Mime Day in Las Vegas

I’ve never been lucky in Vegas. For months I looked forward to attending an industry event at Caesars Palace only to be one day into the four-day schedule and lose my voice.

This loss was much worse than last year when I lost an uncomfortable shoe I was carrying, instead of wearing, on the way to a cocktail reception. Fortunately the reception was crowded around a swimming pool so I was able to pass for a fully shoed person. Plus, my high heel showed up at the convention hotel’s front desk later that evening. Shoes are a dime a dozen, good conversations aren’t.

I made it through the leadership conference and reception happily chatting, although I did have a moment of stunned silence when someone seated next to me pointed out the evidence of my pre-conference shopping. While I had remembered to remove the price tag from the inside of my new jacket, I had left the oversized tag safety-pinned to the armpit, advertising not only where I shop, but also my size. (At least I hadn’t tucked the back of my skirt into my panty hose; I’ve done that, too.)

I even talked through most of the dinner hosted by Minneapolis attorney Brian Schnell of Faegre & Benson, but just as the entrées arrived at Spago, my raspy voice gave out and I couldn’t even squeak. Brian was kind, but, trust me, nothing is worse than being seated next to a woman who can only communicate with her eyes—unless you’re on a date, which we weren’t.

This meant, of course, that I didn’t feel well enough to go to any of the late-night parties. On a positive note, I didn’t make a fool out of myself dancing or by attempting witty repertoire that always sounds so much more clever with a couple of drinks in you.

I’ve always prided myself on being a good listener, but even someone with a filibuster mastery needs some verbal cues, or at least a couple of questions to craft a conversation of any merit. I had one frustrated person look at me and say, “This is creepy, it’s like talking to a wall.”

Another woman mentioned that when she first found herself seated between a woman who couldn’t speak English and a woman who couldn’t speak, she thought, “Well this is going to be fun.” But, she was quick to add that it hadn’t turned out that badly.

At the prayer breakfast I found a new way to interrupt a conversation I really wasn’t a part of—I passed notes.

Not having a voice is creepy. You feel handicapped and you’re taken advantage of. I was forced to pay over $4 for a cup of hot water and a Lipton tea bag (estimated profit: $3.95) several times a day. As the Bible suggests, I was rendering what was Caesar’s to Caesars—not to mention the $15 in nickels I donated to their slot machines.

Not surprisingly, several husbands said they’d love it if their wives lost their voices. I’m sure I disappointed my husband by having this miracle happen when he wasn’t around to benefit. I have a tendency to want to overanalyze mundane things—like feelings and the past.

There’s no way around it when you can’t talk, you become a mime. It didn’t help that my traditional conference attire is black. The only one who enjoyed my mime act was Publisher Mary Jo Larson, who relished the opportunity to talk for both of us. And, she had the good grace to laugh at my overstated attempts to gesture what I needed communicated.

In fact, she’s still waiting for me to show her how to get out of a box.


Reality at Barker’s

I don’t think the owners of Barker’s Bar & Grill in Hudson, Wis., envisioned the two stools at the end of the bar as seating for performance dining. Maybe they should rethink that oversight, because they have a likeable staff that works together like a synchronized swim team.

At least that’s the way it appeared to me a couple of weeks ago, when after dining at Idaho Chuck’s, my husband and I stopped at Barker’s on the way home to have a drink. We were so entertained by the cooking demonstration that we stayed more than an hour to catch the whole show.

Someone who’s grown up making hamburgers on a grill and juggling the fryers between potatoes and onion rings may not see the glamour in watching someone else do it, but for people who are usually seated beneath a white tablecloth or eating in their cars driving 60 miles-per-hour, this reality show was great fun.

After all, reality is the new media darling. McDonald’s just read 13,000 applications from real customers who wanted to star in the fast food giant’s next advertising/packaging campaign. Their faces—and shots of them performing their passion, be it hiking, playing a red trumpet or drumming—will be printed on bags and cups purchased by about 52 million people a day worldwide. Pretty heady stuff, so to speak.

I talked to three of the 24 finalists during McDonald’s media blitz and a modest grandmother of five whose passion was hiking admitted she was thrilled when she first saw her picture on a McDonald’s bag, until she saw the first person wad up the bag and toss it. Imagine how used she must have felt when she was thrown away like someone’s day-old trash.

So, how real is reality?

I haven’t seen the pictures yet for the McDonald’s campaign, but I do know that when Dove depicted “real” women in their ads, some of the feedback was negative: Seems not everyone wants to see women in their underwear who don’t look like Victoria’s Secret models.

Maybe my trip to Barker’s is all the reality I want to view. Seeing C.J., as the lead cook introduced himself, in action was as entertaining as a cooking show on television. As someone who has trouble remembering what I ordered 10 minutes before, I’m fascinated a cook can grill one item, while prepping a second, while restocking the refrigerator and carrying on a conversation. Plus, he had to remember a coworker’s picky preference when she ordered dinner on her break—and still make fun of her Fargo-esq accent at the same time.

The best part of reality versus reality TV, however, is that we aren’t privy to any of those scenes where the reality show contestants talk about how they feel about the other people on the show and how things are progressing. I don’t want to know the black thoughts of the people entertaining me. I prefer to see all my backstabbing on CSI Miami.