I Hate Vegas

Stupid, crazy fast: the Bonneville Speed Demon just hit the 401mph mark this past August.

If you visited a strip club in the Philippines the first week of this month, you may have thought it was a little empty and asked yourself “where are all the girls?”  I know the answer: Vegas.  See, this huge car show for every bigwig in the auto industry occurs the first week of every November in Las Vegas, and a Benetton ad of women (except NOT advertising clothing!) from around the world who are willing to wiggle and giggle for salespeople and engineers at all sorts of car companies are flown in to handle the demand.  You may have guessed the Adult Entertainment industry convention was “hands-on” the #1 Vegas convention, but nope, SEMA even tops that.  With over 100,000 attendees, SEMA rivals the annual consumer electronics show for the largest convention in Sin City.  But walk around the show and you may have thought you walked into a 69^th dimension that mated the two conventions (cars and porn) together because the booth models aren’t wearing much more than 2 lug nuts and a steering wheel cover.  Unfortunately for the common man who would shorten his stick shift to visit such a utopia, it’s not open to the public.  However, being the car vixen I am, I’ve attended every show for a handful of years.  If the tech side of cars appeals to you, check out my MotoIQ article about the show.  You’ll definitely get a kick out of the name of one of the knock off companies at the show on page 5 of the article.  But the SEMA nighttime dirt can only be found here.

There are a few industry parties you don’t miss and in good economic times in the past, the invites included these two words: Open Bar.  Now about 10-15 companies join forces to foot the bill for one party and special wristbands separate the “have-a-free-drink” from the “have-nots,” but there’s no better place to do business than a nightclub which bass so loud it penetrates your eardrums and a $20 drinks you can’t expense anymore.  This year, the Tuesday party to go to was the Spocom/Formula D, etc, etc, etc. party at the Bank club at Bellagio.  Nothing beats the invitation which promises “Live Go-Go Dancers” (um… as opposed to dead ones?) and no cover if you’re on the VIP list which is coincidentally, the ONLY way I roll =p.  Luckily, my fashionably late presence arrived after some young woman (loose term… very “loose” if you catch my drift) had absentmindedly misplaced her top while straddling a pole (um, her dance partner) on the dance floor and a horde of perverts moved in to help her find it, concentrating their search on an area of skin somewhere between her belly button and neck.  I whipped out my can of Whore ‘B Gone (trademarked and copywritten) but the swarm of skanks was too much for my travel sized bottle.  Luckily, my nose adjusted quickly to the fish smell and our MotoIQ staff threw back a few shots of tequila to make the whole scene a little more pleasant on the eyes as well.  These events are always insanely high on the male-female ratio and judging by the pamphlets illegal immigrants pass out on Vegas street corners for a T.S. experience, the ratio is probably even higher than you’d think.

Wednesday night was slightly more productive; translation: no trips to the nightclubs.  A few of us enjoyed the overpriced buffet at Rio with a group of Nissan enthusiasts which is a belly-filling trip titled something like “Around the World’s Food carts.”  After different varieties of meat on a stick, most of us preferred nursing our stomach aches back at the hotel. 

Thursday night was the next big party, the Falken/Pro-motion, etc., etc., etc. party at Prive at Planet Hollywood.  If there’s one thing that can be said for this club, the staff is on it.  I appreciate the attention to deal but I don’t know how many times they swept in to try to clean up our half-finished drinks from the table.  Dude, at $18 apiece, we’re licking every last drop out of the glass.  Clean the sticky stuff off the floor and then worry about our empty glass!  When the faint smell of Mary Jane wafted in, security swarmed in like CIA operatives and almost immediately, the club was back to smelling like scented glitter and sweat.  However, this is one of the few clubs where the walls are lined with seating and while the venue would have been more fitting if it had been Rain nightclub at The Palms, the Falken umbrella girls made an appearance.  Seriously, what does a job like that pay?

So anyways, SEMA 2009 came and went.  Until next year when I make my annual pilgrimage to Vegas…