This Is DEFCON 20 Part The First

[and the 303ers takeover of same]

 It is so beyond clichéd at this juncture that it’s almost as if I have Fresh Permission to say: where to begin?

To y’all’s doubtless chorus of “Begin at the Beginning”, I think I shall forego that (if it’s all the same to you) and start in The Middle. 

The Middle is where things are thickest; even the best-intentioned pies tend to go south there [or perhaps its north, in this instance?], and it can be salmonellarious if one’s coq au vin hasn’t been dutifully cooked through to The Middle. Tolkien named an entire Earth after it; though I’ve not read his books, the box-office take on the movie versions tell me that The Middle is a Very Important Thing, indeed.

“Cherry,” now, the second time, she makes it bold, even-keeled – the first time was probably more affected; but in my briny state it had drifted by me legitimately.

“Groovy.” My terrible go-to word; when other people say “Word.” Or type “kk” in a text. I’ve been cursed with this for more years than I can recall; or would confess even if I could.  “I’m still Sid Pink.  Like the color; but better.”

She conjures a dutiful if insincere laugh; shrugging just enough, with adequate teeth-baring and eye-ticking, for me to see the Matrix. Everything dissolves into vertical strands of rapid-fire characters; green against NTSC monitor black.  This is another curse of mine – a bigger curse, to be sure: seeing things for Exactly What They Are and tearing down even a Convenient Temporary Mystery that may indeed have been the result of simply not thinking about it; piloted not by the sex urge or the reptile brain – but the Liver – blindly seeking to choke itself out.

I shake off the Goddamn Truth and gesture at the barman; a stout and cheerless oaf trapped in his Vegas vest who pours and smiles as if it was I alone – and pointedly – who sentenced him to this swirl of Big Ugly and The American Way.  I then think that would be a brilliant name for some band I would never want to see; unless they were somehow biting hard on a Captain Beefheart take. Even then…meh. But I forgive him his pettiness and duke him appropriately for the $13 cocktail.

Before too many sips are down, Cherry, her bandmates, and their attendant clansmen have a world-weary itch that follows their bored glances across crowd and casino. Although scant words have passed between any of us – the Cinematic Moment is laid on me in full Oliver Stone-style [more on him in Part the Second] as a practiced monotone pours from Ms. Cherry, replete with heavy-lidded sparking:

 “So,” pouring honey on the trap. “You coming with us?” And the faintest eyebrow lift is The Last Mile; there’s nothing that feeds the gut-fires of an old Irish-blooded drunkard slash showboating vampire like an implied challenge from a succubus.

 “That an invitation, then?”

Her smirk meets mine amidst the wheeling bells, and in this instant we understand that what is to follow is familiar ground for all involved– the Yawning Series of Appearances [punctuated by a few scant moments of bronze-medal cackling] – and we, all of us, a cadre of Too-Aware Just-Beyonders, drift into a low-gear parade bound for parts [un]known.

But I should back up.  Really, it’s only fair to set the table – because this is DEFCON; one of three concurrent “hacker conventions” that have gripped the Geekset and Anarchist-Cookbook Crowd this long Sin City weekend; all themed around “information security”.  The NSA is here, and across the way, the CIA; given that, who the fuck knows who’s here on the ‘down-low’. 

Tomes on all manners of coding, encryption, cracking, crashing, and snooping adorn tables alongside spycams and tools of whatever-the-trade-might-be. There’s an established ‘Lock-Pick Village’ where festgoers are encouraged to breach ever-increasingly-difficult bolts, knobs and padlocks.  Challenges run wild – to break codes, to shunt security features, to create software; all within some countdown period moderated by countless groups, from big dick conglomerates to anonymous collectives who donate their proceeds to law firms that specialize in defending those experts who got busted.

