It was a quarter to five on the last day of the show, and I was feeling good. I mentioned this to John Atkinson. He was sitting there beside me. The bus was empty but for us. We were waiting to go back to our hotel, waiting to leave the noise and smoke and lights of the crowded, extravagant Venetian. The place is madness. All of Vegas is madness.
That's not true. There are parts of Vegas I've only glimpsed, have only imagined, haven't seen. There are parts of Vegas that are long and narrow and covered in sand-colored stone. People live there.
It's always this way, I said. Yesterday I was feeling horrible.
And now the show is over.
Yes.
Tomorrow would have been a great day at the show.
Yes, it would have been.
Yes.
I'm going to miss looking out of the window and seeing mountains.
Travel is so strange, important. It takes me awhile to get adjusted to things, to the air, to the time, to the room, to the enormous bed and strange pillows. And by the time I start to feel comfortable and good, it's over. It's always this way, will probably never change. I wish I had had more time. There are so many rooms I didn't enter, so many songs I didn't play, so many systems I didn't hear, so many people I didn't meet, and I'm sorry about that. It makes me wonder what if.
I'm not sorry. What could I have done? But I do wonder. I want to tell you about the girl I met.
I was pissed. Every flight I take leaves from the very last terminal. Of whatever airport it might be. My terminal is the farthest from the security gates, beyond the duty-free shops and the faux diners, beyond the perfume places and the science stores, beyond the bars and the newsstands, in this case beyond the casinos, at the very end of the world, where the sky turns to glass. And I was cursing to myself, thinking of this, when I shoved through a line of elite ticket holders and made my way to the very last seat, facing the runway and no one else, when she asked:
Mind if I sit here?
I want to tell you about what Jon Iverson says. But I can't. I won't. I'm not ready for that yet, but he says it may take about six more months or so. In six more months or so, he wants me to remember what he said.
Jon and I were sitting at Mr. Lucky's at the Hard Rock. It's become a tradition, and traditions are not to be messed with. Traditions keep us going. Besides, I could tell that Jon wanted the chocolate shake. I had one, too. If you're ever at Mr. Lucky's at the Hard Rock in Las Vegas, be sure to order a chocolate shake. It'll make you happy. We sat in a little booth with Jimi Hendrix above our happy heads and we ate—Jon had the veggie burger and I had the French Dip and neither one of us could finish our plates—and we didn't talk about audio at all. This was the day before the last day of the show. When I stood up, my legs went weak and I remembered how terribly tired I was.
Earlier that day, I had stopped in the
DeVore Fidelity suite. I saw some friends, listened to some music, and things made sense. Thanks for the recharge, I told John DeVore. I needed to see a friendly face.
Remember to have fun, he said. It's important.
I always come to a point where I feel utterly out of place. It's a part of being me. I don't belong here. What am I doing here? I know so little.
I mentioned this to Jon and to Corrina and to Jonathan Scull. They seemed to understand. Jon even admitted to feeling similarly out of place at times. These are my people, he said, we're interested in so many of the same things, but, in so many other ways, these people are nothing like me.
And I guess these sorts of feelings are common. After all, people are large and full and complicated, and no one person can be all things to any other person. Right? I don't know. I'm asking you.
Corrina had just asked about audiophiles.
What do you think of audiophiles?, she asked.
A difficult question to answer, I thought. So I reached for the first word that came to my mind. Those first words will often hold clues to deeper things.
Passionate, I said. I certainly don't think of the word
audiophile as having negative implications attached to it, necessarily. If anything, I've found much to be positive about and the label has even become a source of pride. I think audiophiles are passionate people. And though I've never been very attracted to the science of things, I've always been attracted to passion. I have a difficult time thinking of myself as an audiophile, but that's only because I have a difficult time thinking of myself as anything.
Why is that?, someone asked.
I have to shake my head and sigh, though, when I read something like
this, something completely untrue, silly even:
Audiophiles, as you probably know, are the hi-fi zealots who think nothing of spending $50,000 on a turntable.
And:
Remember, by definition, an audiophile is one who will bear any burden, pay any price, to get even a tiny improvement in sound.
I get the sense that the writer is being funny. But I wonder if writers shouldn't be more responsible. People believe this shit. I, however, know no audiophile who thinks nothing of spending $50,000 on a turntable, I know no audiophile who would sell his daughter for a tiny improvement in sound. Whose definition of
audiophile are we talking about? When you ask Lee Gomes about audiophiles, is the first word that comes to his mind
money? Is it
stinking rich heartless bastard? That would be a shame. You can be an audiophile and also be absolutely poor. You can be a shivering, skinny, ramen noodle-eating, Pabst Blue Ribbon-drinking, holey sock-wearing, scruffy-faced, music-loving audiophile.
I don't remember who said it—it might have been John Atkinson, might have been
Jon Iverson, might have been John DeVore, might have been
Michael Lavorgna, might have been
Wes Phillips, might have been
Anton Dotson, might have been Art Dudley, might have been John Marks, might have been
Josh Ray, might have been—but it was something like:
There are two kinds of people who don't ask questions: Those who don't ask because they really don't have to, and those who don't ask because they're scared.
I was thinking about that, and I decided that far too often I've been scared. Playing the role of reporter at a major event like the Consumer Electronics Show is so absolutely frightening. I'm much more comfortable in my small apartment, looking out of the window, enjoying the light. I always come to a point where I feel utterly out of place. I want to hide. I want to walk in a straight line very fast with my head down and my nametag obscured and pretend that I see no one. But think about the exhibitors, those people who have to share their passions, and be judged by them. How frightening that must be.
At first, I didn't even look up.
She sounded frustrated, a bit desperate maybe.
Not at all, I said. I understand completely.
I spoke to the glass and to the floor. But her voice sounded nice, sounded normal and kind, sounded like it belonged to someone with blonde hair, electric blue eyes and fair, fair skin, and we got to talking more. It's so strange, so funny, to think of who you are and where you are and where you're going to be and who you'll find sitting beside you. You might be in a bus beside John Atkinson, you might be in the very last seat of the very last terminal at McCarran Airport beside a girl who lives just two towns from you, plays upright bass in a psychobilly band, has a Hispanic last name—just like you!—and shares all sorts of similar, meaningless experiences.
There's nothing so hard, really, as asking a question, and nothing more rewarding. I was talking to
Patrick Chu while his Loiminchay speakers played a song by Henry Fiol.
It's amazing, I told him. The way you speak of the relationship between painting and loudspeaker design is so similar to the way Henry spoke of the relationship between painting and songwriting.
It's not amazing, he said. We're both people. We're all people.
Wes Phillips wrote:
I live three blocks from JA—and essentially in the same city as Bob Reina, Kal Rubinson, and Stephen Mejias—but our hectic schedules prevent us from spending lots of time together. Bob Deutsch lives in the Great White North—and for this autoless Brooklynite, Larry Greenhill might as well. CES is the only time I have to reconnect with this fascinating cast of characters—and best of all, I'll get to do it again next year.
Travel is so strange, important. Sometimes it seems that those things and people you love most are always sitting right there beside you, no matter what. It seems that no matter how far you go from home, you're always only moving closer and closer to it. You are who you are, you're where you're supposed to be, you're doing fine, it'll all be okay. Look up and ask a question and find you're just as much like that other person as you are anyone else, and just as different, too.
I was sitting on a couch, beside Anton, feeling very comfortable and good.
Little green lights danced along the walls and shot through large, invisible loudspeakers. People came and went through the beaded curtains, one at a time, sometimes two at a time.
