This week, the Conference Fonzie reports from the Intel Developer Forum at SF's Moscone Center. Dig in!
Hell Jesus. Why did Intel go and change all of its product names? The Conference Fonzie has never seen so many X's and J's and L's in the same words before, and frankly, it frightens him. What's with all these women wandering around the show floor of this year's Intel Developers Forum? And what's this newfangled Tamiflu processor? Perhaps these kind fellows here selling these hand-held video cameras have an idea what's going on.
CF: Where's the damn Geek Challenge?
Booth Dood: What?
CF: God dammit man, I'm in a hurry. I've got a noon meeting with Otellini, and I can't keep him waiting? Point me towards Intel's main booth!
Booth Dood: Sorry, sir, I've no idea what you're talking about. Would you like to buy one of our video cameras? 10 hours of footage captured on 2 Gigs of memory card!
CF: Dear God, you're just making this shit up, aren't you?
Camera in hand, the humble Conference Fonzerelli wandered from booth to booth, passing up weird vendor names, like Aptivus, Viramune, and Merck, desperately searching for some sight of sanity. Everyone here was washing their hands obsessively in the bathroom, and the primary schwag on the floor consisted of pens and giant pads of sticky notes emblazoned with logos down the sides. This was no ordinary Intel Developers Forum. This was clearly some sort of strange, otherworldly palace of transdimensional computation!
Wait a minute. Wasn't the Developer forum over in Moscone West? The ConFonz seems to be in Moscone South! Sweet merciful Buddha, how did I get into this terrible fake conference, and where did this shoulder-bag and badge come from? And why wasn't there any food in the fucking press room!?
Soon, the light of understanding fell upon the brow of the addled king of the technology conference scene. This was not, in fact, the Intel Developers Forum. This was the annual ICAAC meeting, and god knows what that acronym stands for. Even the Encyclopedia Britannica folks selling their books down at the end of the South hall couldn't explain the letters. And neither could they explain the usefulness of their long obsolete product.
But why were there so many clearly commercial booths here? Why sell cameras to microbiologists? And why is everyone here talking about AIDS and birdflu? Holy Zarathustra, this place is shrinking and closing in. Escape must be attained quickly!
And escape was had. Across the street and around the corner, the ubiquitous emperor of expos found the registration desk for the IDF, at long last. Inside the expo floor, everyone chowed down on the near-top quality Moscone chow. The wildly experienced ConFonz had never seen so many different selections from the Moscone menu served at one time. From wraps and fajitas to salads and cakes, to the Asian food in the press room, Intel obviously couldn't settle on a single food type for this event. Too bad they did settle on limiting the coffee a bit. Still, it was flowing freely in the massive press room. Incidentally, the locks on those press laptops? Combination = 0000. Take one home with you! The ConFonz did! These are free, right?
And the schwag is pretty nifty too! Ah, basking in the warm glow of Paul Otellini's rotund form, the ConFonz finally understands: Everything is going to be OK. The world isn't being sucked into some strange and indescribable vortex of nonsensical names and colorful sticky notes. In fact, it's being quickly jerked towards the beer taps and plastic wine cups of an evening Intel booze bash on the expo floor. God help us all. Oh, and Otellini: nice shoes!