Not too much to report.

Lots of the same: Dudes, drinkin’ and gamblin’.

The show was good for the most part. Sort of muted and lackluster as far as attendance goes. The whole beast used to be so much bigger. Sure, you see the same ‘ol bunch of Willie Lomans running around, pitching this, pitching that. Sure, you see a bunch of happy “Yes Men” shaking hands and raising eyebrows. Industry fucks. Makes it all fun.

I like seeing all the new graphics. New catalogs, images, gimmicks.

1. Ride was strong, as always.
2. Burton had some top dollar stuff worth getting a digi shot or two of.
3. J2 has a rad Doze Green graphic on Liquid snowboards or something.
4. Nitro was tough and mean and on course.
5. Capita had fun retro skiing images.
6. The Grenade fucks seem to be coming along fine. Good for them.
7. Transworld Snowboarding is stale as ever. SNOWBOARDER has a big opportunity in front of them, a chance to take their deflated competitors by storm. Good… full steam ahead.

Poker in the rear: This year our game of choice was “War.” Yeah, the ‘ol high-card-wins game. Easy-n-sleazy. At one point I was up a good hundred or so, and had a giant hand rolling with 85 bucks down. I was locked in a “war” with the dealer, which means we both had the same cards facing each other. Now, you can back down and call it a draw, or double up and go for it. I flicked another 80 bucks down and Rose threw in a five dollar chip. 170 big ones down…with a chance to win another 170. A 340 dollar hand. Retirement money. Then my big moment came. The dealer laid the card down… a “3 of hearts.” Fuck. The rest of the cards were dealt, to less-than-flattering results and then the dealer laid her card down… a “4 of clubs.” Fuck! Beat me by one. Real bad.

They got me that time.

The next morning, after a couple hours of shut-eye, the lure of the tables got me in another pickle. Over to the “war” table I went. I laid down 15 bucks…and won. Keep going. Then I bet the 30…and won again. Good and hot. Then I bet the 60 and won yet again! 120 big ones! Walk away. Damn straight. Retaliation.

You go to Vegas thinking you’ll make money. That’s a good plan. There’s a sick optimism to all of it, where every mark and his stepbrother thinks, “Hey, maybe I’m the one who’ll take them for a good chunk.” Not gonna happen.

Rose was in good form. Giant piece of shit. Bridges wore sunglasses inside the show. Nemo design was on the prowl. Goo and I were too. Guba smelled of Marlboros.

Many thanks to Chief for the fruitful accommodations. A big brother of mine.