So, here I am, on my own in the Giz office. The door has just closed behind the last one (Benny the Intern, struggling under the weight of Our Dear Leader's cases—a different outfit every day, I believe, and 17 brand-new batteries for his MacBook Pro) and it's just me here. Everyone's gone to Vegas for something called, I believe, CSI.
Er, no, that's not right. E-Z Sex, is it? Or something like that. CES. Right. Yep. I knew that all along. We shed tears at the farewell ceremony. I fired a party popper and played my kazoo. Blam made a stirring speech all about fighting them in the booths, fighting them in the corridors, fighting them in the virtual theaters of war. The troops all had lumps in their throat—especially Wilson, who's been grappling with a nasty cold this week—and I could only stand and and marvel at their certain sacrifice all in the name of
freedom and liberty consumer electronics.
Reader, it is a sacrifice. Barely have these young men recovered from Slut Machine's New Year's Eve Party, their reward for the earlier horrors of chatting up Great Aunt Ethel on Christmas afternoon in the Old Kuntz home, than it is time for them to brave the horrors of Homeland Security, remove their shoes, belts and electronic devices (trust me, Muscles, you don't want to be on the wrong end of a "You want me to put my iPhone in that tray? Seriously??" look from Blam) and get on a Vegas-bound plane that is Wi-Fi un-abled. I mean, you don't expect them all to have actual spoken conversations with each other, do you?
Having just fought my way through the new-gadget desert of December, I can understand why the powers that be want to hold CES in January. The beginning of the year is all about hope, it's a shiny and new time for everything—except people's livers and wallets. But do they have to go and hold it in Vegas? Sheesh, those guys have got a lot to learn about mankind. At least they should give everyone a couple of months to recover from cocktail and credit excess before dangling expensive, sexy bits of metal, plastic and silicon in front of their eyes.
Wilson, between sneezes and swigs of Robitussin, described CES as a "masochistic feat of machismo." I, sadly, will not be able to verify that, as I have been instructed to stay in the office, rather like Miss Moneypenny. Guarding the door, keeping everything ticking along, a little bit of co-ordinating here, some dusting there, checking out Jason's nekkid lay-dee collection that's on that secret hard drive he thinks I don't know about, reading Matt Buchanan's dear diary, that sort of stuff, waiting for the special red CES-emergency telephone to ring and Blam to tell me breathlessly that he put his foot through the paper-thin Pioneer 118-incher, and does Giz have insurance?
Then the doorbell will ring, and I'll open it, and standing there will be a stacked young man from the Geek Squad, wearing funny overalls with no shirt underneath. And suddenly all my clothes will fall off and excruciatingly cheap-sounding R 'n' B will start playing before the bloke says "Ja, Ja, Das Is Fantastiche, Grossen, Filthen Schlutten" and drops his pants.
Anyway enough about my fantasies—and the Adult Entertainment Expo. Salute the bravery of these guys. The crazy-assed figure of 250 posts a day was being bandied about our chatroom the other day. That is five times our daily post rate. Over 10 an hour. One every six minutes or so. And let's not forget the surprises, like one-on-ones with the innovators, the exceedingly rich and geeky, and of course all those booth babes.
Readers, they're doing it all for you—and without an in-suite hot-tub between them. I'm not going because I've got an unbreakable engagement in London, but I wish I could be there to do more than the dusting. Next year, I guess. Viva Las Vegas!