Friday night at the design leadership retreat, there was a reception at the Joslyn Art Musuem, which is where portions of the Frank Spaceman story took place. After that, we went to the bars. And after that, we headed to the hotel for the after-party.
Now, the Embassy Suites is an atrium-style hotel, which means sound travels better than you'd like it to. This posed some problems, as there were several parties. The first one that Continental Frutiger, Dick Herculanum and I hit was in room 727, and we were only there 10 minutes before the off-duty cop at the hotel busted it up.
The 40 or 50 people in that room dispersed, most of them to room 535 -- which was the Nebraska Ladies' room. It was adjoined to our room, 534 -- the Nebraska Guys' room. The ladies immediately began calling my phone, wanting me to unlock the room for them so the party could swell. I refused.
The po-pos were on the hunt for parties to bust up, and I wasn't about to open my room up for that. I mean, they seemed to be EVERYWHERE. On the way from 727 to wherever we were going next, one of them yelled at me for having an open container. We headed to 524, where Jacksonville was throwing a party. This room had a nice, small crowd (read: quiet) which meant the chances of being busted up were small. Within five minutes, there were 40 people in the room and it was just as noisy as the last party. A game of quarters started up, and that was the final straw for the neighbors, apparently. It turns out bouncing quarters on a wooden table into glasses is pretty loud in a hotel room. Who knew?
Hotel security came and busted up the party shortly thereafter, and as were leaving, Continental looked at me, I looked at him, and we had the same unspoken idea:
Hotel stairwells are fireproof, and therefore, soundproof. The donut-infested cops that hassle partiers at hotels don't frequent stairwells. These are not ripped, TJ Hooker-esque cops. These are Wiggum-esque cops. They use the elevators.
So we took our beer and the four people we were talking to, and headed to the stairwell on 7. And there we had our own party. My phone kept ringing because people were wondering where we disappeared to, and also because they wanted us to open 534 up for them. I turned my phone off. If the stairwell party swelled to more than a handful, people would start coming and going, and that would draw attention. And there was no way I was opening up our room.
Continental and Dick were enjoying the Miller Lites they had left from the 727 party, and when those were finished, they grabbed a Natty Light from the box I had. Dick objected vehemently, and began pouring out entire cans. He'll deny this now, but I have photographic proof. When I objected to his objection, he told me "Don't worry, its not really beer, its colored water."
Then he forced me to leave the rest of the case behind in the stairwell when we left. 19 cans!!
Upon exiting the stairwell party, we headed to 524, where Jacksonville was throwing a party despite their earlier one being busted up. Because Dick had forced me to leave my beer in the stairwell, I had nothing to drink. Jacksonville offered me a beer, but I had to agree to wear the Michael Jackson glasses and hat for 60 seconds. I knew this would be ample time for photos to be taken, but I didn't care. The photos are not flattering. Alas.
Word reached us that the ladies of Nebraska had gone behind our back and procured another key from the desk -- and let people into our room! I was pissed. But then again, I wasn't paying for the room, so what could I really do?
At some point in the night, the Nebraska ladies came into 524 looking for me, and I ducked out right past them. "What, you're leaving now? Is it because we just showed up?"
I told them "Pretty much." and headed out. Sour end to what had been a fun night of avoiding the off-duty po-pos.
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