“I asked for a mission and for my sins, they gave me one.”
Capt. Benjamin L. Willard
(Played by Martin Sheen) Apocalypse Now
“I asked for a YouTube channel and for my sins, they gave me one.”
Brent T. Wheat, Editor
(Played by Brent T. Wheat) GUNS Magazine
With apologies to Joseph Conrad, I’ve been to the heart of darkness, and his novel barely captures its essence. In my case, it wasn’t a jungle river in Vietnam or even the 19th-century hellscape of the Congo Free State — it was far, far worse.
Specifically, my journey into madness and hot hors d’oeuvres was the recent firearms video awards in Las Vegas. I won’t use the official name of this program since it might be trademarked, but mostly I’m hoping against hope the organizers won’t see this story if I don’t mention the title.
Not that it matters much — I’m pretty sure I’ll never receive another invitation, and if I do happen to win an award, it will undoubtedly feature a scene reminiscent of the movie Carrie.
If you don’t remember this 1976 gorefest, a group of teens play a horrible practical joke on a bullied girl by showering her with a bucket of pig blood just as she is crowned prom queen.
In the movie, Carrie uses her supernatural powers to kill all her antagonists in creative and gruesome ways. In my award show appearance, I can imagine the pig blood shower but at best, my telekinetic powers are limited to severe scowling so it wouldn’t have the same impact. I’ll just turn down any future award show invites.
Setting the Scene
A bit unexpectedly, it was right before the holidays when several of us associated with GUNS and FMG Publications were nominated for awards. This was a head-scratcher because, while we have a robust presence on YouTube, our audience tends to skew quite a bit older and — I believe — more experienced and discerning than the target audience of the awards.
In fact, an in-depth review of the FMG YouTube channel found only three instances of FMG onscreen “talent” using the word “Dude,” and two of those videos were referring to inexperienced horse riders.
Mostly I knew my chances were minimal after declaring during a podcast episode that I embraced the same sentiment as one of my heroes, William T. Sherman, when asked about his interest in becoming President. He famously declared, “If nominated I will not run, if elected I will not serve.”
To no one’s surprise I didn’t win. However, I was asked to accept an award for somebody who did but had a scheduling conflict. I was flattered being asked and quickly agreed. After a few dozen phone calls, a series of tantrums and a severe bout of exasperation, I managed to change my schedule to attend the award ceremony. This only required a series of flights across the globe but I did make it to Las Vegas on the day of the show.
That afternoon I met with the producers of the event and walked through my role. Essentially, after the winner was named I would leave my seat, walk onstage, offer a short message and sit down. Easy-peasy, and I had just enough stage fright to make sure I was focused and ready. However, there was one big mountain to overcome before the actual awards show — the pre-show reception.
Smile!
The whole production was done up like any other major awards show. There was a red carpet to walk — complete with photographers and TV cameras — an open bar and a platoon of tuxedo-clad staffers ready to fulfill all your urgent appetizer needs.
I walked past the velvet rope outfitted in my dressiest sport coat, tie and slacks. I wasn’t wearing a tuxedo because the cheap tux I had purchased online turned out to use Chinese sizing and the jacket wouldn’t even admit my arm, let alone both of them. Imagine trying to stuff 50 lbs. of meat into a standard sausage link casing and you get the idea.
After watching the YouTube Influencer just ahead of me hamming it up for the cameras on the red carpet — flanked by what appeared to be two professional Las Vegas “entertainers” falling out of dresses smaller than a standard sugar packet — I ducked out of the red carpet queue and skulked into the party.
The pre-party was both interesting and distressing. I saw many folks I knew and had a number of good conversations, a libation or two and sampled a variety of finger food.
Mostly, my circle of acquaintances participated in a round-robin exchange poking fun at our fellow attendees. Aside from the prevalent tactical beards and neck tattoos, several VIPs were wearing camouflage tuxedos.
This wasn’t outlandish; what drew our scorn was the fact two Ultra Dudes were wearing tourniquets flamboyantly clipped to their Digital Camo cummerbund.
I can only hope to someday become as tactically suave as these uber-men.
Fortunately, after much backslapping and loving profanities, the festival of humble-bragging ended a couple of years later and we all made our way into the opulent theatre for the show.
The Big Moment
The awards ceremony was professionally done and certainly as glamorous as the Oscars or Emmies. I found a seat in the first few rows near an aisle (for quick access to the stage) and sat back. My nerves began to rise as I pondered what to say.
Should I open with a joke? Every joke I came up with was actually a backhanded slap at prototypical gun influencers, so I decided that wasn’t the best course of action.
After all, the audience might become incensed and throw their tourniquets at me, so I decided a straightforward “thank you” would serve.
Things went along swimmingly until it was the time for “my” category. As they played short video highlights of the nominees, I squirmed in my seat and prepared to make my way to the stage.
Suddenly, the moment was at hand! They named the winner and played a short video he had provided. The end of the video was my cue to rise, make my way to the stage and physically accept the trophy on behalf of the winner. And then …
They immediately went on to the next award category.
My cameo had been completely erased. I was devastated.
The Reckoning
It wasn’t that I didn’t get my 30 seconds onstage — it was the fact I had been forced to move heaven and earth to get to the stupid show in the first place, all for nothing.
I had gotten up at 2:30 a.m. to make my first flight. At the airport I tripped on the escalator and started an avalanche, collecting several abrasions and fellow travelers in the process.
At one point I’m fairly sure I had a layover in North Korea. Or, it might have been Punta Gorda, but regardless, it was one of my most dreadful travel days ever — and for no purpose.
The award organizers did “fall on their sword” in response to my extraordinarily snarky email afterward. This might have been a reaction to my offhand mention that several of their major sponsors were personal friends and I would make it my life’s mission to lobby for them to cut all funding for the show. Otherwise I held no grudge.
The organizers claimed I was left out purely as an oversight, the kind of thing that happens during live shows.
Many of my friends believe it was because the category presenter was a competitor of GUNS. Perhaps they didn’t like the idea of introducing me? Whatever. If the situation were reverse, I would have graciously introduced them and not even discussed their rumored heroin habit or possible connections to organized crime.
But there are no hard feelings. Well, maybe there are just a shade over 1,300 words of hard feelings …