Subject: TAN:  Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
From: jsn@concentric.net (John S. Novak, III)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.sf.written.robert-jordan
Organization: Cynics Central


Prologue:  Phoenix

Unlike many (most?) who attended the National Social, my vacation was
actually more than a week long and involved more than just Vegas.  In
particular, it also involved a half a week in Phoenix, visitting old
college friends, many of whom by some strange twist ended up working
for Motorola in Phoenix.

And so, on the Friday _before_ the Social, I told everyone at work to
very gently and expertly fuck themselves, because they would have to
learn to live without me for almost two weeks.  Thus it was, that I
began the first leg of my Southwestern Tour, and hopped a plane to
Phoenix.

I am pleased to report that, contrary to the experience of damn near
everyone else, I had a perfectly acceptable flight, as flights go.  No
crying babies, no malodourous freaks, no one disturbing me in any way
during my Nth re-read of _Goedel, Escher, Bach_.  Granted, not as good
a flight as the time I ended up sandwiched between two nice looking
young women who appreciated my warped sense of humour... but I
digress.

I went to Phoenix.  I saw old friends.  It was good.

I also went south from Phoenix on Sunday to Tucson, for a Tucson
Social-like Thingie.  In attendance were myself, Amy/Cassandra, John
and Annette Dilick (who were evidently in Phoenix for the purpose of
visitting friends of their own), the elusive Cynthia Barlowe (of
Survey 4.0 fame) and of course Andrea Leistra, who organized the whole
thing.

It was a simple enough affair-- we met at a local Indian buffet early
in the afternoon, then proceeded to visit three used bookstores along
a strip of about a half a mile or so.  Tucson is an odd place-- it is,
quite frankly, not much of a city.  It's always struck me as the
Peoria to Phoenix's Chicago.  Phoenix obviously ain't as great as
Chicago, and Tucson not so vile as Peoria, but you get the idea...

Be that as it may, for some reason, Tucson is just a helluva place to
put your hands on books you've been looking for, for a long time.  I
don't think I've _ever_ been to Tucson (I've visitted some three
times, now) without finding at least one book I've been looking for.
This time was no exception, and I was not alone.

By the third bookstore, however, the non-locals (especially myself and
Dilick) were showing signs of extreme dehydration.  Desert heat may be
a dry heat, but literal dehydration is the price of comfort during
blistering heat.  Therefore, at my suggestion, we repaired across the
street of the last bookstore into the comfort of a coffeeshop, where I
personally sucked down three italian sodas.  

Several more hours were passed in pleasant conversation, and excellent
ideas for incredibly sarcastic web sites.  Rephormparty.com comes to
mind...  ("It's Jesse Ventura and Ross Perot in a pit match to the
death for leadership of the Rephorm Party!")

Eventually, we broke up and went our separate ways.

Thanks especially to Andrea for organizing the thing.  Andrea, you
_really_ should have told your grad department to go fuck themselves,
and hitched up to Vegas with us.  

---

The Real Story:  Vegas

On Wednesday, Dilick and I coordinated by telephone, then he and 
Annette popped by my hotel in Phoenix, we dropped off my rental car,
and we all drove up to Vegas together.  This, I think, was one of the
brighter decisions I made concerning the whole weekend.  It saved me
several hundred bucks.  I never missed the fact that I had no car in
Vegas.  Annette, I suspect, was happy because she could doze in the
back of the car, as John and I were happily bantering back and forth
about topics diverse and many.  And while Dilick was driving, I got to
look at the scenery along the way.  And there is some _nice_ scenery
along that route.

Wednesday evening, we landed in Vegas, and noted that there was a
message waiting for me, from Bill and Hawk.  We dropped off bags in
our respective rooms, and then went to find people.

And here, my memories start to get a little hazy.  Much was done, much
hilarity abounded, and it all started over a week ago.

However, by my dim recolllection, we found Bill, and Hawk, and Chris
Mullins.  I'm sure there were a few people there, and for some reason
I'm thinking they were Kenn and Jim Hill.  Maybe they showed up later,
presumeably I'm forgetting someone.  Whatever.  The Dilicks and I
being quite hungry, we herded all present into the nearest location
wherein we could get food fast.  This happened to be a rather
mediocre, but passable, buffet.

