Fear and Loathing at BravoCon Las Vegas

DAY ONE

8:35 AM

Land in Las Vegas. First time back since I was ten, when I saw the Cirque du Soleil show with synchronized swimmers and a man on the Strip handed me an escort’s business card. Our Uber driver tells us the Formula 1 Grand Prix starts next week. “Well, this week it’s BravoCon,” I say. He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror and says nothing.

10:15 AM

My boyfriend and I line up for the $19.99 All-You-Can-Eat Brunch at Guy Fieri’s Flavortown, but the maître d’ tells us they’re “not taking walk-ins at this time.” Instead, we settle for $30 chilaquiles in the Paris Hotel’s indoor boulevard and eat underneath its painted sky. There, I download the BravoCon app and realize I’ve already missed Meredith Marks’s morning DJ set. We go back to our room and take a nap.

1:06 PM

Unable to procure my boyfriend an extra ticket, I leave him sleeping and head to Caesars Forum. Outside hang giant pink posters with Who’s Who–style headshots of every Bravolebrity in attendance. It’s surreal to see the extended universe Andy Cohen has built around a basic cable channel. As soap operas and hangout sitcoms vanished from TV, Bravo stepped in to fill the void with its constellation of stars, all well-versed in petty grievances and physical comedy.  

2:37 PM

I sit far in the back for the “Livin’ in Beverly Hills” panel (presented by Nexxus®). During the audience Q&A, someone asks Kathy Hilton to do her Labubu impression. She scrunches her face and says “Me hungry!” in a Cookie Monster voice. Applause. Another fan asks Dorit Kemsley to share a cigarette with her, a reference to a much-meme’d shot of her smoking in her car after her husband PK filed for divorce. Dorit promises to meet her outside after the panel. The crowd erupts in cheers. Smoking is mainstream-chic again.

3:03 PM

The convention floor is one branded photo-op after another. The usual Bravo sponsorships are all here: Wayfair, Wendy’s, State Farm. I stroll down the Bravo Bazaar, where the housewives peddle their various wares. I spot multiple podcast merch shops: Vicki Gunvalson’s My Friend, My Soulmate, My Podcast and Teresa Giudice’s Turning the Tables. Erin Lichy from The Real Housewives of New York reboot hands out free shots of her mezcal brand “Mezcalum.” I return to her booth multiple times. 

3:32 PM

At a panel for divorced housewives, someone with “brat” tattooed across their cleavage asks which songs helped them through their breakups. Teresa from The Real Housewives of New Jersey says she used to sing that song that goes, “All it takes…one kiss is all it takes…to fall in love!” Camille Meyer (formerly Grammer) cites as her mantra “that song with the chorus called ‘just breathe.’” She continues: “I just kept that in my head: Remember Camille. Breathe.” Shannon Beador, only two years removed from her DUI arrest, lights up. “That’s one of mine too!”

5:27 PM

As I leave, Kyle Cooke DJs outside in the T-Mobile Magenta Lounge. He closes with a mashup of Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles” and Tinashe’s “Nasty,” demonstrating a keen awareness of this weekend’s audience. 

11:45 PM

I stay up in the hotel room finishing an essay for a Berlin art magazine. “Breathe… just breathe” is stuck in my head. Ah, right—”Breathe (2AM)” by Anna Nalick. I listen to it on loop while writing the last paragraph.

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DAY TWO

11:05 AM 

It’s raining today and Vegas can’t deal. Pedestrian walkways flood, escalators short-circuit. My boyfriend and I leave the strip to eat at a Laos Thai street food joint in a mini-mall. Whitney Houston karaoke videos play on a half-shadowed stage. I recommend the cooked larb. 

12:47 PM

I sneak my boyfriend into the con by “dropping” my wristband over a railing. The staff, too busy handing out ponchos to soaked attendees, doesn’t notice. Everyone knows BravoCon was built for two.

2:08 PM

We activate the content as a couple. He takes pictures of me falling into a bush like Luann de Lesseps in Mexico, before she got sober. We put on hooded cloaks like The Traitors. We pose in pajamas like the Summer House girls (famous for their bedrotting). We film fake confessionals.

3:52 PM

At the Summer House Q&A, I convince my boyfriend to ask if he can DJ one of their Hamptons ragers, but he chickens out at the last second. “I don’t want my face streaming on Peacock,” he tells me.

8:11 PM

After the con, we go to a taping of Watch What Happens Live at the PH Live Theater. It’s the Shade Room episode: a gathering of the sharpest tongues on Bravo. I’m brought to tears watching my boyfriend, a former Real Housewives agnostic, whoop it up for Phaedra Parks and Angie Katsanevas. I put my arm around him and watch Phaedra try, and fail, to remember a longtime OC housewife’s name.

9:56 PM

We leave early to catch RuPaul’s Drag Race Live at the Flamingo. Jimbo performs her song “Big Top” as a big-breasted clown. I realize that, all along, my gay brain worms have been leading me here.

