Outside the Convention Center, we met up with Mike and Rich. Steve followed shortly thereafter, and we loitered for a good while, talking about what we’d seen. We waited for Chris and the other Mike to show; they were already ten minutes late for the six o’clock rendezvous. As people filed out of the venue, we grew more and more impatient. The overcast sky invited an icy breeze, and most of us wore short-sleeved shirts and\or shorts. Finally, I called Chris on his cell phone. He and Mike were still inside, playing Metal Gear Solid 2. I told both of them to hurry the Hell up so we could not get caught in a traffic circus. Twenty minutes after that, they showed. While waiting, I noticed Julie, one of the members of the latest Real World\Road Rules Challenge, passing by with her entourage (though none of them had cameras). Rich had had a run-in earlier in the day with Sugar Ray Leonard’s security detail. Apparently, one of the giant bodyguards bumped him out of the way. The Champ looked Rich over and smiled winningly as a kind of apology…
A couple of hours later, we sat at the Yankee Doodles bar on the Promenade. The leggy blonde hostess told us that our table would be ready as soon as the current party was through with it; and they were already paying their bill. Her voice was so shrill that I imagined thousands of small animals keeling over dead every time she laughed. But there was sincerity in it, so we waited.
And waited…
After about an hour-and-a-half, Tony and I ducked out around the corner to the Tower Records next to Hooters. We were on a spontaneous mission to seek out DVD porn, perhaps the most interesting by-product of Man’s quest for technological perfection. However, the store had hardly any selection and we walked away empty-handed ten minutes later. How is it, I wondered, that the Chicago location could stock literally an entire wall of the good stuff, while the California store carried nine lousy titles? The trip wasn’t a total loss, however: Tony did find a Nine Inch Nails tribute CD; so he was happy.
Back at the restaurant, the situation was looking dire. The yuppies at our table-to-be showed no signs of moving; in fact their numbers had increased by three. Mike and I took a walk to his car, which was parked on the second level of a nearby garage. He was sure that he’d left the number of his Playboy connection in one of the seats, so I came along to offer use of my cell phone (in truth, I used that thing more in the course of two days than I have in the eight months I’ve owned it). The number was not in the car, and he suggested we go back to his hotel to look for it. He assured me that the whole trip would take less than twenty minutes, saying that it sure beat lounging around a packed bar…
An hour later, the two of us sat down and watched the rest of our party plow into their meals. I had my phone at the ready in case Mike’s friend called. I sat at the far end of the table, far from my good friends. Some other programmers, but no one that I knew well had joined us earlier. I scarfed down a mushroom burger and some clam chowder in less than ten minutes so as not to keep everyone else waiting. My stomach was swimming and my head was full of frustration and anger…
The nine of us wandered down the street and around the corner to a nightclub. On the way, we encountered a street performer whose specialty was balancing bowls and other objects on his head. Just behind him, a man stood at a microphone professing The Word of the Lord and passing out checks from The Bank of Riches in Jesus Christ, signed by The Man himself. I’d never suspected that the Messiah had such excellent penmanship. None of us could get into the club because of our attire. I’d suspected earlier that morning that we’d be getting into the nightlife right after E3, so I dressed accordingly. My friends, however, did not. We tried our luck at Gotham Hall, a place right across from Yankee Doodles. Again, we ran into the same problem: no sneakers or shorts allowed. The bright spot, however, was that people who were not dress-code-appropriate could get into the club, but not the actual dance floor. We decided that this was as good as our situation would get. Considering that all of the clubs shut down at two in L.A., there would be no time to go home, change, and come back…
Tony, who sported a pair of jeans shorts, decided to go shopping. He and I ended up in Urban Outfitters, whereupon he bought a nice pair of tan khakis. While he tried on pants, I thumbed through the books in the limited lit racks. I found a disturbing little tome called Nude Portraits of My Ex-Girlfriends. It’s all in the title…
