by Paul Carr
Beneath the flag, a big section of the lobby is taken up with a food court including Starbucks and a McDonald’s, each with a line of obese tourists waiting to pay inflated Vegas prices for food they could buy in any other city on earth. The rooms themselves are fine—decent even—but once you take away the fact that you’re in a pyramid in Vegas, there’s nothing in them that you wouldn’t find in a mid-range Holiday Inn.
Still, I hadn’t chosen the Luxor for its rooms, I’d chosen it because it was the venue for several of the CES after-hours parties, including the main Intel-sponsored one at the end of the first day which—according to the online chatter—was the must-attend party of the conference. I’d spent the whole of the first day, as planned, doing absolutely no work whatsoever. I’d watched a Monk marathon on TV in my room at the Luxor (only $95 a night, even with the conference going on—viva Las Vegas) before ordering room service for lunch and spending the rest of the afternoon drinking champagne while idly checking Twitter updates from actual attendees to see if there was anything I might possibly write about.
I’d made a few notes, but I still didn’t have anything approaching an angle for the column. Had I actually bothered to go to the conference, I would have discovered that there was actually no shortage of angles: CES was sharing a venue with the Adult Video Network conference—a convention for porn stars. You live and learn.
But, anyway, by the time I left the room it was almost 6 p.m. I’d just have to hope I found something useful to write about at the Intel party, assuming I could first figure out a plan to talk my way in. And what better place to come up with that plan—I decided—than over another glass of champagne, in one of the hotel’s bars. I put on my party shoes, which is to say my only shoes, and headed down in the forty-five-degree elevator to the lobby.
The party was due to start at 7:30 and by 7:15 I was almost out of ideas. I’d spent over an hour on my phone, emailing every contact I knew who might be able to help—people who I knew were in town, Intel PR people—but an entry wristband remained elusive.
If I didn’t get a reply soon then I’d have to chance it on the door, which, given how exclusive the party was supposed to be—people had been bitching online all day that they couldn’t get on the guest list—could very easily end in embarrassment.
There were at least 1000 journalists in town covering CES so my “I’m a journalist” card probably wouldn’t work either. Seven thirty came, then 7:45 … still no replies. It was hopeless.
“Hey!”
I looked up, expecting to see a waitress pestering me to buy another Egyptian-American-themed drink. But it wasn’t a waitress.
“Sarah! I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow.” I looked guiltily at my glass of champagne. I was still almost sober, by my standards at least. Thank God.
“I’m just on my way to dinner. What are you up to?”
“I’m trying—and failing—to find a way to crash the Intel party.”
“Are you kidding? The one that Counting Crows are playing at? Why would anyone want to see Counting Crows?” And then her face turned to pity.
“Oh, yes, I forgot about your girly taste in music.”
“Well, quite.” Actually, I had no idea Counting Crows were playing, but a column’s a column. “I’m pretty sure I’m not getting in though.”
“You can have my wristband if you like.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the neatly folded strip of paper. “I can’t imagine anything worse.”
I could have hugged her—but that would have wasted valuable seconds. It was almost eight o’clock and, assuming Counting Crows would be on stage around nine, I only had an hour left to work the room, getting the information I needed for my column and then escaping before I was punched in the ears by musical memories of my ex-girlfriend. There was no time to lose.
Fast-forward half an hour and my work was done. Sarah’s wristband had allowed me to go straight to the front of the queue and, with a single lap of the crowded club, I’d spoken to half a dozen of the attendees and had scribbled a list in my notebook under the heading “everything you need to know about CES 09.”
Mobile computing company Palm was launching a new phone, apparently, and Microsoft was talking about a new version of Windows. Various companies were launching new flat screen TVs. All very dull, but enough hard facts to wrap up in some color about Vegas and the Luxor and my having to escape from the venue before Counting Crows began playing.
And so that was that: in just half an hour my entire week’s research was done, leaving the whole of the next day free to write up the column before a catch-up dinner with Sarah and then a flight back to San Francisco the next morning. And, more importantly, I’d avoided having to see Counting Crows.
I was just drunk enough to be emotional and the last thing I needed was to have to actually watch Adam Duritz singing my ex-girlfriend’s favorite song.
I headed for the door.
And I almost made it.
But just as I was passing the stage, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Brian Solis, the PR guy who had organized the party I’d nearly ruined during my last trip to Vegas. The room had really started to fill up in anticipation of Counting Crows, so Brian was saving himself a spot right at the front of the stage; apparently he’s a huge fan.
Given my behavior at his party, I figured the least I could do was to buy him a drink to say sorry. He gladly accepted, we shared an apology-forgiveness hug and I ran to the bar. I reckoned I could still make it out before the show; or at worst I’d have to suffer through one song. By the time I’d made it back, forcing my way through the crowd with the drink held above my head, the club had filled to capacity.
