Wednesday, Jan. 10, 2007 | 7:01 a.m.
It's like the world's worst Best Buy. Nothing's organized, there are too many salesmen, it's too loud, it's too crowded, it's too smelly and, above all, it's way too big.
And, of course, nothing's for sale, not in an individual-item, take-it-home kind of way. Would you like to place an order for 50,000 Taiwanese iPod speakers? Fine. Want to take one home? Tough.
By the way, the iPod is the great invisible presence at the Consumer Electronics Show. There are iPods everywhere, in displays, in protective cases, on stands, hooked into car stereos and plugged into a bazillion tinny looking speaker sets, and chairs with speakers and backpacks with speakers and lamps with speakers. But iPod's maker isn't there. Apple is in San Francisco, holding its Macworld Expo and introducing a combination iPod, phone, Web browser, e-mail device and camera.
It's smart of Apple, publicity-wise, because CES is so huge, it's hard to get noticed.
Sure, there are 140,000 attendees, but 2,700 exhibitors compete for their attention. And, as CES likes to brag, there are 1.66 million square feet of show space, equivalent to 35 football fields, if football fields had exhibitor booths, carpet, flashing lights and scantily clad women waving at people. Put in Vegas terms: It takes up all of the Las Vegas Hilton, all three halls of the Las Vegas Convention Center and a good chunk of the Sands Expo & Convention Center.
It's more endurance test than convention: 65 miles of carpet, if CES' public relations department is to be believed. What fool would try to see it all?
What fool, indeed. And I'd do the iron man version of CES, too - no escalators, no elevators, no trams. Shoe rubber only.
I started Monday afternoon, and in three hours I made it through the upstairs and downstairs South halls at the Convention Center. Mostly stereos and home theater rigs, with a few cameras and wireless routers thrown in. And, naturally, there were lots of exotic sports cars painted up like NASCAR hussies. They had to do with home audio, somehow, some way. And there was a woman wearing white leather chaps and, under them, bright red underwear. She wasn't even working at a booth.
Tuesday morning, I redoubled the assault, and found that the Hilton had started charging for parking ($25).
11:45 a.m.: I enter the North Hall.
Behind us I hear two attendees, buyers, I think, discussing their trip.
"I thought they'd set us up with champagne and girls and stuff," the first One complains.
"Nah," No. 2 says. "All it's brought me is grief. I lost my sunglasses."
"But it's a casino!" One says.
"That blackjack table - ugh," No. 2 grunts. "This was supposed to be a vacation."
Right. Onward.
The North Hall is dominated by car stereo bits, especially subwoofers the size, appearance and volume of a jet engine. It's the stuff the obnoxious teenager down the block can only dream about removing his eardrums with. They're installed in all manner of customized cars, lowered Cadillacs, BMWs, Porsches, and - my God! - they blinged out the TV Batmobile. They filled the truck so full of speakers that there'd be nowhere for Adam West and Burt Ward to stuff their spare bat tights.
Many of the cars seem to suffer from stereo overload, with their trunks entirely taken up by speaker systems and amps. Or television screens, which are apparently very useful inside your trunk. Some of the cars even have their steering wheels removed to make room for more speakers and screens. Possibly these are not drivable prototypes.
12:35: Lost. Already.
But I'm next to a stage. On it, Honda's bipedal robot, Asimo, climbs stairs to music that makes the "Rocky" theme song seem sedate.
He acknowledges the crowd with a creepy childlike voice. Then the Honda spokesman shows video about all the wonderful things an Asimo-like robot could someday do for humanity. This seems to mostly consist of bringing old ladies their glasses and using its children-of-the-corn voice to remind them to take their drugs. And it said "drugs," not "pills," or "medicine." Drugs. This seems like a future in which Asimos are keeping humanity captive and sedated. Fun.
