For My Wife
6.18.2009
6.06.2009
As it happened
I was in Vegas the other day and a couple on either side of it, looking for adventure in a town more than willing to sell you as much of it as it can manufacture and market. A town where it's possible to get a stumbling buzz and a sunburn before noon. Where you can ask police officers to pose for photo ops. Where you can smoke indoors and drink outside. More a hedonist's daydream than a town, really.
We (my girl, my brother, and I) left early on a Friday and came back late on a Sunday because that's what you do when you're not quite flush, and you're trying to draw to one. Us and the town did not break even.
SEATTLE, Friday 2:30AM - The streets are mostly empty. You can easily stand in them and watch for your bus. Sure, people might get irritated at driving up on an unexpected manslaughter charge, but it's your right as a Person Awake at that Hour.
And once the bus arrives, sit wherever amuses you. Fer instance, we all sat in the back, a tactical mistake. Even at that hour the airport bus fills up, and it's very difficult to move away when the most odorous man you have ever encountered sits beside you. He's got a smell you'd characterize as malevolent and liken to an inquisitive octopus. Open windows and you'll still have to hold your breath at red lights.
After a couple of long stops without one, the flight was a breeze.
Our first meal was in the Steakhouse at Bill's Gambling Hall and Saloon, a little two and a half star joint on the strip. Dark wood walls, red upholstery, sassy waitress. Nice place for a mobland whacking. We had tried to hit the "street" cafe in Paris because they serve eggs benedict there that play staring roles in Sums' dreams, but only until 11am. So: Bill's.
For the ubiquity of liquor, some casinos still have unusual restrictions on access. Our waitress--who was keeping us up to date on the passing drama of her coworkers--could not take our drink order. She had to call in one of the cocktail waitresses from her regular path around the slots to serve us. At least they pour strong in Vegas. No use in thinking clearly here.
With food in our bellies, we headed out into the sun to wander proper. The city is an oddly sprawled theme park, where working escalators run 50%, and people in costumes populate the crowds. Honestly, we didn't do much the first day. The early morning was the evening's cooler. We slept and woke with enough time to eat some eggs bene de Paris.
Then, dismissive of the flash and jazz, we headed down to Fremont Street, Old Vegas. I don't know how long ago they did it but two entire blocks are covered with a giant lcd screen, which they use to tell you empowering parables about the corporate sponsor, but also makes for neat backdrops in memories.
While my brother quickly made the switch to blackjack, Sums kept at the slots. Neither did better than the other, although both were up at one point. I'm not much of a gambler--I don't get the buzz of feeding money to a blank face hoping I irritate its stomach enough that it shits credits--so after my initial $20 was done, I was too. After a good couple hours gambling, we were all ready for something else. Naked women were decided on as the perfect palate cleanser.
I've never gone to a strip club before. I have a girlfriend. The money I spend on her gets me full access, not just promising but short back rubs and repeated hard sells of dances in backcurtain rooms. But there we were, up on the bar, while old and busteds followed cleveland jerseys up and down the pole, and anonymously costumed girls sat in the shadows behind us like extras in the speakeasy scenes of Miss Saigon.
The sixth girl up was the first one with any kind of music in her body, slapping her ass and clacking her lucite heels to the beat (aside: why is strip club music generally so terrible? Is it because the meatheads who are most often in to leer have no taste?). She could wink her buttock over her brown eye like the charmer she was. After closing in on us, she took possession of my hat.
My hat worked the crown of her head like a sloshed sorority girl on amateur night for the next half hour or so, as I sat there and kept tabs and drinking. It should not surprise you the drinks were strong. Weak drings and strong lights are strip club kryptonite, but, ah, the reverse! The intersection of imagination and inebriation is nothing short of magic.
Back out on the family-friendly streets, we returned to our previous pursuits. Slots, blackjack, drinking. It wasn't to last. The alcohol had finally tricked its way past Sums' senses, and was making its escape in 15-second sprints. We had come down on the Deuce, LV's bus system, but since that would be slow murder, we hailed a cab home to Imperial Palace.
Slumped in bed, Sums assured me she'd be fine and sent me back out into the night. My brother was already back in the cards. I wandered up and down the boulevard until 4am. In the two hours I was out, I was offered weed ("finest cush in from L.A."), a free limo ride to a strip club (by a guy who began his spiel with: "Have you ever stuck your entire hand in a woman's vagina?", which I guess he uses because it sorta demands a response, and when I demurred) a prostitute delivered straight to my room, anything ("I'm your candyman, I've got what you want" said the guy as he approached), and another limo to the strip club by two jaded women ("we thought you might like to go because you're so HANDsome"). In the meantime, I saw a lot of little human drama, the kind that always happens when a long day of drinking winds down: arguments, unclear relationships hurtling towards closed doors, and the police rounding up the worst offenders.
