Gamesylvania

I spot a hole in a wall called “Bukowskis Tavern,” and I wonder if it has anything to do with the writer. A neon light in the window says, “Dead author’s club,” so I walk in.
The next thing I notice is the ATM placed conspicuously near the front door and a notice that reads, “In God we trust; all others pay cash.” “Fair enough,” I figure, so I pull out my card and gag the machine til it spits out a double sawbuck. A few moments later, I find a table and set up shop.

The waitress asks me if I want to start with a drink; as I look over the list, I don’t see anything that jumps out at me, so I ask for the darkest thing they have. She suggests a Murphy’s Stout. Bingo; we’re in business.

I’ve been in Boston long enough to get lost in its brutal, savage traffic, find the hotel and claim my media badge. My headache has finally gone away and I can now reap the fruits of my labor. Let me worry about the bill later, best not to think about the $200 I just dropped on a new camera because I left mine at home, I deserve this — it’s been a long time since PAX 09 in Seattle.

The great thing about PAX East is that the slate is completely clean — no one knows what to expect, here. The convention center is different, the hotels are different, the vibe is different. This is East Coast, and the question is, “Can the East Coast bring it? Can they bring the party and show us how it’s done?”

I’ve almost finished my second beer and the party of fellow nerds at the table next to me have just picked up to go see how things are at the famous McGreevy’s, just around the corner. I’m just focused on finishing this beer before trying to figure out the next course of action. How will my third PAX be? I can’t wait to find out.

God, did I really just spend 200 bucks on a new camera? Drink up!