I wander off shaken and nearly walk into a couple of booth babes lounging in some nonregulation miniskirt uniforms against a California Highway Patrol motorcycle. They dangle handcuffs at me suggestively. It's not the kind of CHP-involved fantasy I usually, or could possibly, entertain.
I'm not sure what it has to do with car stereos.
Incidentally, I've noticed that the competing bass manufacturers are trying to attract attention by bumping it up real loud. Walking down one aisle, the bass gets so loud our vision starts to blur with each baruuuuum. But since it's almost impossible to identify the source of low-frequency noise, I have no idea where it's coming from. Next time, try the tweeters, guys.
12:40: Found. Between the North and Central halls.
A massage booth advertises $15 lower back rubs, $20 neck, shoulder and back rubs, $20 foot and calf rubs and $35 "everything" rubs. I soldier on, manfully.
12:48: Trapped
In the Sony complex of booths. Huge, vibrant flat-screen high-definition televisions are blasting out PlayStation 3 battles and previews for the worst movies ever. For instance: Nicolas Cage is Johnny Blaze in "Ghost Rider," a tender tale of one man's quest for love and discovery while being a flaming skeleton on top of Satan's motorcycle.
Help.
12:59: Free!
Only to run into the Panasonic booth, where a taped speech informs us that for Panasonic, HD isn't just a resolution, it's a way of life. A passionate, interactive I've stopped listening.
1:35: Famine
I pass on the free boxed lunch a coupon given to us as "a valued member of the press." I do this out of high principle. Also because I missed it by five minutes. Just as well. Judging by the press room leftovers, it's a wrap of sprouts with a side of what looks like pickled asparagus.
I wander over to the "Central Plaza," which every other week of the year is just called "the parking lot." It's covered in roll-out fake turf and giant tents.
The Nokia tent is full of more Astroturf, some concrete lawn animals, a Ford Mustang and mobiles of the Wright Brothers' plane. Also some cell phones. "It's what computers have become," says the sign outside, where a guy in a giant purple-with-green-spots gumdrop costume is wandering up to and pretending to sneeze on showgoers in the name of selling herbal cold remedies.
Eventually, I end up buying a cheeseburger for $8.50 from a burger booth. I eat it while consulting show directories.
2:55: The post-lunch era
Prepared to charge forth to the international section in the Hilton, I hop off our concrete seat and oww
3:00: The post-post-lunch era.
Walking daintily on cramped feet, I hobble into the Hilton, which seems to be dominated by small booths from Taiwan, Hong Kong, China and Korea (presumably South). Some of the Taiwanese and Chinese booths are even side by side, peacefully, and there's not an American aircraft carrier in sight. There's hope here.
Some of the Taiwanese booths' signs have the imperative motto, "Taiwan: Distinguish the Difference." Of course, just down the way there's "Hong Kong: Distinguish the Difference" and even "USA: Distinguish the Difference." Hmm.
The lone booth from the Trade Commission of Denmark has several Danes in it, looking, yes, melancholy.
In a booth for the Chinese television manufacturer HKY ("Harmonious Key Classic"), all the TVs are showing the title screen for a DVD of "Casino Royale." In Russian. How come the Russians and the Chinese always get the good DVDs before we do?
The Chinese booths are also flagrantly flouting the no smoking rules.
3:40: Second thoughts
I'm starting to wonder if that cheeseburger was really made from the kind of quality ingredients I expect for $8.50. You know, like beef.
And I'm also noticing that some people seem to have tote bags that I don't, which doesn't seem possible, since I have eight stuffed inside my spiffy orange official press backpack.
4:00: Such a lovely place
I'm noticing that the most popular demo DVD and, heck, CD being played is the Eagles reunion tour, "Hell Freezes Over." Which means that you're never more than 50 yards from the Hotel California.
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.
Until your editor calls you and tells you to skip the chunk at the Venetian and drive back to the office.
I do. It takes an hour. When I get back, I find I can't put any weight on my left foot.
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