11:14 PM

Rush to the Atomic Saloon in the Venetian to catch a “Real Housewives of Politics” event, put on by Working Families Party organizer Nelini Stamp. The underlying mission is to tempt the Bravo-viewing demo of white women who swung to the right in the last presidential election. I miss most of the show but hear good things about a “drag king Andy Cohen.”  Candiace Dillard Bassett (Real Housewives of Potomac) is hosting. “Being able to be BravoCon-adjacent and involved in a party like this, with a purpose, is more my jam,” she says. I tell her that it seems like every HR officer in the country is there on the convention floor. “You know, there’s a lot of conservatives who use the Bravo space as their source of entertainment.” She pauses for a moment. “It’s a colorful community.”  

I ask Stamp the inverse: Is it hypocritical to watch MAGA-leaning Housewives while organizing the working class? “If I want to organize the working class? No. Because guess who watches this stuff?” I think of my own far-right relatives, how we often use Bravo as a shared language. For instance: my Blue Lives Matter cousin who loves to text vintage Atlanta Housewives clips to me. 

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DAY THREE

10:26 AM

I wake up more hungover than I’ve been in years. The crab legs at the brunch buffet make me queasy. My boyfriend flies back to New York ahead of me and I brave the rest of BravoCon solo.

12:04 PM

I interview Bronwyn Newport from The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. She’s wearing a canary yellow pantsuit but assures me she’ll change before her panel. “The only reason I signed up for Real Housewives was to get on RuPaul’s Drag Race,” she confesses. “But what I’ve come to realize is how fucking fun it is to film with these ladies.” Before she leaves, I ask her to name the best and worst-dressed ladies at BravoCon. She gives Chanel Ayan (of the canceled Real Housewives of Dubai) her flowers. “And Britani Bateman for worst-dressed,” she adds, shading her castmate with a smile. “Because I know she can take it.”

1:03 PM

At the “Spill the Salt Lake Ci-Tea” panel (presented by Wendys®), Bronwyn is now wearing an organza polka dot minidress by Christian Siriano, looking like Pagliacci with a fierce bob. Britani says she ”loves the costume.” Bronwyn snaps back. “Oh baby doll,” she says, “every time I see you I’ve got new couture but you’ve got the same tired read.” She should put this clip in her Drag Race audition tape!

A bald-headed barbie in the audience initiates a “Protect the Dolls!” chant. The moderators wrangle the cast into repeating the slogan, with all the enthusiasm of a proof-of-life video. I guess this is the latest phrase celebrities are forced to say without context, the new “gay rights!” 

2:13 PM

I score an All-Access wristband and eat a free lunch in the green room. After downing a Celsius, I sit next to Luann de Lesseps and tell her I believe classic RHONY was the last great American sitcom. Every episode holds up on rewatch, like Seinfeld in syndication. She closes her eyes and nods. “With some of the new franchises it’s all about their glam and what they’re wearing, but I want storylines.” Craig Conover walks by. Luann calls to him—“Hi darling!”—and kisses his cheek. “He’s so hot…” she says under her breath, then looks straight at me with one raised eyebrow. “Now I know why they call it Southern Charm.” She tells me about her upcoming holiday shows, followed by a cabaret “Love Tour” in 2026. The life of a showgirl, indeed.

2:57 PM

At the Bravoverse Live Stage, Academy Award nominee Jennifer Tilly spins a wheel. It lands on “Dealer’s Choice,” meaning she has to dance like a Vegas showgirl. She slinks across the stage in a doodle-print cape (which I assume is couture, not costume). Behind me, a woman mutters, “Should I be a little self-conscious that I haven’t talked to my kids all weekend?”

3:29 PM

A publicist for Marysol Patton (The Real Housewives of Miami) grabs me and leads me to her booth, where she’s selling budget-conscious hair extensions. We enter the Bazaar and the fans descend. Security tries to hold them back. “I use the security as a scapegoat,” Marysol whispers. “Otherwise someone will call me a bitch for not taking a selfie with them.” At her booth, she poses with her business partner. A woman in line for the meet-and-greet screams: “Marysol—tuck in those Skims!”

4:42 PM

I spend the last hour of the con charging my phone in the green room while watching Tom Sandoval drift from table to table like the dark prince of Bravo’s past.

5:32 PM

Outside Caesars Forum, I’m running on empty. A staff member offers to take my photo in front of the Bravo logo. “You see a lot of famous people today?” he asks, with avuncular warmth. “Depends how you define famous,” I tell him. The Bravolebrities stare down at me from the poster, like the gods on Mount Olympus.

8:39 PM

At the airport, all three of my trays get pulled by TSA. The agent tells me my bag won’t scan. “If it can’t scan, you can’t go through,” he repeats. They run it again and again. Nothing. The agent shrugs. My flight leaves in 20 minutes and I’ve never been more fried. I feel like flipping a table. Prostitution whore!

9:07 PM

Somehow, I make my flight to Boston. Off to Cape Cod for a self-proclaimed “writer’s retreat” at my dad’s house. On Instagram, I see that the trailer for The Real Housewives of Rhode Island, the latest entry in the ever-expanding franchise, has dropped. Newport is only an hour away from where my dad lives. My novel can wait.