Dispatches from Defcon 18: A journalistic foray in several parts

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When I first heard of Def-con, I must admit, I was not terribly interested. A security tech-convention held in the wastes of Las Vegas did not sound like much of a good time. Aside from some fiddling I did with Python in my younger years, I didn’t have much experience with computers on that level. However, the deeper I delved into Defcon, the more interesting it became. Upon viewing the footage from Defcon 15 where a press agent was ousted in spectacular fashion for recording the con illegally and not wearing a press-badge, I had an epiphany.

Defcon 18 Las Vagas 300x450 Dispatches from Defcon 18

Defcon 18 - July 30 - August 1, 2010 at the Riviera Hotel & Casino (Las Vagas)

Technology background or no, I would fit into this crowd just fine. So with that, I booked my ticket eager in anticipation. On the morning of July 29^th, we took off to parts unknown. Attending with me were two friends of mine, Sean, who had initially introduced me to the convention, and Dugan, who we coerced into coming with us. I had dubbed Sean the ‘Puritan Hacker’ for a very simple reason. He certainly had the knowledge to lay waste to an open computer, but ethics and morals kept him from doing so. Meeting up with us in the sinful city was Dugan, our mutual friend. Dugan was too smart for the community college racket; too smart for south Texas. As a high strung genius with a penchant for adventure, it only took a little cajoling from both Sean and I to get him to come with us.

The drive to the airport had been short and harrowing, I had woken up a little too late and it was with a rush that I put on the formal wear I’d laid out for the night before. We reached the airport just as they were closing the gates, and I had yet to either get my ticket or reach security. Needless to say I was awash with a mix of panic and excitement. The bright fluorescent lights of the airport rattled my brain, groggily driving sleep from it. Sean had arrived ahead of me. He held in his hand that magic slip of paper that would take him to parts untravelled, giving me my own. With a hasty goodbye we booked it for the airline gates. We had five minutes to go through security.

A hurried security check later (if you dress nice, they don’t give you very much trouble) we were almost home free. At the far end of the gate I could see the airline employee locking the door. I hadn’t retied my dress shoes yet, time was the precious commodity I was running out of. I had to act quickly. I carefully picked my feet up in a half-hopping motion. I moved one after the other as fast as I dared, going at such a speed that threatened to spill my bags all over the airport corridor. Sweating I made it without incident. Sean not trailing far behind as we made a mad dash towards the counter. ‘Wait! We’re here!’ I said, the calm and official ‘Final boarding call for….’ rang from the PA system in my ears. With a moment’s reluctance, she unlocked the door. Before I could breathe a sigh of relief we were on our way. We settled in the cramped plane (no doubt partly due to the size of the turboprop, and partly due to Corpus being America’s fattest city) and I went off to an uneasy sleep. Sean, refusing to take the Benadryl I told him would put him out stayed awake, gripping the cheap plastic armrests with white-tipped fingers as we took off. He remained bolted to the floor until we landed in Houston. Our Red-eye flight out of Corpus gave us plenty of time before Defcon began to meet up with Dugan and check in at the El Cortez Hotel and Casino ahead of him.

I had just enough time to grab a coffee and feed Sean a few facts to calm him down about flying before we boarded our next plane. The 737 which carried us out of Houston was a much nicer flight than the cramped and stuffy turbo-prop which had taken us out of Corpus. We settled in, as I realized how out of place I looked; bedecked in my 30’s era suit, carrying my appropriately ageing Samsonite, and wearing spectators shoes. Each seat came equipped with a miniature DirectTV implanted into the front. I poked around the channels and saw that Manhattan Melodrama was just starting. Clark Gable was giving his best John Dillinger; which for John Dillinger for was the last film he enjoyed before being shot. I secretly mourned that not more criminals had the same sense of panache and flair of Dillinger or actors as Gable. I floated between Manhattan Melodrama and a History Channel expose of Sodom and Gomorrah, nudging Sean and telling him ‘look, that’s where we’re headed!’ He shook his head, giving a snort of amusement. Upon take off the DIRECTV became available at the low, low price of $9.95 for the duration of the flight, and I decided along with most of the passengers that not even Clark Gable in this day and age was worth$ 9.95.

