Viva Las Vegas

So, I grew up in Southern California along the I-15 corridor. My dad liked to travel quite a bit and on any eastward trip we would pass through Las Vegas. Of course, I was just a kid on these trips, so the best the city had to offer me was Circus Circus. The first time I visited while old enough to participate in all the sin was for my dad's wedding, but William was about two and not allowed in the fun areas.

Well, it's been the better part of a decade since then, but Vegas has called me back. I won't bore you with the details but I'm there to attend an annual Adobe convention. While I'll be working during the day, the evenings are my own. I just don't want to become "that guy": the protagonist in a cautionary tale. When on a company expensed trip, what happens in Vegas doesn't necessarily stay there.

I arrived Thursday afternoon via my frequently flown Alaska Airlines. I used to stay awake through an entire flight, regardless of length (a flight to India is basically 24 hours in the air, not the most fun), but now I fall asleep every time. I awoke over Vegas only to find that Portland's weather had followed me there: cool and rainy. No matter, the experience of Vegas is indoors mostly anyway. Took a cab to the Aria hotel and casino, then settled into my room. And what an amazing room it is: spacious, fully stocked and automated, and with a great view. I probably have nearly as much square footage as my apartment back home, a king bed, and the back wall was a floor-to-ceiling window. The mini-bar comes with liquor, beer, and wine. I can control the lighting and the twenty foot curtains from a button pad, a bedside touchscreen console, or through the TV remote. My view is out to the west, away from the hustle and bustle, with the Rio and the mountains beyond.

After settling in, getting some work done, and playing with these new toys, I have one item on my agenda to accomplish: visit the Hard Rock Cafe. It's practically across the street (read: The Strip) from my hotel. I visit a Hard Rock whenever travel sends me to a city with one. What can I say? I love their steaks, drinks, and collecting their location specific glasses: pints for me, shots for my wife. I went with a bevvy of my co-workers so we could talk shop.

When dinner was over, I returned to my room and settled in for the night. I have zero interest in gambling and didn't want to stay up too late before having to work the next day.

Friday, with the work day over, we were supposed to join a company dinner. But most of that same bevvy from the night before opted to dine at Mon Ami Gabi, under the Eiffel Tower at the Paris. It was a nice little restaurant that was so French I couldn't pronounce most of the menu items. But I had the Steak Poivre, a nice spicy dish.

Later, I went back to my room to grab my camera and tripod for some night photography along with a couple coworkers. We walked down The Strip to Excalibur and just missed a shooting. Another of my coworkers was actually at the Tournament of Kings when it occurred. But this is Vegas, the show went on uninterrupted.

Not having any more plans on this end of The Strip, we went to the MGM to hitch a ride on the monorail to the other end of town. As we're going inside, two girls in club clothes are entering as well. It's hard not to notice because one is wearing this black leather corset/tube top that is just holding on for dear life around her impressive [insert Euphemism for Boobs]. While trying to figure out how to make our way through the crowd (did I mention that this weekend is also the National Finals Rodeo?) to our destination, it seems these girls are also attempting to find their way somewhere. It soon becomes apparent that our paths will overlap for awhile so I suggest to my comrades that we follow them. I've seen the effect astounding cleavage can have on a hoard, it's like Moses. Sticking close behind them is the same as tailing an emergency vehicle with its sirens going: everyone gets out of the way and gives you a clear path. What's more fun is watching the faces of those that are making way: men's eyes dart in and leap out sheepishly, old grandmothers say "My God! Did you see the size of those things?!"

Eventually the girls find their night club and we find the monorail isn't the free trip we'd hoped it would be. Not a total loss, but we head out of the casino and wander back down The Strip to the fountains of the Bellagio. This is where the majority of my photography comes in. We continue our trek and turn around at the Venetian before heading back to the hotel and once again ending the night.

Come Saturday, I've only got a half day of work. The rest of the time I plan on picking up some souvenirs and visiting some of the crazy candy shops I'd seen previously. The first such location is Lick, in the Monte Carlo. There I find a giant gummy bear, I think it was about one pound in size. But what's better is the "If you like this item" pictures on the back of the packaging. I ask the store person if they have one of these particular items. They do. It's a three foot long gummy dildo worm. I opt not to buy the nearly $50 candy but I do pick up an innuendo laden shot glass for my wife. We also stop at It'Sugar, which has much of the same candy novelties (and sexual undertones), but is actually less expensive.

Having completed the shopping and tired of walking, we spend the rest of our time drinking, the perfect preparations for the flight home.