We ate.  We talked.  We joked. 
Life was good.

I think we eventually went to the Strip that evening, and I believe
that's where I annoyed Bill by making something like a 500% profit on
two quarters at two spins of a slot machine, after watching Bill throw
several hundred dollars away at Blackjack.  We then proceeded to watch
Dilick play nickel slots well.

Thursday was when things really began to happen.
As became something of a pattern, Hawk started making random telephone
calls throughout the hotel, waking everyone up except me.  Having
remained on DC time for the whole trip, and being a man of iron who
apparently needs a whole lot less sleep than Drew, I was already up
when Hawk called.

"You are _so_ goddam lucky I was already awake!" I growled cheerfully
into the phone, just to let whoever was on the other end know what
would happen if they erred on the side of earliness the next time. 

I went down to Hawk's room, and set another pattern-- not waiting for
more than fifteen seconds in the presence of someone I don't know for
an introduction.  Failures to properly introduce or be introduced were
generally met with a stern, "Who are you?" question.  It's always
amazed me that people are often too timid to just outright ask that
question, preferring instead to wait on the pleasure of someone else's
introductions.  Fuck that.

Some people were there already, more trickled in.  I'm not even
going to try to remember particulars.  Eventually, we were off for
the Strip.  And therein was another theme of the trip-- the total
inability of large groups of rasfwrj members to self-organize in
any coherent or swift fashion.  Ultimately, this was solved by
fragmenting, and agreeing on a time and place to meet.

I went off with a bunch of people (Drew, the Dilicks, Jim Hill, Eric
and Noelle were definitely there, probably a few others.)  Having
figured out Vegas' culinary style at the Buffet the previous night, I
ordered what I figured would be the most pungent item on the menu--
blue cheese burger-- on the assumption that I might have _some_
flavor.  It was relatively lame, but judging from commentary down the
table, I chose wisely.  At least it had some flavor to it.

In partial payment for his organizational efforts, Drew was Not
Allowed To Pay For Lunch.  We wandered around for a bit and amused
ourselves in nickel and dime pursuits.  We determined that Annette
Dilick sits at nickel slot machines and slaps those buttons like she's
waiting for food pellets-- but that, against all odds, she actually
_gets_ the goddam pellets.  John Dilick was pretty lucky, as well, and
I believe he paid for his and Annette's reception dinners out of the
proceeds of that day.

I slipped a buck in one machine and walked away three dollars richer.

We all heartily thank Jim Hill for his contributions o the Vegas
economy.

And it was there, during my first extended examination of the casinos,
the slot machines, and the general odor^W ambience of Vegas, that I
started to appreciate that sometimes, subtlety comes in the form of an
all-out assault on your senses, perceptions, and willpower.
Everything-- EVERYTHING-- in a Vegas casino is carefully designed with
one aim in mind:  Taking.  Your.  Money.  They do this, generally, by
making sure your senses are overwhelmed by loud noises, flashing
lights, and obnoxious cigar smoke.  If you're gambling, they'll give
you anything you want to drink, the more alcoholic the better.  

The very floor plans and construction are designed to keep you there.
Moving walkways and trams heard you in, and from casino to casino.
But once you're there, it's dark and the floorplans are like mazes.  I
have a pretty damn good sense of direction, and I've zen-navigated all
the way across the country, but it often took me several minutes of
walking around with my left hand on a wall to find my way out of some
of those places.  Even the damn slot machines-- anything that can
speed up the rate of your money to their pockets is good.  The most
egregious examples were the video slots.  Video slots spin faster than
mechanical ones, so you're ahead right there.  You can cram nine pay
lines on one of those things, now, since you can curve the paylines up
and down.  Bang, now you're blowing nine coins at a shot.  And you can
bet five coins per payline.  Bang, forty-five coins a shot.  And you
can put in a hundred dollar bill and just slap the button (a
mechanical arm takes too long) two hundred times in well under five
minutes, if you're determined.

And believe me, if you are anywhere near a casino in Vegas, and you
_aren't_ gambling, you're paying for that privilege.  Before
everything else is fucking expensive.  Punitively so.

Goddamn.
I love Vegas.

