Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Sometimes I Love My Job
Especially when it entails covering the grand press opening of a swanky new casino hotel/resort just down the road from Moi. You writers out there will know what I'm talking about. You get the press release via email the week before the event, during which time you manage to skip over all pertinent information except the words FREE FOOD, and immediately mark the day on your calendar in red. This is all you think about for the next five days because, well, you write for a living and thus are easily amused.
Morning of event, you put on your big girl clothing and shoes, hop in the car, hit the trip mileage calculator button thingee on the speedometer ('cause you may bill the client for the time, but you bill Uncle Sam for the wear and tear) and head out.
Arrive. Sign in at front desk. Slap on name tag. Stand around nodding importantly to fellow members of the press while at the same time making smart comments about the decor and taking mental notes about the fact that your city's number one news anchor looks like she just had her boobs done and what in the name of all that is holy is she wearing on her feet?
Take the 1.5 bazillion hour tour of the facilities, led by a way overdressed PR rep who looks like they just graduated Junior High School, and who proceeds to drone on and on about distinctive use of native materials blah blah blah and innovative incorporation of green build concepts yackety yack yack yack and renewed dedication to economic development for tribal members yada yada yada. Scramble frantically through brain for an intelligent sounding question that isn't already answered on the press release, fail, and then sigh with relief as number one news anchor in the city does your job for you. This is why, despite the horrific shoes and balloon boobs, she is on television and you are, well, not. Scribble your pen against your notepad, nod thoughtfully for the 10 gazillionth time and mentally wonder when in the heck you get to eat.
Because, really, outside of the schwag? Food is the true blue reason why any of us bother to show up for these events at all.
Which, in my case always raises a pertinent question: Just how much deep fried Panko/coconut shrimp Proscuitto wrapped pan seared scallops Bruschetta dusted with apricot glaze and topped with Gorgonzola and diced pear in a port reduction sauce oysters on the half shell king crab legs prime rib with ancho chile horseradish sauce strawberry cheesecake pistachio dusted chocolate mouse bombs Can I eat at one sitting?
You'd be surprised.
Now, excuse ay Moi while I roll myself over to the sofa for a Fresca. And check out my schweet schwag.