Uncle Sid is not a good fit for the whiz-kid side of the madness; almost everything flies well above my freshly-blackened hairline – but in spirit, I feel surprisingly at home.  This is due, in part, to the relentless generosity and seemingly-genuine openness of the CON-men.  And it is Men.  I’m talkin’ wall-to-wall-dudeage; 

75% of the time the errant Woman appears on the arm of one of the dreamier blackshirts; the other quarter of them seem to be digging the ride: ‘What Happens When A Chick Walks Through DEFCON’. 

To be fair, there are some monstrously-talented women here; Banshee of the 303 is a stony and tireless professional who runs the events room for their Skytalks series of lectures as well as the parties which have drawn me here as the Master of Ceremonies  – and Mar [who is down with some unnamed malady] provided all of the artwork for the convention’s guide, signage, and giant floor murals laid seamlessly over the marble tiles at this end of the Rio.

The 303, a loose but devoted collective of {ahem} ‘hax0r3rs’ [thank you for playing ‘Geek Check’] had flown me out and put me up on the sleepy west end of Tropicana, in a townhouse shared with two Others unknown to me.  I meet the gangly, verbose and well-read Gomez straight away; he’s kilted, bespectacled & rheumatic – a complete sweetheart – maybe a decade my senior.  We shared a taxi to the convention, but instantly he’d peeled off, so I met my dear friend Bitfiend for a cocktail before finding Uncle Mammy, a compatriot from Way Back: the pirate radio days of KBFR [‘the Beefer’ as I often said on the illegally-hijacked airwaves beside my brilliant partner, Pop-Genius Arkady – on our wildly-popular “Afternoon Delight” show – this was prior to being shut down for good by Agent John Sprague of the FCC].

Mammy is an enormous man with a diabolically-crass sense of humor and a radio voice that shames even my own; he glad-hands me with an eye-roll about the schedule and soon enough we are off, winding cabtacularly toward a party thrown by the B-sides, another convention group – at The Artisan; a non-gaming hotel buried… somewhere, sporting Edward Gorey-esque décor: dark woods, velveteen furniture and countless gilded frames, all in a low-light, high creep-factor atmosphere.

I’ve never felt more at home in LVNV.

The next morning, I de-crust my eyes without rising from the Murphy bed in the living room; shivering off a late night but feeling surprisingly human – despite the discovery that I have no mobile service in the room and must pay for internet access through the hotel’s system; two of the most barbaric and unimaginable things of our time. 

Seated on the sofa is a large mammal; soft-featured, looming, bearded, and grinning.  This is The Albatr055 – my other housemate, with whom I have exchanged three sentences in Life; just standard greeting material the night prior.

 “Good morning,” he offers.

 “Hey.”

“These dudes at the B-sides party gave me a shit-ton of opium last night.” Conversationally, not merely like it’s another throwaway topic, but like we’ve been thick as thieves for years.  This manner of boldness is refreshing.  I run with it.

“Opium??” I want to be certain, here.  This has been, for me, an incredibly-difficult-to-encounter toxin over the last 20 years – and it shakes the brain a bit to hear of it at all, let alone a “shit-ton”; and handed out for free, no less.

 “Yeah, man,” his classic stoner grin is instantly warming somehow as he pulls a foil nugget from somewhere. “Check this out.”  He unwraps as he strides to sit on my bed, unveiling a gummy, gritty chocolate-colored lump twice the size of an almond, which he holds under my nostrils as provenance. 

It’s really opium.  And it’s…a Whole Lot.  Like – more than I’ve ever seen, ever; and I can’t imagine how many people, over how long, it would take to chew through it all.

“Wow,” is all I can manage.  He smiles even more-broadly.

“We’ve gotta smoke all of this before Sunday.”  Dire. Serious. Gleeful.

Clearly, the man is not only off his rocker, he’s left the porch and is wading through the swampland, nude and wild-eyed.  It’s best not to contest anything.

“It’s a Man’s Job, sir.” I nod the Blade Runnerism in return.

