Culture club

You see a lot of sameness at Comic Con. Everywhere you look, there are people dressed up in costume, engaging in one of Merriam Webster's most recent word additions: cosplay.

For four days every July, the San Diego Convention Center is lousy with Stormtroopers, Ghostbusters, Jokers, Batmans, Supermans, Laura Crofts, Sleeping Beautys, Spidermans, Harley Quinns, Wolverines, Harry Potters, every character from Game Of Thrones and more. They are collectively all part of what the press likes to smugly dub "The Nerd Culture."

The word "culture" has become the go to adjective to describe large groups of people who generally share the same interests, have the same collective experience or do the same thing, together or separately. Much in the same way "-gate" is added to even the most minuscule hint of scandal.

There's a service culture. A truth culture. Modern culture. Art culture. Social culture. Fashion culture. Hero culture. I'm even part of one—blog culture.

Ironically, there's no yogurt culture. See what I did there?

Anyway, this label seems unnecessary. In many instances, it seems the word "community" would work just fine. Besides, practitioners of nerd culture are really just pop culture lovers with more free time, fewer girlfriends and less employment than the rest of us who enjoy the occasional Iron Man film or Walking Dead Experience.

This is my tenth Comic Con, and I've spoken to a lot of the people who attend over the years. Here's where I net out (pardon the ad lingo): if "nerd culture" means feeling confident enough to enthusiastically express how much you love a certain art form, having the freedom not to care what anyone thinks, retaining the innocence to believe there is still heroism left in the world and people are capable of rising to their better selves, then I only have one thing to say.

I'm all for it.

The Con is on. Again.

I don't usually repost pieces on here. But it's the Comic Con time of year again, and I was going to write a post about going. Again. But then I reread this little gem and realized it said exactly what I wanted to say. Again. We don't have to re-invent the wheel each time out people. Let's just take tonight's post at face value, and enjoy the writing for what it is - an excuse not to think of something new to write. Wait? Did I say that out loud?

Don't say you haven't been warned. For four and a half days this week, my son and I will be living amongst 'em (well, actually we'll be living at the Hilton and walking amongst 'em, but no one's under oath here): the Stormtroopers, Wolverines, Lara Crofts, Jokers, Iron Men, Darth Vaders, Zombies, Batmen, Supermen and other assorted, costumed inhabitants of Comic Con.

As you can see here and here, this isn't the first time I've written about the Con. And it won't be the last.

Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not saying it's the only subject I'll post about for the next few days. But if you happen to notice my writing in the Thursday through Sunday posts have a nerdist, geekesque, maybe-I-ought-to-get-a-life, gee-he-sounds-REALLY-tired quality to them, then I've done my job and you'll know we're having a fine time.

For those who've never been - and really, like the Rolling Stones or Rick Perry trying to complete a sentence, it's something you need to see at least once in your life - please to enjoy this little taste of my next four days.

Welcome to my world.

Who's doing the talking here

I've always had a morbid fascination with ventriloquists. What other kind of fascination could you have with them?

Years ago, I was freelancing for the Fox Family Channel. One of the programs I had to write about was a special called the World Of Magic that was filmed at the Hollywood Palladium. I went to the show, and saw a lot of poofy sleeves, tired doves and startled looking rabbits.

But towards the end, there was a magician that had a grotesque looking mask on his face. He removed it, and underneath was another mask. And another one. And another one. He was pulling them off one after the other at an insane speed. He must've had fifty masks on.

I turned to the girl sitting next to me and said, "I'm going to go out on a limb and say he had a pretty screwed up childhood." She said, "If you think that's messed up, you ought to see the vents." By vents she meant ventriloquists. Come to find out she was Erica Larsen, daughter of the founder of the Magic Castle. We talked for a bit, and she told me about all the vents that performed at the Castle.

I was hooked. I decided then and there I was going to make a documentary showing the bizarre world of ventriloquists.