Eventually, we grew bored and headed back to the Hotel, so Drew could
settle some final details.  I think I wandered around the Nugget's
casino for a while, and probably threw a few spare pieces of metal
into their slot machines as well.  I seem to remember a dinner in the
Cafe consisting of some amazingly unhealthy but tasty onion soup,
slathered in three kinds of cheese.  Eventually, we wandered up to the
reception area.  

And thereupon noticed that, to the bemusement of all, for several
reasons, the announcement board actually listed, right out in the
open:

National Dark Friend Sosial [sic]

It just seemed odd to have it printed right out in front.  And it was
just wrong to have it misspeeld for such a gathering of witty, erudite
and literate people.  By that point, I know Tshen, Trent, CD, Dave
Hemming, had showed up, and probably more.  The reception area was a
fairly small banquet room, with a cash bar staffed by hotel personnel
who had quite obviously drawn the short end of the stick in terms of
duty.

More and more people showed up over the course of the reception, and
all were greeted appropriately.  I know that's the night Chad, and
Lara(*), and Kate, and Brian Ritchie and Dennis Higbee and Pam showed up.
I think that's when the Loys showed up.  Some lurkers and others
unfamiliar to me showed up as well.  Katy was there that night, as I
recall.  And again, I'm sure I'm leaving people out.  (Nate was there,
too, toward the end.  And Leigh?)

*	Lara was, of course, greeted with the opening bars of, "Blame
	Canada!"  I don't think she would have wanted it any other way.

It was discovered, at that point, that John Dilick, Jim Hill and I are
all bad influences on each other.  Actually, I had already known this,
having met them both before, but this is when it really started to
become obvious, and just got more and more obvious as the weekend went
on.   Amazingly bad jokes were made.  Barney posters were desecrated.
harpy-like members of the staff threw many disapproving glances at us
as we debauched our way through the evening, but I for my part simply
grinned rakishly and laughed at the harpy.  I trust others did their
part as well.

Anyone who left the reception party without a smile on their face and
kidneys aching from laughter was obviously trying very, very hard
_not_ to have a good time.

After this (after we were thrown out, basically, because Our Time Was
Up) Pam expressed an urgent esire for coffee.  So she and Hawk
and I made our way through the masses milling in the lobby, tapped a
few discreet shoulders, and set off.

Then, we turned around and discovered, by God, that pretty much the
entire contingent was following us.  This somewhat bemused Hawk and
myself, as it was far from our intent to lead anyone anywhere, except
a few peopl to coffee.  Certainly, we wanted no especial part of
trying to find seating for forty.  I believe I expressed these
thoughts subtly to the group by turning around and shouting, "Go home!
We didn't invite you!  We have no plans!  Go away!" just to let people
know what they were getting in to.

And then... we arrived at the very same Binion's restuarant mentioned
in Drew's summary.  And had similarly shitty service.  Hawk and I
waved negligently at the 40-odd (very odd) people behind us and asked
for seating.  We were told we could be seated in groups of eight, and
since most of the people I wanted to see were already there, we
acquiesced.

And were promptly led to an area where they could easily have fit the
other 30 of us, but didn't.  C'est la vie.  I gather that eventually
some other people got seated, and a bunchof other people came to their
senses and availed themselves of their personal desires in Vegas.  And
this was good, because if we insisted that all 40 of us all do the
same thing at all times, someone would have cracked and killed someone
eventually.

A little later, as we were waiting very impatiently for our orders to
be taken (I had already threatened loudly to write the orders down
myself and take them to the cook, and Jim Hill and CD were writing
'COFFEE!' on placemats in three languages and waving them broadly in
the air in a desperate attempt to capture the interest of our
seemingly illiterate busboy) Dave Hemming wandered up and demanded, in
his laid-back Birmingham accent, to know "Why have you brought us
here!"

"We," we replied, "are here for coffee.  We're not sure why you're
here."  A short discussion ensued as to whether the restaurant served
coffee.  It, in fact, did.  Thankfully.  Eventually, orders were
taken, and a pitcher of water delivered.  No glasses.  So I grabbed
one from a neighboring table.  Even more eventually, our orders were
delivered.  We munched, sipped, talked and laughed. 

I believe it was Me, Hawk, Pam, Brian, Tshen, Jim and CD at that
point.  That's only seven, so I'm probably forgetting some poor
unlucky bastard.  Again.

