Exeunt. (Pt. VI)
Tomorrow comes on fast, hot and unwelcome. I'm nursing a massive psychic and sensory hangover when the alarm clock suddenly kicks in, reminding me immediately of where I've been and what I've got mapped for the next twenty-four hours. The song being burped out of the speakers is from an old preset station; the Bangles jamming to the soda sounds of "Manic Monday". It fits the bleary moment like a bit of a jigsaw puzzle; a disposable sentiment for a disposable day. You know you're in bad shape when the first thought to go flossing through your mind is a hunk of comparative, abstract philosophy: e3's level of relevance in this venal, abomination nation is every bit on par with that of the eighties. Both vomit up a bright, candy-painted cover story for something far more grim. Whether that's the synergy between Reaganomics and the decline of the American character backed by the strains of A-Ha, or the capitalist depravity of the gaming industry lurching along under a flimsy disguise of good times, big tits and bright lights... it's all the same sell.
I wobble around and force myself through the motions. Dig deep. Showtime. Gargle with a shot of Stoli and take three Tylenol, then have some toast. Brush those teeth with a finger and a frothy stripe of Crest, then follow it up with a slice of orange. It hits your taste buds like a chemistry project, but it gets you pissed. You spit and become alert, cuss breathlessly and set your jaw for another day with your head stuck in the oven.
The fact that I'm also still processing the general weirdness from the final tally of yesterday's events is also a bad sign; it's too early to be lagging like this. But I can't fight through it, just yet. Sitting there with a fork in my hand and a bowl of oatmeal on my lap, dry eyeballs fixed on the spread of the Los Angeles Times on the tabletop, rewinding this and replaying that. Picking through the rubble for something to go on: the 'interview', the engine demo, the booth, the magnum-caliber client meeting that wasn't. Realizing that it's nothing but a paper chain of bullshit, smoke and mirrors doesn't do much for one's constitution when you're grasping for motivation to do it all over again. Not like that's an unexpected development; anybody who's been to the poison well of the show more than three years in a row either affects the personality of some inside-knowledge fucking blowhard or a wary, weary cynic. I fall into the latter category. But I also profoundly believe that even the most calloused in our ranks of disillusioned brotherhood, some small, vulnerable hope springs eternal. Echoes:
this is a big year
there's that one game
i'm here to make a difference
i can share my views
i am somebody
e3 is important
It sputters and threatens to go out, but we're never really rid of it.
However, there was one moment that tasted real. The ironic part is that it didn't happen at the show. It didn't happen anywhere within spitting, pissing or fallout distance of the convention center. It came on out of nowhere; just a brief conversation between strangers. No scripts, no intentions. Just a fleeting taste of empathy amidst the bowels of exhaustion.
Dave and I were in need of air conditioning and red meat once we'd finished up our rounds at the show. The fucking place had transformed a well-meaning Canadian and a relatively harmless geek into vampires; irritable in the sunlight, lurking around in the shadows, ready to sink our teeth into any poor fucker's throat who crossed our paths. The only prescription for a downward bender like this was fifty cc's of a most vaunted and respected American institution: gluttony in the raw. We needed an oasis built on principles of excess, of steaks and beer and the kind of desserts that required a phalanx of waiters toting a four-poster platter.
I knew just the place. |