Gotham Hall is perhaps the ultimate in cool dance clubs. Though my expertise is limited in such circles, I can’t imagine anything more suited to everyone’s needs. It is divided into thirds: to the left of the entrance is a dark sofa lounge that resembles the set of the old Love Line TV show (had the power failed); the middle holds a pool table surrounded by plush seats; the right of the club is the bar\dance floor area. I chose to sit on the couches for the evening while my friends scoped out the action on the floor. Too much had happened during the day and I was still adjusting to L.A. time. On top of that, I missed my girlfriend dearly. I hadn’t seen her in three weeks, and the oversexed atmosphere of the whole scene turned my thoughts rotten. I sat, sipping a cherry Coke and writing in my journal by the light of a small portable lamp. The room was slightly illuminated by candles sitting on small tables; they showed off several couples making out all around me. I felt as though I was sitting amidst a twisted dry-humping orgy. On occasion, Rich or Tony would come and visit and try to cheer me up. But I just couldn’t bring myself to get up and dance…
At one point, I ended up wading through a sea of people to get to the bathroom. As I gently pushed through the crowd of dancers, I saw a pretty blonde woman making her way toward me. I angled myself slightly to let her pass though the slim opening of bodies. As she brushed by, her hand reached down and kneaded the side of my stomach playfully. A spinny discomfort washed over me and I hurried about my business…
Just before two I headed outside and sat on one of the wrought-iron benches along the Promenade. I waited patiently for everyone to leave, and met up with my party. Apparently, there was much success in the Phone Numbers department, as Mike and Rich had prospective dates for Saturday night. I was happy for them, but I didn’t exactly show it. I sat in silence for the ride back to Steve’s apartment. At about two-thirty, I bade farewell to Rich and Mike. We all made plans to hook up next year for E3 if not sooner, and said that it was nice meeting each other.
Sleep came much easier than the night before…
The next morning was wholly unremarkable. Once again, Tony and I hiked to Jack in the Box for breakfast. On the way back he spotted three snails climbing a roughly plastered wall. We stopped for a minute to study the things. This was another sight uncommon Back Home. Our cab arrived right on time, at eleven-twenty, and we said our good-byes to Steve. As we left the building, Tony commented on the Pac-Man-shaped swimming pool and the fact that the courtyard looked like the tribal council set of Survivor. We left LAX at half-past one that afternoon; the flight was somber and restful. I thought of the middle-aged lady we’d seen in the airport an hour earlier, in line for the security checkpoint, and wondered if she’d read the sign…
Home and After
We touched down in Chicago at twenty ’til nine. As we trudged through O’Hare dazedly, I saw a large billboard advertising some credit card or other. The selling image was a still of Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper cruising on their motorcycles in the film Easy Rider. Wonderful, I thought, a cinematic symbol of rebellion and freedom is being used to sell something that, by its very nature, confines people to the slavery of Debt and Ruin…
I can’t say that E3 enriched my life in any way, though I did make some interesting new friends. From my uninformed perspective, the event itself was rather lame. Some of the people with whom I attended agree, saying that it’s been done better before. I am hopeful that things can get better, and look forward to checking it out next year…
For a moment, in the middle of the convention, I felt superior to the mass of game players around me. These people spend valuable time holed up in their rooms, fighting fictional battles and denying themselves, for the most part, real human contact. Then I remembered something a friend said to me not too long ago. He told me that everyone geeks-out about something, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. And he’s right. I’ve got the double-whammy burden of being both a film addict and comic book fan. So I guess my theory that technology is somehow sucking the life out of America is not entirely true. People get lost in video games in much the same way they get lost in soap operas or books. And who’s to say that one is more or less healthy than the other? Certainly not me…
The truly sad thing is that people feel the need to escape at all. Things are becoming more and more dismal in this world, it seems. With communities coming closer together through our many advances as a species, there is more room for conflict and less for understanding. The daily trials of many Americans are backbreaking, whether their problems stem from overbearing, unappreciative bosses or the stresses of having to provide for an entire family. Or both. So it’s not surprising that we, as a people, are fond of getting away from it all, plunging headfirst into strange digital worlds where we actually stand a fighting chance against the forces of Evil. Unlike Reality, video games give us clear enemies who don’t hide behind desks, smiles or false promises.
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