After the abysmla service of Binion's, we headed out to take a walk.
Not knowing anything about Downtown Vegas, we walked as far as the
corrections facility, beyond which we could go no further.  We turned
around, and eventually most if not all of us turned in.

Sic transit Thursday.

Friday was basically much more of the same.

There was a breakfasty sort of lunch, or a lunchy sort of breakfast, s
I recall.  That was to be a staple-- pretty much the only decent place
to eat at the Hotel, in my opinion, was the cafe.  Their lunches and
dinners were average, but their soupls (the previously mentioned onion
soup and the oriental noodle soup I had later) were very good... and
their breakfasts excellent.  

The cafe was to become one of our standard Bases of Operations-- when
in doubt, check the Cafe to see if you know anyone there.  If nothing
else, you can annoy the Keno Birds.   (Peep)  (Poop)

There was hanging out at the pool, as well.  No, to the best of my
knowledge, that was not the day of the infamous blue swim trunks.  I
just sorta hung out, watched people come and go, chatted, and
generally relaxed under one of their pavilions.  The pool was our
other base of operations.  Daytime-- pool area.  After hours-- Cafe.

I seem to remember annoying the Cafe staff after that by hopping the
rail into the dining area to chat with more people, instead of heading
in through proper channels.  But again, I threw the matron a charming
grin that said clearly, "It's okay.  I'm Novak.  I'm allowed."  She
bought it.  I chatted.  It was good.

And eventually, I headed up to the area designated for the reception
dinner.  It was the same room-- by this point, I think they knew that
for their own reputations, we would need to be put in the room
farthest away from anyone else.  This time, the hall was decked out
with several tables, each of which sat about eight or nine.

At my table were myself (duh), Pam, Annette and John Dillick, Jim
Hill, Dave Hemming, and probably at least two people I'm forgetting
goddammit.  Once again, it was discovered that John, Jim and myself
are not ingredients for a conversation about anything reverent
whatsoever.  Many very warped comments came out of that dinner
conversation.  I managed to stop Jim Hill completely in his tracks
with my off the cuff observation on Vegas:  "In the last 36 hours,
I've seen more gimps, cripples, and generally dysfunctional human
beings than ni my entire life."(**)  This spoke to Jim so much, that
he was physically unable to record the commentary in his geeky palm
pilot for several minutes.  We of course mocked him during this
sentimental moment.

**  Given that my grandfather had the incredible brains to get
gangrene TWICE, once costing him two toes, once costing him the other
foot, and that I visitted him in the hacksaw ward, that's actually
fairly impressive.

Best comment that I recall was Hemming's rejoinder to Jim's British
bit about "Cigars, brandy and buggery."  "Oh, I see you went to my
school..."  Delivery and accent are everything.

Dinner itself was tasty, followed up by an excellent desert. 

Global laughter ensued when Drew showed up looking basically like he
worked for the hotel restaurant staff.  I only heard later the
comments that drove him off screaming to change into something more
acceptable.  

After dinner, Drew got up and thanked everyone who had helped him
organize the Social, which I still think is backwards.  For one, I
didn't _do_ anything except grouse when I thought I saw something I
didn't like.  For two, we all know damn well Drew did more than anyone
else, and deserves pretty much all praise he got, and more.

Then, in an amazing display of bravado, he began playing the guitar
for us.  Rather well, even though we were all calling for thmes from
the South Park Movie, and other esoterica.  We threw money at him.

Eventually, a fair sized group of us wandered out in the hallway,
where it was a bit quieter, and we could steal Chris Mullins' phone to
make a really lengthy long distance phone call to Baltimore, to talk
with Judy Ghirardelli, the Missing Piglet.  We learned, at this time,
that your average, run of the mill softball league is filled with
jackasses who could better serve humanity by ceasing to breathe,
decaying on the spot, and fertilizing rice paddies in North Korea.

Jesus Christ.

Suffice to say, Judy is alive, if not particularly well at this
precise instant.

We tried to reach Steeves, too, but the pissante was off somewhere.

I have no idea if we ever compensated Chris for the use of his phone.
If not, we owe him several good meals, for the length of that call.

And during that dinner, pretty much everyone who hadn't been there by
then, showed up.  

