Conventions

I have a convention in early October.  Where is it?  Orlando, San Diego, San Antonio?  No, it’s in the same town where I live.  How much fun is this going to be?

I could write a book on convention stories.  Maybe I should.  Today, I share The Rickshaw Incident.

The last night of a convention is usually the night when people let their hair down and party.  The meetings are over and the only thing they have to do in the morning is make it to the airport.  I tended to treat every night like this, but that’s another story.

The convention was in Phoenix, AZ.  The convention ended with a cocktail party, and someone talking me into abandoning beer for Crown Royal.  My dad always said, “Dance with the lady who brought you.”  But he wasn’t there.

As the party ended, a bunch of people decided to go to a bar.  We had a sober driver and piled into a van.  I was in the back seat with a hot blonde I didn’t know.  That didn’t stop me from falling asleep and resting my head on her 34-D’s.

Someone woke me when we arrived, and I followed the group into the bar.  Everyone headed to the outdoor beer garden but I decided to roam the halls in a drunken stupor until I found the VIP room. 

You would have thought I had interrupted a Paris Hilton party the way I was tossed out of the room.  At that point, I decided I should probably head back to the hotel and call it a night.

I walked out of the bar, ignoring several people shouting my name.  I passed a line of cabs and plopped my ass in the back of a bicycle rickshaw.  The guy pedaled away and I told him I was staying at a hotel right up the road.  

What I failed to realize is that we had driven over 30 minutes to get to the bar.  I failed to realize this because I was asleep during the drive, and most likely dreaming of a tall glass of milk.

Anyway, we passed hotel after hotel and every time I told Lance Armstrong that wasn’t where I was staying. 

Exhausted, he started pedaling the other way.  At one point, we passed through the same intersection where the journey began.  Only this time, we were heading in the opposite direction and someone from my group managed to spot me.  He later told me that I looked like a bobble head doll sitting in the back of the rickshaw as it rode away.

After another 20 minutes of hauling my drunken ass around, Jose finally decided to drop me off at the next hotel.  Luckily, they had a yellow pages and a popcorn machine.  I called a cab and enjoyed a complimentary bag of corn while I waited.

With the help of an understanding cab driver and a tired bicycle rickshaw operator, I finally made it back to my hotel. 

The next morning, I overheard a fellow convention attendee, who happens to have the same name as me, complaining to someone that he didn’t get any sleep.  People kept calling his room to see if he had made it home okay.  I never stay under my own name to avoid the paparazzi.

I also make sure I set the alarm clock in the room for 4:30 AM before I check-out.  Some douche bag did this to me years ago, and I’m just paying it forward.

Benny