When we touched down in Las Vegas, it was like we stepped off another planet. Already in the airport, the ringing of slot machines could be heard. The heat, while excessive, had no humidity, and was extremely tolerable. The surreality of the scene crept upon me like E. Coli on room temperature beef. This was Nevadastan. This was a place separate of the greater American experience, my own little Sodom and Gomorrah. Not knowing better, we took a taxi to the El Cortez hotel and casino.

The El Cortez had seen better days. It was off the strip in the shabbier part of Vegas. It was part of the decaying core behind the glitz and glamour that was the gilded strip, part of the rotting heart of Vegas. Buildings lay in disrepair, construction workers are absent from their sites, decrepit hulks lurch skywards. Women, hock themselves for profit as shady figures lurk in alley-ways and the pitifully old hunch over beeping machines, hoping for that lucky break. Our room was tiny, had no air conditioning, and was less than comfortable after a day of travel; needless to say it looked and was nothing as advertised. Coupled with the fact they wanted to charge me a hundred dollar security overhead which they notified me only after we arrived and the room for every night after our original stay was close to two hundred bucks made me feel rather duped and irate. I planned on calling Dugan only to find that my phone battery was missing. After tracking one down across town at the tune of 39 dollars, we ate in a café across the street. I had noticed that with my choice of dress several woman in various stages of undress were giving me quite a bit of attention. “Good morning sir!” one of them cried. I fumbled for an answer, saying “errr…Hello.” rather quietly. They laughed and moved on down their way.

After a quick meal at the greasy spoon, we spent the rest of that morning baking in the Nevada sun. (Me, especially baking with my poor fashion choice) and looking at different hotels nearby, whose prospects for our stay were also slim. We passed by the infamous 14 dollar a night Western which I pointed out to Sean. It was nearly one in the afternoon. Defcon would be starting soon. For the third time that day, we took a taxi. For the third time that day I cursed under my breath as I paid $3.00 for the first twelfth of a mile and .20 cents for every twelfth out of that. I hadn’t even gambled yet and I was already losing money like a sieve.

There was a tangible sense of excitement in the air, the line for registration stretched down the length of the main hallway, and well into the foyer before stopping. I felt uncomfortable, unsure, and full of unease. At the same time, excitement sprung up in me like a well. How would I report on this event and make it accurate? My unease wasn’t helped by being the only person that I could see in a suit. I thought of the uniqueness of my position given my age, and pride tinged in to mix with all those other feelings. I took in the crowd, studying them as we slowly shuffled along in line.

Defcon attracted a wide swath of people as far as attendee demographic was concerned. Punkers and Polo-shirts were shoulder to shoulder, as young and old, women and men formed an orderly mob to get their badges. I realized then, that I was among them. All the hackers, crackers, computer aficionados, techies, and feds I could handle were jammed as Defcon assistants and staffers known as ‘Goons’ tried to keep some semblance of order. Half an hour later, I finally made it to the head of the line. Asking where press-registered got me sent down the hall-way where I was previously. The double-breasted wool suit irradiating me from the body heat of hundreds of attendees baked in the Las Vegas sun.

Sweltering in the heat, I found the press room, and signed myself in. It wasn’t without some measure of pride that I put a circuit board with a lanyard around my neck. The ‘P’ stamped in the corner ostensibly standing for press. I fiddled with the badge, pressing the buttons and watching what happens on the LED screen. Shortly thereafter, Dugan arrived; Sean and I explain the situation with the room at the El Cortez. Dugan upon hearing of the palace that awaits him in the Cortez, he opts out. Renting a room in the Riviera for the duration of the con, in doing this however, he is late to receive a badge. In lieu of the circuit-board badges, he receives a paper one. Sean and I board a taxi for the third time that day. We cancel our stay at the El Cortez, pack up, and speed back to the Riviera. By the end of the day, over 150 dollars has gone to taxis.

Later that evening, Dugan is hard at work putting a phallus icon on my badge after learning he can make his own icons for the circuit-board badge. I tell him it’s indicative of my personality, and he laughs before going back to work.

This is Defcon. Are you ready? Was I?