Head Hunter

Delayed

I used to like Wheel of Fortune.
Now? Not so much. For the past two hours, I've heard the unified chant from an electronic crowd followed by non-stops bells, beeps and whistles punctuated by the inebriated peals of laughter or dismay -- depending upon how those little electronic wheels stopped -- of the guy sitting at the Wheel of Fortune slot machine.
Location: McCarran Airport, Las Vegas.

It's about 1 a.m. "local" time. Which makes it 4 a.m. "my" time. My flight should be lifting off in about an hour, instead it's delayed for "at least an hour -- we'll update you." Now I'm not the most wordly of travelers but that sounds a whole lot to me like the dude at the desk has no clue when this plane will fly.

Guess you're probably wondering what a northern 'neck like me is doing sitting at an airport in Las Vegas. Well, it just so happens I'm having the exact same thoughts. Actually, I'm here to take in the spectacle that is the SHOT Show. SHOT is the annual gathering of just about every company, manufacturer, personality in the shooting, hunting and outdoor industry. It is a gigantic convention that you simply have to see to believe. The aisles of booths are, quite literally, measured in miles.

The show is pretty cool and I get to see friends that I seldom see. That makes it worth the trip. But it's in Las Vegas. I do not understand the attraction of the place. Right now, well, dislike is simply not strong enough to describe my opinion of my current locale.

At this hour, the airport is incredibly busy. Like people on top of people. There is a waiting line at the power terminals to charge laptops. It's crazy.

I'm seated next to a pair of guys that seem to believe I'm interested in hearing about their great escapades here in Sin City. Lots of alcohol, lots of blown cash and, of course, the other "accessories" for which this city is known. They're loud. They're rude. And I just don't really seem to like them.

I'm just trying to post a blog here to kill a little time. But apparently they have never been taught the fine art of respect for others. One of them has been kicking my laptop bag as he jabbers on about the new gold chains he's wearing. I have moved the bag twice and asked him -- far more politely than I expected at this hour and in this mood -- to settle down just a bit.

Then he buys a beer. And spills it on my coat. The coat that my wife bought me for Christmas. Not good.

Not wanting to make a scene -- or give up my power outlet for my laptop -- I ask them to find another gate. They don't like my request. Instead they try to make nice and ask me where I'm from and what I do for a living.

I have to be honest. I paused before answering, weighing my options. Should I tell them that I try to share the passion and the experience of the outdoors through words and images, that I work for a group whose job it is to ensure our outdoor heritage is protected? I just didn't think they'd get it and, besides, I'm too tired for such a conversation.

So I simply shortened the details.

"I shoot things."

They grabbed what was left of their beer and left. In a hurry.

Still waiting on the plane. But it's quieter now.

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