Just one more thing to mention, and that is my need to collect strange items. The first is from work. We were having a series of quizzes and other competitions throughout the convention that could earn us team points in the form of poker chips. The team with the most points won a prize, which wasn't my team, but at the end of the contest they were just giving away the chips. There are worthless on their own, had no value at the casino, but they were custom made for our event and had the convention logo on one side. There was a table covered with them and a few people were grabbing them. But most of the crowd had passed by already and there must have been thousands of them left. I grabbed one for fun. Then I grabbed a couple more in case I wanted to give some to poker playing friends. I wanted at least ten so I could use them to practice chip shuffling. But then the guy who was in charge of them encouraged me to take more, and gave me a bag to hold them. He said what was left would end up in his office, and I suggested he make a fort out of them. In the end, however, I had one hundred and sixty of them, exactly. But I ended up giving one of them away to a coworker before leaving Vegas.

The other thing I collected is a bit notorious. You've probably heard about how on the streets there are people handing out cards with naked women on them. Well, it's totally true, and you know what a sucker I am for naked women. I compulsively collected these from every single person handing them out. In the end I had a huge collection of the things from probably every escort service in Vegas. Most of the pictures on the cards are obviously not the women you'll get if you call up or visit their websites (NSFW) for a good time companion. Hell, I recognize several from the pages of Playboy (NSFW) and similar publications. What's truly insane about the whole things is how many unique cards I ended up with, and how few were duplicates.

Too many Santas

So, I've been on a lot of pub crawls. But there is one with a very special place in my liver. And that is SantaCon.

I'd heard rumors about this phenomenon for some time after moving to Portland, but it wasn't until attending a reading by Chuck Palahniuk at Powell's downtown (which reminds me of another adventure I'll have to tell you) that I got some juicy details. He was promoting his latest book, Fugitives and Refugees, when he told a story of Windex and mobbing the Lloyd Center. It was a holiday tale about Santa and I wanted in.

It was a couple years later that I happened upon a blurb in the Willamette Week telling me about the upcoming event. Finally! I knew when and where to go to join in on this madness.

Sadly, it was a rouse, in classic Con style.

About 50 Santas showed up in Hillsboro, at the end of the Max line. No leadership, no plan. Just a bunch of milling about being watched by some nearby cops. After waiting around awkwardly for a while, someone took the initiative and lead us to a bar. And soon we were hopping from one dive to another. We were eventually notified, in a very discreet manner, that we had been SantaConned, and that the real event was next week, downtown.

I was dying for the authentic experience.

When I went, I didn't yet own a Santa suit. I had a Santa hat with beard attached, a t-shirt with a Christmas/Santa slogan, and little hope of blending in. But I brought the gift of liquor (shhhhhh! at least the bottle was wrapped like a present, it even had one of those stick on bows) and a ton of enthusiasm to participate and help out as much as possible. I started meeting and befriending the inner circle of troublemakers and mayhem stirrers who call themselves the Cacophony Society and started down a long road of new adventures.

This year I attended my fifth annual con.

Like that first year, SantaCon splintered into several events, run by different societies. And despite a host of options, multiple happening each Saturday of December, I was only interested in two.

The first was Anticon, the North Portland version of Santa that originally started as a way of escaping the "downtown mayhem" by following the Max Yellow Line down Insterstate. This was my first year attending the NoPo classic. As tradition states, we met at the Paul Bunyan statue. The small park was roughly divided between Santas and the rival bananas, but a good deal of  cookie, candy, and alcohol sharing fostered healthy camaraderie. After visiting our first bar, we headed over to Mayor Sam Adams house. There we were given a lovely speech about the unique fun that Portland can have without drinking in public (wink, wink). Which reminds me of the other time I met the mayor (a tale for another day). From there, we had a death march to our next location and had a lovely lunch at a Chinese restaurant while waiting out the rain.

We were then supposed to meet at another bar, but were tempted into The Office, a small dive that may one day grow up to become a strip club. Only had a couple other santas, so we took off for the official location. I spotted some friends and the next thing I know I'm in a tug-of-war using sheets tied together. Seems the line was meant to be divided between bananas and santas and I was on the wrong end. I flipped to the other side and we tugged until the sheets snapped and knocked the drunken revelers over like dominoes.

Santa then headed to The Tardis Room, which, unsurprisingly, is much larger on the inside, and we were divided into many different little parties. Eventually we moved on to the Dancing Bear Bare where santa let all the good little girls sit in his lap to talk about (deep, dark) desires. Let's just say the rest of the night is censored. Oh, except for dancing to a live band.