I don't even remember what happened after the dinner.  I know a group
of us tried to abscond with Drew, but he was making so much noise that
I was afraid he was going to call 'rape' so we set him down.  I assume
at that point we either went out to get dinner, or just generally hung
around. 

Memory blurs.

Oh.  Wait.  I remember now.

I think that was the night a number of us went off in search of
general tackiness.  It was certainly a night during which we saw the,
er, Fremont Street Expeience, as it were.  

Jee.  Zuss.  Qrist.

About two fuckin' million little light bulbs and a really annoying
sound system under a canopy that stretched the length of three or four
city blocks.  And the two fckin' million little light bulbs are
programmed to, well, display.  Stuff.  Weird stuff.  Tacky stuff.  If
I were the type that did drugs, my life would not be complete until I
dropped a blotter of acid and stretched out under Fremont.

It was simply the distilled essence of everything flashy and
electronic in Vegas.  The Jungian archetype of glitz.  On behalf of my
profession, I apologize.

From there, we just wandered.  Right through the Neon Museum ("Look!
Crack whores!") and into the trashy district.  It was there that we
picked up Drew's Jesus pin, Trent's elephant and other various and
sundry.  The highlight of the excursion was finding the condoms.
Custom fitted.  Personalized.  "For Grandma".

That just about wrapped the needle around the peg for tackiness.  
In deference to you software weenies, the overflow bit was set.

Sic transit Friday.

Saturday was a familiar pattern-- there was a lunchlike breakfast.
I believe it was Saturday when Jim pulled out the line that absolutely
slew me and probably all the rest of the [ex] Catholics at the table.
Context be damned, the line was something like, "Yeah, just you and your
wife, with Jesus sitting at the foot of the bed yelling, 'Git yer butt
up a little higher, son!'"  If you are or were Catholic, and you
realize that the subject is the Church's position on sex and
procreation, you WILL find this screamingly funny or excruciatingly
offensive.  Otherwise, you're probably just puzzled.

I found it so funny that I don't think I regained the power of speech
for a good five minutes, and I think I may actually have hurt myself
laughing.

There was hanging out at the pool.  It was Saturday that saw me
actually try my hand at blackjack.  The five dollar table took my
fifty in just a few minutes, so I got bitter and left.  I later found
Dilick, Hill, et all at a two dollar table and proceeded to win it all
back.

(Yeah, Dilick, I owe you twenty bucks, too.  If I see Flavio, I'll
just pay him for you.)

There was more hanging out at the pool.  I believe Saturday was
the day I finally cracked and bought the swimsuit.  (***) And
contrary to people's opinions, the blue was neither electric,
nor particularly bright.  I guess it may have been bright in the
desert sun, but I have dark blue jeans that are brighter than that.
And it was certainly less objectionable than the green or the red
that I could have bought.

And yes, there was a "hot hot hot" embroidered on it.  This was over a
small sun-insigniae and was clearly meant to refer to the weather.  

***	I think.  Maybe I'm on drugs.  It's all a haze.  All the events
detailed happened.  Time sense was fucked while I was in Vegas.  I was
decompressing, and running on not much sleep.

I swam.  For the first time in a long time.  It was good, even though
the pool was tragically shallow for any sort of real wimming activity.
Happily, my health club has a more than adequate pool for real
swimming. 

I will also take this momnt to point out that, in general, the
rasfwrjettes look rather fetching in swimsuits.

Eventually, headed for the Cheesecake Factory, on Drew's
recommendation, in an attempt to get most of us together one last
time.  (Jim and Dilick and one or two others still had their asses
stuck to the blackjack chairs at the Horseshoe.)  Drew, it was a nice
idea in the sense that it would have been nice, had it a snowball's
chance in Hell of succeeding.  As it was, the CF is one of those
snobbish places that thinks it is too good to either take reservations
or provide accurate timing information for seating.

Given that I had not eaten since breakfast, at that point, I was in
precisely zero mood to wait.  I did not wait.  I announced my
intentions to get something to eat, tapped people who were near me,
and we went.  