I met Erica at the Castle for lunch and told her the idea. She liked it a lot, and said she'd be happy to connect me with some vents. I also wound up going to the International Ventriloquist Convention in Las Vegas, where I shot a lot of video and interviewed many of the participants.

One of the things I remember most is the woman who'd only talk or answer question through her dummy.

It's a little surprising I could even look at a ventriloquist dummy after a prank my roommate Ned pulled on me years ago.

Ned owned a Jerry Mahoney dummy he knew creeped me out. He also knew I got up in the night to go to the kitchen. So he put the dummy on the kitchen counter right next to the frig. That night, about two in the morning, I went to the frig. I believe there's still a hole in the ceiling from when I saw the dummy sitting there.

And of course, I still get a chill thinking about the Twilight Zone episode pictured above, where a ventriloquist dummy is alive, eventually changing places with his owner - Cliff Robertson.

Anyway, add my documentary on ventriloquists to the list - along with accordion lessons, several screenplays, helicopter flying lessons and marathon training - of things I've started and never finished.

But the idea haunts me, and I imagine eventually I'll come back to it. After all the time and thought I've given it over the years, I'd be a dummy not to.

I'll have what he's having

Apparently there's saving face, then there's saving your face. That's what I learned last week from my dinner at Circo.

The occasion was my annual pilgrimage to the SEMA (Specialty Equipment Market Association) automotive convention with my friend Pete (which I've written about here). It'd be safe to say we probably look forward to our dinner at Circo as much if not more than the actual convention. That was especially true this year since my good friend Kathryn, who works for Kia and was also there for SEMA, made the excellent decision to join us for dinner.

We didn't know it at the time, but come to find out she couldn't have picked a more perfect year to do it.

For those who haven't been, Circo is an Italian restaurant located lakeside at the Bellagio. Our table had a spectacular view of the dancing waters in front of the hotel. It always reminds me of the end of Ocean's Eleven, where George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon and the rest of the gang are watching the fountains shoot 240 ft. into the air.

You know what else reminds me Ocean's Eleven? Every time I look in the mirror. If I had a dollar for every time I get mistaken for Clooney, I'd have - well, never mind.

The other thing we had a ringside view of were the two tables behind us.

Seated at them was a rather large Chinese contingent. That was the first thing we noticed. The second was the fact the drinks were flowing non-stop to their tables. Each person was standing behind their chair, not so much talking as screaming towards each other. The drunker they got, the more they'd bump into our chairs and the more they'd apologize for it.

At one point the decibel level and chair bumps got to be too much, so Pete turned around and let them know it. When he was done reminding them they weren't the only ones out to enjoy a nice meal that night, a gentleman in their party who was apparently working on his Foster Brooks impression staggered up to us and apologized profusely. He told us that the Chinese were a very loud culture. Loud and drinking (his words, not mine). He apologized again, we thanked him for his understanding and we raised our glasses and told him to enjoy his evening. Frankly it didn't seem like advice he needed.

Eventually the gentleman in their party pictured above had enough to drink. We could tell because he went face first into the table, and remained that way until the rest of his party had finished (apologizing) eating their meals and decided to leave.

Luckily he managed to save his face by not landing on any silverware (fork tines make such uneven piercings).

Just as two of his friends started to prop him up under each arm to drag him out, I quickly paid our bill and we started to walk out. My thinking was I wanted to get us out of there before he passed by our table. I was worried that just as he was being carried next to us, it would suddenly turn into the scene from Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life.

On our way out, the maitré d' apologized for the noise and the inconvenience. While he was genuinely sorry, apparently he wasn't sorry enough to make it right by taking something off the bill. I guess he figured if he did it for us, he'd have to do it for every table in the room that was being bothered by the group.

Which would've been all of them.

Afterwards the three of us agreed it had been a great night. Plus we got to do what a lot of people come to Vegas for.

Dinner. And a show.

Shut up and roll

It’s that time of year again. The weather’s getting cooler (not counting the record-setting 113 degree day last week). Kids are back in school. The holidays are just around the corner. And I’m counting the days until my annual trip to SEMA in Las Vegas.

