually, I’m pretty convincing.

I came face to face with this just last Tuesday, when I went to a downtown mall with Stefan. An attraction/dating coach with Lifestyle Transformations (www.lifestyletransformations.com), a new company, Stefan’s mission was to help me overcome “approach anxiety.” Considering it had snowed earlier in the day and the mall was practically deserted, we had our work cut out for us. But my coach wasted no time walking up to a young woman and saying “Hi.” He followed up with, “This might sound strange, but I just wanted to say you look really good.” She seemed pleased and he chatted with her for a few moments before disengaging. According to Stefan, he’s done this sort of thing hundreds of times, and it showed in the ease of his body language. After a few more approaches, all of which went a similarly pleasant way, he told me, “Now it’s your turn.” I immediately tensed up. The idea of just walking up to an unfamiliar, attractive woman, and saying something—while stone cold sober, remember–is, to put it mildly, not exactly in my comfort zone.

But I did it—and each of the three times, the response was more or less friendly and positive. No one told me to go away or threatened to called security. Of course, the idea is to keep at this—that is, approaching women, saying “hi”, engaging in a brief conversation “offering value” with no concern for the outcome. I haven’t exactly been conscientious about that assignment. There was one other problem. At one point, Stefan watched a dark-haired girl walk past. When I asked why he didn’t approach her, he said she was too young. “How old?” I asked. “25,” said the 21-year-old.

Which got me thinking that I might feel a little more comfortable with a guide with a little more life experience under his belt.

Still, it was a step in, if not the right direction, then certainly a different one. And so, with the determination that 2008 is not going to be a repeat of the rather lame 2007, I’m going to get some coaching to find out what I’m doing wrong and how to change it. How does this benefit you, the reader? Well, you get to read about my stumblings and flailings right here on Click in a special blog series. And, with any luck, when it’s all over I’ll have met the woman of my dreams. Or at least, I’ll have received some text messages from a cute girl inviting me over for dinner. Is that so much to ask for?

04
Feb
08

Double dose of Vegas — Part II

By lenatic Leave a Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

So where was I? Oh yes. The Palazzo opening was nice if you like that sort of thing, but in terms of color and noise and surprises and yummy-looking people drinking in the daytime, I found a far superior scene in the most unlikely of places. And that would be the Mandalay Convention Center.

 Every other time I’ve been there (more than I care to admit), it’s been full of people in suits, shiny shoes and attitude–the sort that goes ”yes, my company pays me to come to Vegas, so this must mean I am important in some way, but gosh I sure don’t feel it after lugging my laptop case 10 kilometers down this random fluorescent-lit hallway.”

And there was some of that this time. There was a furniture convention going on (I heard they were very cheap tippers), and a TV conference (which sounds like it would have been fun but actually was not). Then, on the bottom floor of the convention center, there was a straight-up carnival.

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Okay, no it wasn’t. It was the annual snow sports convention, which as far as I could tell was primarily comprised of snowboarders, skiiers and the people who love them. There may have been a few lonely snowman-builders lost in the mix somewhere, but I couldn’t find them in between all the kegs and half-pipes and grommety-looking boys running around causing havoc.

Alls I really have to say after crashing discovering this convention is that I probably should go live on a mountain somewhere b/c I’ve clearly been in the wrong business all these years. Poker? Nightclubs? Tropical islands? Pshaw! It’s all a big yawn compared to what I saw in the convention center at 3PM on a Tuesday afternoon.

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 There must have been 15 separate DJ turntables set up, playing hip-hop and rock and broken-beat electronica. At least four parties going, including one that was Mexican-themed and one in this strange indoor yurt made out of recycled blocks. Then there was the Guitar Hero booth–probably my favorite, thanks to the beanbags and flat-screen TVs.

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The thing I really noticed, though, was the crowd. What an unexpected mix! In the atrium booths and the organizer area, they were older people–all natural and healthy looking in the way that only comes from not eating meat for at least two decades. The ski equipment and mountaineering booths were full of rugged-looking dudes who look like they probably almost (or did) make the Olympic team in their youth, and now hang permanently in places like Park City being “private instructors” to a parade of willing older women.

Snowboard territory was like a pick-a-mix of the finest and the scariest-looking folks I’d seen in weeks–and honestly you just did not know what you were going to get. You’d turn a corner, and there would be a bunch of boys and girls who looked like they stepped out of a sunglass ad. Then right across from them would be a pack of disgustingly filthy hairy teenagers comparing butt-cracks. Random. But entertaining.

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The Volcom booth. Bunny rabbits, fuschia lizards, fake dreads. Irresistible, in a sick way. Or sick in an irresistible way. (Take your pick.)
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Probably my favorite was the Oakley crew. I was lost, spaced out and staring, and I just backed right into one of them. He very nicely asked if I needed help, and I answered the first thing that came to mind: ‘Yes, in an existential sense.’ (That’s always the truth at the tail end of a Vegas trip.)

Then I sat and chatted with them for a few minutes, and then I realized that they were all very cute, and that one of them was indeed rather fine in a tattooed Chris Cornell-reminiscent way that your parents would not approve of. So naturally I asked to take their picture. At which point they all got shy and tried to run away. I rallied them (like herding cats) and then tried to get my phone-cam skills going, even though was sheerly caffeine-powered by then and therefore very shaky.

In the middle of it the first one asked, “What’s this for?” and I, like the compulsive storyteller I am, said, “For a porn site.”

Oops. Away they went again.

I’m KIDDING!” I said. Jeez. You Oakley kids are camera-shy. But charming! I would have liked to stay and have a few beers. But I motivated onward.

And here I am, back home again for 2.2 seconds. Catching a plane to NYC this afternoon. Sleep? Never heard of it. Sleep is for sissies.

02
Feb
08

Double dose of Vegas

By lenatic 1 Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , , ,

Hadn’t been to Las Vegas in about a year, but made up for it by heading over there twice in the past two weeks… and as usual, the place had me begging for mercy within 24 hours each time.

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First time was for the Palazzo opening–I suppose everyone has heard about it by now. New snazzy grande Las Vegas hotel. Basically the Venetian’s elegant non-themey younger sister. You may have seen the celeb snaps in the tabloids, and I can confirm that the celebs were indeed wandering about, as I made the eternally embarrassing mistake of thinking I knew Margaret Cho from somewhere and asking, “Have we worked together before?” in front of a table of people.

 Apart from that a fairly good time was had by me. It was very lights-cameras-where’s-the-action: lots of spectators wandering around wondering when something fabulous might go down…but most of the time, it was all just press conferences and “official” ceremonies, though. I must say, though, I liked

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the girls dancing in the fountains,

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 the Barney’s spokesmodels on stilts, and the fact that Sheldon Adelson, the ancient multi-billionaire who owns the Sands Corp, came out to several of the opening events with barely any entourage at all–except for his wife, who is something like 40 years younger than him and apparently a doctor or similar.

(Note: I would have had lots more photos, but the photographer buddy I was with has developed an annoying habit of shooting tons of photos of me, and then neglecting to send over a single one.)

Truly, though, the real photo ops came during the following trip–which I just returned from a few days ago. Only they’re going to have to wait till next post, because this WordPress blog tool appears to be possessed, and I have neither the patience nor the technical savvy to deal with it right now. Back at you tomorrow.

 

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