By the time I creak out of bed and bump around the apartment, sifting through the 52 pounds of clothing, shoes and jewelry that might have been overkill [note: packing for a getaway when shitcanned and pissed-off at 4AM prior to a 10AM flight is not recommended], and my standard 17 re-coiffings that Don’t Do Anything – it’s creeping up on show-time so I head down DEFCON way for the ‘Big Night’ of entertainment at the 303 camp.

Sometimes, things are too weird – even for Vegas.  Like showing up for the party and seeing the hunky rock-god Charles Edward and his group, Seraphim Shock, unloading gear onto the corner stage.  Charles has been a friend for 15 years, and the Sid Pink stage persona was actually created for a live game-show entitled “Think Pink!” that Seraphim wanted to have instead of an opening band.  The game-show was insanely popular but far too expensive for us to continue doing, so I had to start telling promoters “Sorry, can’t do it. Unless you can pay us $700,” which, not surprisingly, no one was up to; but then the queries changed to “Well – can that Sid Pink guy just come rile the crowd?”

And a Star was born.  Or a black hole.  Something.

In any event, I’ve hosted Seraphim shows for a dozen years; in Denver, in New Orleans, in Los Angeles, and now – without knowing in advance – apparently in Las Vegas as well.

Charles’ face beams as brightly as mine as we share incredulous head-shaking, a warm hand-shake, hearty embrace and sinister chuckle.

“Can you fuckin’ believe this, dude?” He asks, towering over me.

“I’m not sure which of us belongs here less,” I submit.  He laughs again, walking off to finish setting up for a sound-check.

“If anyone ever says we weren’t destined to be friends, motherfucker…” He trails for a second, still chuckling. “Fuckin’ Vegas.  Hacker convention.  You can’t write this shit.”

Which proves to be prescient in more ways than one – as doors grow closer, it’s discovered that the lights in the small conference room cannot be dimmed; at least not anytime soon: the hotel claims to be locked out of its own lighting system. Some claim conspiracy by other hacker groups – all of which have their own parties lighting up concurrently – knowing that a fully-lit hotel meeting space isn’t a very inviting soiree.  To me, it sounds pretty ambitious and unnecessary, not to mention out-of-character for everyone I’ve encountered thus far.

It scarcely matters, because by this point, mired in audio tech problems with the bizarre fiftysomething soundman who sports Top Three Best Helmet-Hair, a wild British Invasion accent and {shudder} gold jewelry – the inability to make the room dark has made Charles dark; all six-feet, six-inches, two hundred-fifty pounds of lean muscle of him.  And as long as I’ve known him and know he wouldn’t snap and beat me to death with my own leg – probably – he is a scary dude when he’s mad.  He’s big – big and strong and physical and moody and… yeah.

“We’re a fuckin’ Halloween band, dude,” he says through gritted teeth, pacing a short circle.  His ladyfriend, a European power-executive from VH1, is seated close and offers a few lighthearted words which don’t land.  I’ve known him ten years longer, and I know the correct approach: Bee-line to the bar.

“Double vodka, half-club, half-tonic and some limes, please.”

By the time the doors open an hour later, the light issue has yet to be solved, the sound issue has been rigged somewhat, and every 303er is positively blasted.  I take the stage half-in-the-bag, after ensuring Charles has found a Zen place and isn’t in danger of killing the whole town, Godzilla-style.

“So… uh – the lights are on,” my opener. I feign confusion. “What I wish – since the hotel has said that they are ‘locked out’ of the lighting system – is that, somewhere in this city, there was someone – like an expert – who knew how to breach computer systems, y’know?  Like – from outside.  I guess you might say a ‘hacker’.  If there was just someone like that, here….”

Good sports, and a genuine laugh wave rolls through, followed by a few earnest geeks who rush over to the control panel.

Alas, ‘tis to no avail, and Seraphim Shock lets loose their fog and articulated xenon beams to a space lit like a LaBelle’s showroom, but goddamn if they don’t Bring It just like always.  Big, mean, sexy, scary, loud and genuine.  Like them/their music or no – one can never deny that Charles pours everything into a show – no matter what.

 [to be continued]

Initial Editing by @akaJulene