SEMA is the Specialty Equipment Market Association convention held every November at the Vegas convention center. It’s over a million square feet of intricately tricked out cars, vintage hot rods, customized paint jobs, ear-shattering tuners, chrome wheels, smiling car show models and auto executives frantically networking and handing out resumes (I don’t know if you heard, it’s been a tough couple years for those boys). At SEMA, it’s all about automotive aftermarket products and equipment.

That’s not what it’s about for me. For me, it’s about Vegas.

I have a confession to make. I love that town, and not in the nice-place-to-visit or once-a-year-is-enough kind of way. I mean really love it. Beyond reason. I’ve said this in another post, but it bears repeating here: Vegas is the only place I know where everything you hear about it, good or bad, is true.

Even if you don’t gamble, there’s still a great time to be had. Cheap (relatively) hotel rooms, great spas, amazing restaurants, headline acts, first-class shows – many of them without tigers. You can have a great time without having to spend one hard-earned cent gambling.

Of course, why you’d want to do it that way is beyond me.

Every year I go to SEMA with my friend Pete who used to be my client on a car account I worked on. He's one of my best friends, and we always have a great time. Here’s the ritual: we go to the show, walk the floor, see what’s new, catch up with his friends in the industry.  We have dinner at Circo at the Bellagio. I call my wife. Then we go to the crap tables.

Or I should say I go to the crap tables.

The tables are where Pete and I part ways philosophically. Apparently he just doesn’t enjoy having watered-down drinks brought to him non-stop while risking large sums of money on a roll of the dice. And not just my roll of the dice, but everyone else that gets to be the shooter as well.

So while Pete does whatever he does while I’m playing (and I believe what he does is humor me), I have a great time rolling the bones. I don’t even know how to describe it. What’s that? Sick? Compulsive? Not really. Just fun.

I play for a while. I set a limit. I have a system.

My system is this: I play until I’m out of money. Then I go to the ATM and get more money. Then I play some more. Say what you will, but that damn ATM pays out every time.

Eventually I start feeling bad for ditching Pete while I’m playing craps, and I leave the table to find him. We’ll have a drink, talk about the day’s events, make plans for the next day at the show. I call my wife. He goes back to his room. And I go back to the tables for a couple more hours.

Oh yeah Pete, like you didn’t know.

When I’m not in Vegas, I love talking about it to anyone who’ll listen. Especially if they feel the same way I do. I had lunch today with my friend Laura. I've worked with her at two agencies, yet didn't realize until today what kindred spirits we actually are. She told me about a recent trip to Vegas with some friends of hers. She had me at, “God I love it there."

Sadly not everyone I've gone with has felt that way. I’ve been there - usually on a business trip - with people who absolutely hate the place. Oddly enough, every time one of those people is tapping their foot impatiently, constantly checking their watch and staring at me while I’m playing craps, I lose. Then when they leave, I start winning. There’s only one logical conclusion you can come to with this information.

The Vegas table gods know who likes them and who doesn’t.

One of the best accounts I ever worked on was The Reserve Hotel & Casino in Henderson, just outside Vegas. It was great for many reasons, especially the trips to present work to the client. We saw the casino being built, watched them install  the slots, and saw the tables brought in. We were there for the fireworks-filled grand opening. I played craps with all of my agency pals, who were just as excited as I was. And we all won.

Remember the part about the Vegas table gods?

As I read this post, I occurs to me that it might be easy to get the idea I have a gambling problem. I don’t. The truth is I enjoy it when I’m there, but do realize there is a real life, and real expenses, to come back to. I don’t go expecting to win. That way when I do, it’s a nice surprise. Don’t worry about me. My savings accounts are intact, the bills get paid, and the kid’s college accounts remain untouched.

The real truth of the matter is I wouldn’t go to Vegas as often as I want even if I could.

It wouldn’t leave me any time for the track.