And that’s when it happened—the exact moment I handed Brian his drink right at the very front of the room, the stage lit up and the whole crowd surged forward, pinning me to my spot. I was right at the front of the stage and I literally couldn’t move in any direction. “Sha la lalalalalala.”
Of course they opened with “Mr. Jones.”
But still, as Counting Crows worked their way through a set list consisting almost entirely of my ex’s favorite songs, each of them sung straight into my face by the man she’d have left me for in a heartbeat, I managed to force a smile.
This would certainly be color for the column, and not only had I managed to get through an entire day in Vegas without being thrown out of anywhere but I’d caught up with Sarah—sober enough not to offend her again—and had even had a chance to apologize to Brian. See! I could do it if I tried: have fun, get work done, spend much of the day drinking and still not alienate any of my friends.
You know what happened the next day.
Of course you do.
1204
The day started fine. I woke up around noon—a slight hangover, but nothing ridiculous—and wrote up the column as planned. I had to start early as the time difference meant that my 6 p.m. London deadline was in effect a 10 a.m. Las Vegas deadline.
Having finally filed around 3 p.m. local time—only five hours late—I spent the rest of the day soberly wandering around Vegas, hunting for porn stars, wasting money at the blackjack tables and generally enjoying the most ridiculous city on earth without getting drunk. I was due to meet Sarah for dinner at seven so fortunately I didn’t have a huge amount of time to kill.
At about 6:30 my phone rang. The caller ID said “Sarah Lacy.”
“Hey! Listen,” she said, without even waiting for me to say hello, “I’m really sorry to do this but I’ve been invited to this journalists’ dinner thing that I really should go to. The good news is it’s in your hotel—is there any chance we could meet for a quick drink afterwards instead of dinner? Champagne is on me.”
“Of course, no problem—I’ll just grab dinner somewhere and then find a bar to hang out until you’re finished. Call me when you’re done.”
“Perfect.”
And it was: the perfect plan. I went back to my room, had a shower, ordered another room-service burger
and then fired up Twitter to see where the conference parties were. Mainly because I wanted to avoid them.
Instead, I wanted to kill the few hours before meeting Sarah seeing some of the real Vegas; hanging out with some locals, maybe running into a porn star—that kind of thing. There was a bar downtown that I’d been meaning to try out—the Double Down Saloon—where they served a lethal cocktail called “Ass Juice,” and according to the chatter online was where some of the stars of the AVN conference were heading tonight.
Porn stars drinking Ass Juice: that’s the stuff amusing columns or blog posts are made of. I’d just head down there, have a couple of drinks and wait for Sarah to call.
1205
Noon.
It was checkout time at the Luxor, but my flight back to San Francisco left at 10 a.m. So why, then, was I just now waking up? What the hell had happened last night?
Ass Juice—that’s what had happened.
I remembered arriving at the bar—sure enough, it was full of porn stars and creepy hanger-on guys with mullets. I’d ordered a beer and an Ass Juice. I remember it being about ten o’clock and me talking to a girl called—Misty, maybe? Amber? Something porny, for sure—and telling her I was a writer.
There was some kind of party going on back at her hotel and I should come. I didn’t go to Amber’s hotel, but I definitely ordered more Ass Juice.
I think there had been a fight. A couple of the men with mullets had taken exception to a group of locals hitting on the porn stars. Chairs had been thrown—I definitely remember the chairs.
At some point between the chairs being thrown and order being restored, Sarah had called. I don’t remember the conversation; just looking at my phone and thinking “about damn time.” It was about midnight. And then—well—that’s about it.
I reached for my phone to call Sarah. But it wasn’t next to the bed, which is where I’d normally leave it. Nor was it in my pocket or anywhere else in the room. I must have left it at the bar, or wherever I’d gone to meet Sarah afterwards. I looked up her number on my laptop, picked up the hotel phone, and dialed. Straight to voicemail.
Shit.
Had I actually met up with her last night? Had I acted like a drunken dick? I genuinely couldn’t remember. Wait—was she staying at the Luxor too? That would make sense—lots of people from the conference were. I dialed reception.
“Hello, I wonder if you can tell me—do you have a guest called Sarah Lacy staying with you?”
A clicking of keys.
“We did have a Sarah Lacy here, yes, but Miss Lacy checked out this morning.”
Shit, shit, shit.
I threw everything into my bag and headed down to the lobby, and then hailed a cab to the airport where, hopefully, I’d at least be able to catch a later flight. I was still drunk—which was a slight blessing; I suspected everything was going to be much more difficult on an Ass Juice hangover.
Arriving, sweating now and smelling of booze, at the American Airlines desk I was told that they didn’t have another flight out of Vegas until late that evening. There was no way I could sit in departures for hours; not with this hangover, not without showering.
I looked up at the departures board—there was a Virgin America flight leaving in an hour. I walked up to the booking desk.
“Yes, sir, we do have room on that flight—just one seat, actually—it’ll be $350.”
