These are the roots of rhythm and the roots of rhythm remain.
This ecclectic combination of the corners of the human race befuddle and confuse, but I guess that's their goal. Well, maybe not. Their goal likely is something like deals or contacts, not some dropout sporting a 2.4. My attorney once advised me the only way to couter-attack this nonsense was to shave and wear shoes, there-by vaulting us to status known as "passing". "In a world filled with solid F's", he would say "we only have to be a C minus". Wise words from a prophet bereaved of pants long ago.
It's 7 goddamned thirty in the morning, central time, so you know that we've had about enough of the talk. Strong coffee and sweets will kickstart this day, and possibly some violence. Some ragged thoughts to bounce around the old noggin, some twisted memories peeking through the time curtain. We will walk towards the convention center, oh yes, we will. The hippie place, the meeting frenzy of sharks and wanderers. The deal Machine, kicking into full grip, its pistons lubing up and expending on the sweat of volunteers and the Cleaning Crew. The huddled masses, they belong here. They catch NWA flights (staight outta locash!) from all corners, twist and churn their way through the Hyatt lobby and end up here, in my fucking way.
It's hard to handicap the convention center. There are, in a matter of speaking, all types. At this hour, there are too many to count. Their numbers mean little; it's their faces I focus on. The red blazers and make-up.... and a gigantic sign that reads "Lifetouch - Celebrating 75 Years!" drawn in ragged strokes the color of blood. It gives me pause. What the fuck is Lifetouch anyway? I get to the safety of work, and I look it up. Photography. Well, right. Of course. A version of Glamour Shots, but with no glamour, and stocked full of white women who walk too fast and talk too loud. What the christ? The booths are full, and guys who used to roadie for the Pointer Sisters are setting up the grand display. It's goddamned mayhem, and the stock market hasn't even opened yet. Let's fast forward.
I walk through the abandoned caverns, with only a few scumbags floating by me. It's 5:15, and it's quiet and still all around, except not. There is a reverberation, a sickening murmur from the heart of this mausoleum. Just what the fuck is going on? There isn't a soul to be seen, but it sounds like a thousand police officers beating a drunkard outside Stand Up Frank's. Whistles and noise, bouncing and bumping, I can't keep up with it. It grows louder as I approach the main auditorium. Rounding the corner, it hits me like the smoke from the Lounge on a rainy night: a violent display of noise and vibration not unlike a tornado. Twisting and turning in the widening gyre and so forth, I see and hear what I have been missing. Over a thousand 12 year old girls, decked in knee pads and jerseys that profess their sponsers' virtues. Parents, 14 deep behind benches, cheering not-too-loudly, and checking cell phones. The demon has descended upon Murderapolis, and this time, he's dressed as a volleyball tournament.
It's too much to handle when you've got a bag full of half-price sushi. Let's move on.
"Creative Memories"? Now, who in fuck thought this up? There are all manner of booths and giveaways, large women and larger men cavorting around the stalls looking for the elusive oat bag, all clutching plastic bags adorned with Medtronic's logo and stuffed with free bandaids and some sort of lotion. What the fuck is this all about? I see things that don't make any sense. A booth constructed to look like a New York newsstand. A clothing store, with racks and everything. A booth for health insurance. And then, in the middle of this drug-infused trauma, a gigantic goddamned red phone, looming like a sunset through the clouds of square people. Wait a minute. I take another look at those around me. Uh oh. That one's wearing a helmet of sorts. There's a booth giving away "photo business cards". Many, MANY people are confused. This isn't the kind of show you pay money to get into. Nope, they get here by bus. I have to get out of here, even if it means running through the "Office Supplies" tent to the nearest exit.
Finally, christ bless it, on a Friday, I find some matter of interest. As the escalator drops me into the maelstrom, I see women and men of all shapes, colors and ages walking around, and some of them are wearing hospital scrubs. They are dressed well, and don't appear to have been herded recently. As I round the corner, I see a sign... something that goes by too fast and I only have a chance to catch the part about "nurses" and "association" and "welcome". Well, that's just great. At least these people wear belts. It isn't until I hit the main floor that I see my first exhibit, a full size color picture of a bleeding bed sore. And there's more. Yes, this convention is for nurses who deal with wounds. Yes, wounds. "Hey, dog, where you at now?" "I'm up at HCMC, I'm working in the wound department." I see a sign informing me that just around this corner is the place for "fungal wounds".
I'll be going out the other exit.
Such a strange monster, these gatherings, and such a violent display of humanity, shoehorned into an expansive place and sprinkled with Minnesota charm like you can't get anywhere else. And you bastards from Ohio love this, don't you? The work that's done here benefits only a few. Me? Hell, jesus christ, I use it for the air conditioning.
Everybody knows they keep it under 70 in there. They have to.
There's too many people.
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