I should probably start out my con notes by observing that Vegascon was a very, very drunk place.
"Salute to Supernatural" is not a single convention; it's a series of bookings strung across North America. I don't know what the demographics are elsewhere, but the people who showed up to the one in Las Vegas were generally the ones old enough to have fun in the rest of Las Vegas. Almost all of them were over 21, and probably half of them were over 25. Not only were they old enough to buy their own overpriced froot-flavored rum drinks, most of them were old enough to know what would happen when they slammed one, and at what point they should maybe quit doing that. There was lots of cheerful uninhibited yelling, but a pleasant lack of people retching in the bushes off the patio.
Given the general tone on tumblr, I think I expected a lot more shrieky teenagers. Not that the teenagers are bad. My first trip to Vegas for an event was with Mog and our third roommate at the time, for a Tokio Hotel concert. Someone sent Moggie a copy of Durch den Monsun and by the time she figured out whether the singer was a 12-year-old boy or a 20-something woman (the first one), she'd decided she liked them. We happened to catch them just as they released their first English album, and were still playing respectable-but-small venues like the House of Blues, with affordable tickets. The three of us adopted a couple of 14-year-olds and made sure they didn't get squashed on the dance floor, while the parents that were with them gratefully fucked off to the bar.
The alcohol content at Salute to SPN was helped by the fact that our con was held in the Rio. If you've never been to Las Vegas, you've never experienced the spatiotemporal magic that is a hotel-casino. These things are designed with one goal in mind, and that goal is to keep you from ever leaving the building. You might spend some of your money somewhere else if you do that, and that's just not on. The hotel is connected to the casino, which flows into the bar/food court area, which is attached to the day spa and shopping arcade, which opens onto the pool grotto, which continues into the convention center, which stops just short of ending in a wormhole that deposits you back at the concierge desk whenever you try to exit into the parking lot. Some of them on the south end of the Strip have actually banded together to prevent you from ever remembering that there is a street out front that you could potentially take out of town -- you can walk from the MGM Grand through New York New York and into a couple of the other ones without ever technically going outside.
You don't have to intentionally go out and get drunk in a Vegas casino. Just pick a random direction and walk for about two minutes, and you'll discover that at the same respectable intervals where most architects of public spaces would have put a water fountain, the casino owner has installed a bar. And since everything is in one gargantuan building, you can buy your 32 oz plastic flute of alcoholic tropical smoothie right by the front door of the casino and wander all the way back to the convention rooms with it, and no one will stop you. Many people did. They don't care. They don't even care if you walk off with one of the actual glasses from one of the swankier bars, as long as you've paid for your drink first.
As a consequence, Vegascon was probably a wee bit more off-color than some of the other ones, where you might have to put forth some minimal effort to turn up completely hammered. I gather that the karaoke party is a regular thing, but I have this suspicion that when they say 'come in your best lounge lizard gear', only the Vegas people comply quite so enthusiastically.
I will also note that, drunk or sober, Richard Speight, Jr, is exactly the sort of man who should be flown to Las Vegas and given an open microphone as often as possible. Or any microphone, really. One of his retorts ran a wee bit long, so the sound guy shut off the mic Speight was holding. And then the second one he grabbed. And the third one. The band thought it was hilarious.
"Salute to Supernatural" is not a single convention; it's a series of bookings strung across North America. I don't know what the demographics are elsewhere, but the people who showed up to the one in Las Vegas were generally the ones old enough to have fun in the rest of Las Vegas. Almost all of them were over 21, and probably half of them were over 25. Not only were they old enough to buy their own overpriced froot-flavored rum drinks, most of them were old enough to know what would happen when they slammed one, and at what point they should maybe quit doing that. There was lots of cheerful uninhibited yelling, but a pleasant lack of people retching in the bushes off the patio.
Given the general tone on tumblr, I think I expected a lot more shrieky teenagers. Not that the teenagers are bad. My first trip to Vegas for an event was with Mog and our third roommate at the time, for a Tokio Hotel concert. Someone sent Moggie a copy of Durch den Monsun and by the time she figured out whether the singer was a 12-year-old boy or a 20-something woman (the first one), she'd decided she liked them. We happened to catch them just as they released their first English album, and were still playing respectable-but-small venues like the House of Blues, with affordable tickets. The three of us adopted a couple of 14-year-olds and made sure they didn't get squashed on the dance floor, while the parents that were with them gratefully fucked off to the bar.
The alcohol content at Salute to SPN was helped by the fact that our con was held in the Rio. If you've never been to Las Vegas, you've never experienced the spatiotemporal magic that is a hotel-casino. These things are designed with one goal in mind, and that goal is to keep you from ever leaving the building. You might spend some of your money somewhere else if you do that, and that's just not on. The hotel is connected to the casino, which flows into the bar/food court area, which is attached to the day spa and shopping arcade, which opens onto the pool grotto, which continues into the convention center, which stops just short of ending in a wormhole that deposits you back at the concierge desk whenever you try to exit into the parking lot. Some of them on the south end of the Strip have actually banded together to prevent you from ever remembering that there is a street out front that you could potentially take out of town -- you can walk from the MGM Grand through New York New York and into a couple of the other ones without ever technically going outside.
You don't have to intentionally go out and get drunk in a Vegas casino. Just pick a random direction and walk for about two minutes, and you'll discover that at the same respectable intervals where most architects of public spaces would have put a water fountain, the casino owner has installed a bar. And since everything is in one gargantuan building, you can buy your 32 oz plastic flute of alcoholic tropical smoothie right by the front door of the casino and wander all the way back to the convention rooms with it, and no one will stop you. Many people did. They don't care. They don't even care if you walk off with one of the actual glasses from one of the swankier bars, as long as you've paid for your drink first.
As a consequence, Vegascon was probably a wee bit more off-color than some of the other ones, where you might have to put forth some minimal effort to turn up completely hammered. I gather that the karaoke party is a regular thing, but I have this suspicion that when they say 'come in your best lounge lizard gear', only the Vegas people comply quite so enthusiastically.
I will also note that, drunk or sober, Richard Speight, Jr, is exactly the sort of man who should be flown to Las Vegas and given an open microphone as often as possible. Or any microphone, really. One of his retorts ran a wee bit long, so the sound guy shut off the mic Speight was holding. And then the second one he grabbed. And the third one. The band thought it was hilarious.
If Mark Pellegrino was there, did he do AC/DC's Big Balls for the karaoke? It's... quite an experience! :)
ReplyDeletePellegrino was there; I caught his panel, but I didn't stay for much of the karaoke party, as I was slightly dead of jet-lag (jet-lead?). Mog did. She got pulled on stage with several other girls, and miraculously did not expire of blushing. Kim Rhodes was there, and singing, and Osric Chau made good on his threat to do Celine Dion, which I could hear quite well even from where I was sitting out in the hallway.
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