The following Saturday, Santa gathered again, this time downtown. We were running a little behind and missed the initial santa gathering spot. But we soon found everyone congregating at Dante's. Great venue, but only two bartenders verses a couple hundred santi resulted in me spending the majority of my time waiting in line for the one drink I had before leaving. Marching to a nearby park, we had a tug-of-war, this time with a right-proper rope. My side was winning, so the other santas tied their end of the rope to a lamp post. Not to be out done, we did the same on our side. Soon everybody/nobody was winning. I'm just glad we didn't destroy anything. I then helped by leading a contingent across the street to the Big Pink, but we were kicked out before even a dozen santas entered. We were only going to march through! No trouble, right guys? Still friends?

Kelly's Olympian was the next stop, but it's such a small joint that a group of us splintered off around the corner to the Rialto. Much bigger space, far fewer santas, and much less clothing. I, uncharacteristically, stayed pretty well dressed until we made it to our next destination: O'Bryant Square. I have partaken in many a rubber band and other battles here. But my most epic showdown was about to begin. A fight against the living mannequin at the men's underwear store across the street. I stripped to my santa boxers, flexed, and posed until a woman gave me a dollar. I win!

Visited a very crowded Mary's next (are Mary's and the Dancing Bare related or did the same person do both of their web sites?) but was soon tempted to visit the Glowing Greens for the best/worst round of miniature golf ever. This was a side mission where about ten or so santas load up in a van and leave the rest of the group behind. We did this again later for a karaoke stint at Chopsticks, a place where santa (not this santa) had gotten us into a bit of trouble a couple years ago. In between we hung out at Embers with the staff we know and love so well. But then my wife and I retired for the evening. Santa and Mrs. Claus had enough of the crowds and now just needed each other's company.

Thrills after dark

So, I'm not much of a dancer. Two left feet doesn't even begin to describe me. I have a pretty hard time doing anything with my legs beyond running and climbing. I'd say I was clumsy if I didn't have such excellent balance. I even find it difficult to switch my weight from one side to the other. Rhythm utterly escapes me.

Yet I am also a child of the 80's. MTV (you know, back when they actually played music) very effectively brainwashed me. And it was the anthems of Michael Jackson that most effectively planted a dance bug deep into my subconscious. We all wanted to moonwalk when I was a kid.

Thus, when someone said, "Hey, come do Thriller with me," there was no way I could turn it down.

Next thing I know I'm down at OMSI rehearsing. Our dance instructor took us through a lot of the original choreography from the video but with a slight twist to match our dance space, the cut of the song, and the whims of an artist. We did this for several weeks, culminating in a visit to our teacher's normal stomping grounds, the Diva Den. This may not come as a surprise to you, but most of the people participating were women, and normally the Diva Den is sans males, but this training was a special exception. That's right gentlemen, I have visited the forbidden inner sanctum!

Why were we doing this? All this bending of rules, practice, and hard, sweaty work? Well, the last Wednesday of every month is OMSI After Dark, an adults-only visit to the hands-on museum with a special theme. And just what was the theme we were preparing for? It was "I love the 80's" night. So we dressed in our John Hughes best and headed to the event.

And what is the 80's without music videos? Nothing!

So there was a dance floor where some of the greatest New Wave classics were played on the big screen. And without announcement we broke out into "spontaneous" dance when the Thriller video came on. Some people got excited and asked if they could join in. I said if they could keep up they were welcome to it.

In this video I'm that guy at the back of the dance group, in the upper right of the screen, with the hat, white shirt and vest. You know, the one flubbing all the dance moves and such.

And that's not even the end of the story. Because all of this took place last year. This year, someone said "Hey, come do Thriller with me." And the whole thing started again.

This time we had fewer practices and a longer, more complex routine (nearly twice as long and about a third less repetitive). Rather than the choreography of the Diva Den, we had the dance as told by Thrill the World. And the OMSI After Dark theme? The end of the world. So we dressed in our zombie best and had another Thrill.

Gathering in a back room to finish preparations and have a final run through, a couple of us got interviewed by the local news station. Our lovely instructor went first. She is an organizer for, and talked about the, Portland Zombie Walk, from which tonight's event grew. I volunteered to go next and talked a bit about other zombie activities in town. Our interviewer then said "This isn't your first zombie rodeo then?" To which I could only reply, "No, but those zombie bulls sure are hard to ride." We promptly ended the interview so the camera man could bust up laughing. There was also a group of zombified Disney Princesses. The Snow White was the only other interviewee before we had to make final plans.

We then did a quick zombie crawl around the museum to end up in front of a live band. We staggered around until they finished their song and we promptly collapsed to the floor. Everyone but Michael Jackson. Then a full six minute version of the song started and we danced as the crowd continued to gather round, film and photograph us. I kept up with the choreography much better this time and we pulled things off beautifully.

The aftermath of this event is that it continues to give me more confidence on the dance floor, as I have a better sense of how to make my body, even my legs, get jiggy with it.