After seeing the lobby teaming with slimy "used car sales men types" (no offense to those few reputable ones left in the industry), as soon as I could, I made my way back to seek refuge in the concierge lounge. I asked the attendant if there was a convention in town.
He lit up. "Oh yeah, the __ group is here." (I honestly did not catch their name.) "They meet here every September. And it is the same every year. They descend by the thousands. This is their big meeting. The restaurants run out of beer and every year some of them will try to argue over room rates. But we survive and they will be gone by Sunday, no later than Monday." "What type of business is that?" "A telephone pyramid scheme." "You're kidding." "Nope. I've already had three of them try to sell me their deal tonight."
In the wee hours of the morning when you could still hear the sounds of the snake oil salesmen celebrating whatever they celebrate in the streets far below, I was wide awake. Flipping through channels on the television I passed on infomercials for the "Dicomatic" and its like, quickly bored of the documentary of the paving of the track at the Daytona Motor Speedway, (I'm sure its available on a limited collector's DVD set if I wanted it any way), clicked pass the Discovery Channel's program on the history of the Fire Arm (a Modern Marvel), and came to stop on the biography of Mary Kay Rogers.