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How I Didn't Get Killed At E3 [Column]

• Jun 29, 2010 from kotaku(Kotaku) in Gaming
  How did I get to E3? How did I get a VIP pass? I don't even know. The idea was that I would walk up to E3 and, telling nobody anything, manage to just get in. That's what happened.
  It worked out pretty well.
  I have business in the San Francisco Bay Area from late June to early August, so I figured I would fly in from Tokyo a week early, and check out E3. At the time, I didn't think it was a stupid idea to fly in to San Francisco International Airport, despite the Electronic Entertainment Expo being in Los Angeles. When I booked my ticket, I was only thinking that it would cost a lot more money to fly into Los Angeles from Tokyo and then fly back from San Francisco. I was hardly thinking that the entire goal of my trip to the United States was to make money so much money that a little bit here or there to upgrade my traveling comfort would be irrelevant in the Grand Scheme of Things. Halfway through the flight, I remembered the story of Miyamoto Musashi's duel with Sasaki Kojiro: Musashi said that Kojiro had lost the duel in the very first instant, when he cast his scabbard into the ocean.
  Monday
  Well, at least, flying into San Francisco meant I would get to enjoy something I seldom enjoy: a nice long drive in a genuinely scenic part of the world. The road from San Francisco to Los Angeles, whichever highway you choose, offers much more fantastic scenery in five hours than you're bound to experience locked up in your room staring at a computer screen for six weeks. I arrived at the airport, suffered through a long ordeal at immigration why they leave only six booths of eighteen open when there are clearly a thousand passengers waiting is beyond me and waited outside in the cool northern California breeze for twenty minutes before Bob's Chrysler Sebring ("When You Need a Convertible right now") slid up into a perfectly parallel-parked position. It was around that instant that I realized two attractive ladies were whispering about me over by an ashtray: Aha, it's because I am wearing a super-fly Adidas Originals track suit in the Japan-exclusive color of psycho-crayon-green. In front of me, a luggage cart, containing an enormous suitcase, my laptop bag, and a cardboard box full of computer. In my right hand, an Adidas Originals shopping bag containing an Adidas Originals track suit in the Japan-exclusive color of shiny piano black.
  I'd heard someone say, a long time ago, that if you want people to remember you, you have to wear the same thing every day. That's why people remember, say, Mickey Mouse, or Super Mario. I've earned something of an . . . existing reputation as the guy with a Swedish schoolgirl haircut and ridiculous cartoon character glasses with twenty-four-karat gold studs in them. It was time to complete the look. I wasn't sure if green was the right color, though it was the gaudiest, weirdest color that the Shinjuku Adidas Originals store had this season, so I rolled with it.
  
  Despite my engorged interest in the National Basketball Association, it wasn't until I'd landed in San Francisco and picked up a discarded copy of the New York Times that it dawned on me: The Los Angeles Lakers were facing the Boston Celtics in the NBA Finals in Los Angeles. At the Staples Center. Next door to the Los Angeles Convention Center. Where the Electronic Entertainment Expo was held. Crayon-green was the Boston Celtics' primary color. Oh man. This situation was bound to get gorgeous real quick.
  Days later, following the Lakers' victory, minutes after a man threw a lit cigarette into the open Sebring, burning a hole halfway into the nylon of my track pants right up above the knee, moments before a dozen rioters grabbed our car and tried maybe-seriously to tip it over, our car drifted to a stop in front of Cheapassgamer.com's own Cheapy D and Wedbush Securities analyst Michael Pachter, who took one look at my pants, told me I'd better take them off, and warned me, "You're gonna get fuckin' stabbed."
  I didn't get fuckin' stabbed, though the possibility of it occurred to me in that breezeway as Bob popped the trunk on Monday morning. We stuffed my stuff into the car; I took the shopping bag into the front seat.
  "We need to maximize our visibility," I told Bob. "In a couple years, we're going to have enough money to rent a booth. We need to think about that. This year, we don't have a booth this year, we are a walking, talking booth."
  "Okay."
  Maybe Bob was tired. We pulled off the highway and into the first shopping center outside the airport. Lo and behold: a Chipotle.
  
  The sun was terrifying. Just to fight a migraine, I had to squint so hard that I could barely see. I had to squint so hard I could have looked right at an eclipse. I grimaced in a Walgreens parking lot while Bob went in to get cash and cigarettes. Hands on my hips. I unzipped my jacket, and there I was in a Russian Tuxedo: track suit and tank-top. A couple of college girls looked at me. It struck me, instantly, that I was probably a huge joke to...