“Jesus. Just for one way?”
“Yes, sir, would you like the ticket?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
The booking agent printed out my ticket but, before handing it over, scribbled the letters “SSS” in the corner.
“Oh, come on,” I said to no one in particular.
SSS stands for “special security screening” and are three letters you really don’t want to see on your plane ticket when you’re hung-over, tired and have less than an hour to get on your flight. The fact that I had arrived at the airport looking and smelling like a hobo and was now booking a one-way flight using a foreign credit card, and with no checked bags meant that, in addition to the usual x-ray and metal detector fun, I’d also have to have a full body pat-down and have every single item in my suitcase swabbed for explosive residue. All of which, by the way, would take place in a special zone next to the main security area, in full view of the other passengers.
For the hour and a half flight home, I’d be the terrorist suspect on the plane. And that was before I got back to San Francisco and found out from Sarah what behavior I’d actually been guilty of.
1206
I made it all the way back to the Vertigo before Sarah finally answered her phone.
“Well, hello,” she said in a way that telegraphed “trouble.”
“Um … so I have no idea what happened last night.”
“No, I thought you might not. Do you remember meeting me in the Luxor bar?”
“Uh—no.”
“Jesus. Well, I’m just heading out to meet someone now, but if you want to meet me later for a non-alcoholic drink, I’ll remind you of all the excruciating details.”
She gave me the address of where she’d be.
“So you’re still talking to me—that’s a good sign, right?”
“I’ll see you later.”
Click.
I walked into Homestead and Sarah was sitting at a table; in front of her were a beer and an orange juice. She slid the orange juice over to me.
“Good God, you were a mess yesterday,” she started before I’d even sat down.
“Do you really not remember anything? I’m amazed you’re not dead.”
“Not really,” I mumbled, before taking a sip from my orange juice. I felt about two feet tall.
“Well, first of all, you stumbled into the hotel bar, tried to hug me hello, but missed and sort of fell into a sofa, nearly taking the whole table with you. Then you insisted on ordering champagne and trying to tell me about your night with porn stars or something. You were basically incoherent at this point.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, the barman was ready to call security and have you thrown out, but then you started arguing with him—telling him you were a journalist.”
“And then what?”
“And then I left and went to bed.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” she sighed and took a sip of her beer. “Look, you’re my friend and I care about you. But I still don’t understand why you need to get so drunk all the time. Robert’s worried too: he said you seem to think that people expect you to be drunk all the time, and that’s when you turn into, what was it he says? Drunk Paul. I don’t like Drunk Paul. Robert doesn’t like Drunk Paul—none of your friends do.”
“But …” I started to protest. I wanted to point out all the adventures that alcohol had brought me—all of the fun and the girls and the column for the Guardian and everything else. But this wasn’t the time.
She was right; my drinking had got out of hand recently and my friends—including Robert—were clearly finding it less amusing than they once had.
“Yeah,” I said, “I know—you’re right. I really don’t want to lose your friendship over this kind of crap.”
“You won’t,” she said—“but, well, it’s like a woolen sweater with loose threads. Every time you behave like a drunken asshole, one of the threads of our friendship gets pulled away. It’s fine at first, but pretty soon there’s no sweater left.”
I knew that my friendship with Robert was made of sterner stuff, but it was true with him too, and with Anna and with all of my friends—my behavior was starting to pull apart my friendships one thread at a time.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
And I meant it.
1207
January 20, 2009.
As I watched the hundreds of police officers lining President-elect Barack Obama’s route down Pennsylvania Avenue I couldn’t help but make a joke.
“The police escorting the mo
torcade are showing amazing discipline,” I said to the girl next to me at the bar.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“I mean I can only imagine the level of self-control it must have taken for American cops to see a black guy in such an expensive car and resist their natural urge to pull him over.”
“That’s inappropriate,” said the girl.
The inauguration of any president is an event that brings America to a standstill, but the inauguration of the country’s first black commander-in-chief was something truly special to witness, especially in San Francisco.
Outside Chicago—Barack Obama’s hometown—there wasn’t a place in the country where the change was felt more keenly. The city is the heart of liberal America—a place that had been in a constant state of anger for the past eight years during which George W. Bush had been in office and the rights the people in this city held so dear—gay marriage, abortion, peace in our time—were slowly chipped away by a neoconservative oil monkey from Texas.
For the people of San Francisco this was not a day for jokes, which is a shame, because the inauguration was ripe for parody, starting with the motorcade but continuing through the president’s inaugural speech—a homily so feel-good I half expected it to end, Oprah-style, with Obama giving each of the assembled crowd a puppy. “You’re getting a puppy, you’re getting a puppy …”
And then there was poet Elizabeth Alexander who read an excruciating verse—“Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum…A woman and her son wait for the bus…A farmer considers the changing sky”—which sounded less like a piece of spoken art and more like someone reading out Twitter.