Stop, Drop and Blog

The saying “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” is kind of true. My co-workers and I joked at our table on Thursday evening that it stays there because the network is too jammed for anyone to tweet. But what happens there doesn’t always stay there… because some people are bloggers.

And now I will share my favorite story from Vegas that has nothing to do with technology and everything to do with me giggling in my pajamas at 5:00 in the morning.

My alarm went off at 5:00 on Friday morning. I was trying to stay as close to Eastern time as possible. I wanted to get up, get some work done, get ready and get checked out before heading back over to the Las Vegas Convention Center for some more geeking out. I hit snooze and immediately fell back asleep. The MGM has some crazy comfortable beds.

I woke up a few minutes later to the sound of someone trying to get in my door. I sat straight up and listened intently. I threw back the covers, padded to the door and looked out my peephole.

And tried not to snort very loudly.

The noise was not someone trying to get in my door. He was trying to get in the door of the room next to me.

And he was standing there in his boxer briefs.

And nothing else.

Not even socks!

I had to clasp my hand over my mouth.

We had been joking the night before that the pool in the MGM is so far from all of the rooms. You’d have to walk back to your room, sopping wet, in front of everyone in the casino. Hopefully you remembered a towel! But this guy? This guy was not just returning from a leisurely swim. This guy was just rocking a pair of gray boxer briefs standing in the middle of the hallway at o’dark o’Vegas-clock, desperately trying to whisper in the door for his companion to open it, prettyfreakingplease.

I think he eventually saw the shadow of my feet, because he tried to get as close to the wall and his own door as possible.

Didn’t work well for him. He wasn’t a small dude.

Eventually, hotel management responded to a mostly naked dude on the 16th floor. He said, and I quote, “I’m going to have to see some ID, of course.” Boxer Brief Dude responded, “It’s in my pants. On the dresser.” I bet he takes his ID with him next time he goes traipsing about in his underoos. Eventually they got things sorted out and Boxer Brief Dude shut his door.

I, of course, had been tweeting the whole thing (as you could get Internet connectivity when the rest of Vegas was sleeping). There were some giggles, and Calliope made me snort (quietly) again.

That said, he was not really my type. I mean, I like boxer briefs. But, uh, I like my men a little less… old. And willing to be caught in the hallway in their underpants. Unless it was a good reason. But I’m not sure it was. I’d apologize for not trying to take an iPhone picture through my peephole, but, trust me, it’s better this way.