Now, the Cheesecake Factory is in Caesar's Palace, in the forum.
There is also a Chinese place (ridiculously priced) and an Italian
place, and lots of other little shops and stores.  All these things
are inside the casino, under a large vaulted ceiling that was painted
and lighted to look like it was outside.  Which is weird.  We ate at
the Italian place.  Al fresco.  Inside a casino.  Which is also weird. 
What is odder still is that the Forum's lighting goes through something
like a half hour cycle which simulates by its lighting a morning,
afternoon, evening, and night.

Anywhere else in Vegas, you sit outside, you have no sense of time at
all because it's ALWAYS bright.  Inside the Forum, they're simulating
a day-night cycle.  My ironometer just gave out, at that point.  More
tragically, since I had been running on very little sleep and was off
by three time zones (I never shifted off DC time) that lighting cycle
was _seriously_ fucking with my head.  I almost collapsed in my very
tasty and promptly served pasta at least once.

After a nice Italian dinner, we went back and mocked the people who
were till waiting at the Cheesecake Factory, and then went our
separate ways again.

Sic Transit Saturday.

By Sunday, the group was finally beginning to swindle perceptibly,
both in numbers and in energy.  There was the by now standard
breakfasty lunch, and then Pam and Jim dropped stuff off in my room
because they had checked out.  CD tagged along and we had a nice
conversation that generally blew off steam about our relative
professions and academic experiences, just hanging out in my hotel
room.

Each of Pam, Jim and myself offered up our best bonehead stories,
while CD just mainly wondered why we took such pride in professions
that forces us near hese people.  I offered up the story of the 150
amp arc welder (alternate purpose) and the girl who really deserved to
get a negative grade on an assignment.  Pam offered up the incompetent
experimental physicist with the glass, and the world's dumbest
cheater.  Jim offered up the unluckiest cheater in the world, and a
whole host of shit that just should not be done in or near a nuclear
facility.

And it was determined that if you ever seen both Jim and I worked on
the same thing, and we're both very quiet and not cracking any jokes
at all... it's probably too late for you to start running, because if
we slip, the explosion is going to be very large.

Pam left, then, and the rest of us headed down to the pool area and
hung out.  Contrary to Drew's impression, I was not sleeping.  I was
lounging.  Unless someone actually heard me audibly snoring, I don't
think I fell asleep.  I was lounging.  I was thinking.  I was
evaluating my place in life.  

But I don't think I was sleeping.

Then, we went to the miserable King Arthur thing.

One word of advice:  Don't waste your time or your money.  Tshen and I
made good attempts to amuse ourselves, but really, there wasn't much
to be done.  Not even my stentorian "TWO KINGS ENTER!  ONE KING
LEAVES!" was enough.

We went back to the hotel, and those of us who are made of iron hung
out in the cafe again.

Sic transit Sunday.

Monday was nothing special-- for me, just a lunch-like breakfast and a
shuttle to the airport, followed by a boring flight home.

---

Epilogue:  Washington, DC.

And so, arriving in Washington early in the morning on Tuesday, I
proceeded to sack out immediately.  Being Wise, I had scheduled
Tuesday as my last day of vacation, so I could recover from the
experience and the flight.

Before I left work, I had written up a very detailed status memo, and
sent it out to everyone concerned, management and test staff alike.
It outlined very clearly where we were, and what I reasonably expected
to be accomplished in my absence.  I had very carefully set up a chain
of dominos to be knocked over.

As people who listened to rumbling realize, I _knew_ flat out that no
matter how simple I made things, these things would be fucked up in my
absence.  Nor was I wrong. 

Oh.
My. 
God.

Were things ever fucked up.

When I left, I had two piece of equipment sold off to our duly
notarized QA representatives, and we should easily have been able to
get two more in my absence.  I could have gotten two more in three
days.

When I came back, not only did we not have four, but we did not even
have the two I left behind.  Somehow, we really _had_ managed to take
two giant steps backward in my absence.  Somehow, they had convinced
QA to give two boards back to us.

<Sigh...>

On Thursday, under my supervision, we sold another three in one damn
day.  I should ask for a raise. 

---

Summary:

It was a metric fuckload of fun.
Probably the best vacation of my adult life.

We _must_ do this again.

Indianapolis, end of next year, definitely.
Louisiana, early next summer or late spring, hopefully.
Leigh, make it so.

--
John S. Novak, III		jsn@concentric.net
The Humblest Man on the Net