Fear and Liz in Las Vegas
Once again I felt like ass. I had no idea if I have a fever
and — oh, that’s right — in eight hours
I had to board a plane to Vegas.
For those of you unaware of my checkered past involving Vegas
and more specifically the GAMA Trade Show, it includes spreading
PLAGUE. That’s right, not a cough or a cold, not the
flu, PLAGUE. Twenty-four people could all pinpoint the onset
of a cocktail of symptoms including fever, uncontrollable
coughing, and losing pieces of lung to within a day of shaking
my hand. And there I was having to go to this same show sick
before I boarded the plane. Hot damn . . . one more
heaping slice of pain that life has to offer. When in doubt,
slide down the rusty razor as quickly as possible. Stops along
the way just hurt more. I hit the plane and didn’t look
back.
Not Liz Fulda.
Day 1: What did the first night include?
Tommy’s Ali G impression, lying on the baggage claim
carousel waiting for Mike’s plane, a 6 a.m. (my time)
bedtime after scavenging for booth supplies at the local 24-hour
Wal-Mart. Oh yeah, baby, that’s really what a sick person’s
supposed to be doing.
The first day was highlighted by Mike’s comment of
“Wow, you look really good.” (Short, sharp intake
of breath on his part.) “Oh, shit. You are so sick you
look healthy. You’re way paler than this normally.”
Got to hang out with Marcus and Laurel King of the lovely
retail shop Titan Games. Evening hijinks in Vegas, you ask?
Tried to have a toast at 8 p.m. for the late, great Hunter
S. at a bar in Circus Circus. True to the bad karma that sits
on my shoulder like some perverted reverse gargoyle, I of
course chose to throw this fete at the only bar in Vegas that
closes at 7 p.m. The boyz got to go to a schwanky, VIP-only
party thrown by the consummate game geek/billionaire playboy
Peter Adkison. Me? I passed out about 9 p.m.
Day 2: Once more into the breach, dear friends.
’Course, well, I am rested now and at least had a good
fire to greet the day with. Got to meet the folks who organize
the War Room at Origins. Nice guyz if not for the “Who
are you married to?” comment upon entering the booth.
BWAHAHAHA. He obviously never heard about the greeting the
boyz gave my boyfriend last Gen Con: “Thanks for taking
one for the team.”
Meetings that run into food. Food that runs into drinks.
Drinks that run into dinner. Dinner. For those who have never
been to the buffet at the Paris Casino, GO! GO NOW! Sell your
blood if you have to for the money to get in. More food than
entire Vietnamese villages see in their entire lives. The
first time I went I had a raspberry tart, and now I saw again
and renewed our love affair. Once again I sob quietly into
my pillow for it every night.
My favorite hotel.
Bastards blew it up.
Day 3: The last day. THANK GOD. By now I
miss my cats, my bed, my house, my car, you name it. Thankfully,
someone told me a fantastic cure for head congestion and I
am not dreading the plane completely. However, I do have to
finish working the show by myself. All the boyz are leaving
before me. Who the hell made the schedule? Right, it was me.
Thankfully, I try to plan for disposable booths. Shipping
fees, union fees for packing stuff, you name it, Vegas will
rob you blind. What you can’t take with you on the plane,
you leave. Show ended at 4 p.m. By 4:04 the booth was taken
apart, all stock given away to loving homes, and the furniture
donated to a worthy cause. I raised my hands and shouted “TIME!”
like they do for hog-tying.
Now to the airport. There were two things against me at this
point, Pete and Bernard. Pete is the bad karma gargoyle on
my right shoulder. Pete had a friend named Bernard. A sick
little bullrider gargoyle astride my left shoulder, not about
to be thrown. Each of them had made sure that more large conventions
had finished at the exact same time.
The GAMA Trade Show, a NASCAR race, and a large construction
show all took place in Vegas at the same time and all ended
within an hour of each other. A 15-minute ride to the airport
took an hour and a half. The plane was late — THANK
GOD again — and I made it. At 2 a.m. I walked in the
door to a howling Dante kitty who was sure I had died and
wanted to make up for it by howling hello for at least an
hour. Be careful what you name your pets. It gives them something
to strive for.
3 a.m.: Bed and the knowledge that I survived.
Still sick, somehow I gave the finger to the process of natural
selection that dogs my every move. The fittest? No. The brightest?
No. The orneriest? Debatable.
Regardless — the last thought before sleep’s
sweet embrace — TAKE THAT, DARWIN.
Liz Fulda
April 2005
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