Somehow, we woke up in time to check out before they charged us another day, and we snailed our way to brunch at Planet Hollywood, where unlimited champagne only costs another three dollars. Waitresses walk around with pitchers of mimosas and top off glasses as you eat steamtable delicacies. We decided to let our stomachs settle by riding the roller coaster at New York, NY. Then the monorail, then Speed: The Ride at the Sahara, where they shoot you 60mph through a few loops and then again backwards.
After a short stop at fashion show mall--it has its own runway and backstage area that rises out of the floor and then disappears again, taking the models with it--we were on our way back to the airport. By the time we were home, it was Monday, work was imminent, and the whole thing had the feeling of deja vu centered on a leg that's fallen asleep.
We (my girl, my brother, and I) left early on a Friday and came back late on a Sunday because that's what you do when you're not quite flush, and you're trying to draw to one. Us and the town did not break even.
SEATTLE, Friday 2:30AM - The streets are mostly empty. You can easily stand in them and watch for your bus. Sure, people might get irritated at driving up on an unexpected manslaughter charge, but it's your right as a Person Awake at that Hour.
And once the bus arrives, sit wherever amuses you. Fer instance, we all sat in the back, a tactical mistake. Even at that hour the airport bus fills up, and it's very difficult to move away when the most odorous man you have ever encountered sits beside you. He's got a smell you'd characterize as malevolent and liken to an inquisitive octopus. Open windows and you'll still have to hold your breath at red lights.
After a couple of long stops without one, the flight was a breeze.
Our first meal was in the Steakhouse at Bill's Gambling Hall and Saloon, a little two and a half star joint on the strip. Dark wood walls, red upholstery, sassy waitress. Nice place for a mobland whacking. We had tried to hit the "street" cafe in Paris because they serve eggs benedict there that play staring roles in Sums' dreams, but only until 11am. So: Bill's.
For the ubiquity of liquor, some casinos still have unusual restrictions on access. Our waitress--who was keeping us up to date on the passing drama of her coworkers--could not take our drink order. She had to call in one of the cocktail waitresses from her regular path around the slots to serve us. At least they pour strong in Vegas. No use in thinking clearly here.
With food in our bellies, we headed out into the sun to wander proper. The city is an oddly sprawled theme park, where working escalators run 50%, and people in costumes populate the crowds. Honestly, we didn't do much the first day. The early morning was the evening's cooler. We slept and woke with enough time to eat some eggs bene de Paris.
Then, dismissive of the flash and jazz, we headed down to Fremont Street, Old Vegas. I don't know how long ago they did it but two entire blocks are covered with a giant lcd screen, which they use to tell you empowering parables about the corporate sponsor, but also makes for neat backdrops in memories.
While my brother quickly made the switch to blackjack, Sums kept at the slots. Neither did better than the other, although both were up at one point. I'm not much of a gambler--I don't get the buzz of feeding money to a blank face hoping I irritate its stomach enough that it shits credits--so after my initial $20 was done, I was too. After a good couple hours gambling, we were all ready for something else. Naked women were decided on as the perfect palate cleanser.
I've never gone to a strip club before. I have a girlfriend. The money I spend on her gets me full access, not just promising but short back rubs and repeated hard sells of dances in backcurtain rooms. But there we were, up on the bar, while old and busteds followed cleveland jerseys up and down the pole, and anonymously costumed girls sat in the shadows behind us like extras in the speakeasy scenes of Miss Saigon.
The sixth girl up was the first one with any kind of music in her body, slapping her ass and clacking her lucite heels to the beat (aside: why is strip club music generally so terrible? Is it because the meatheads who are most often in to leer have no taste?). She could wink her buttock over her brown eye like the charmer she was. After closing in on us, she took possession of my hat.
My hat worked the crown of her head like a sloshed sorority girl on amateur night for the next half hour or so, as I sat there and kept tabs and drinking. It should not surprise you the drinks were strong. Weak drings and strong lights are strip club kryptonite, but, ah, the reverse! The intersection of imagination and inebriation is nothing short of magic.
Back out on the family-friendly streets, we returned to our previous pursuits. Slots, blackjack, drinking. It wasn't to last. The alcohol had finally tricked its way past Sums' senses, and was making its escape in 15-second sprints. We had come down on the Deuce, LV's bus system, but since that would be slow murder, we hailed a cab home to Imperial Palace.
Slumped in bed, Sums assured me she'd be fine and sent me back out into the night. My brother was already back in the cards. I wandered up and down the boulevard until 4am. In the two hours I was out, I was offered weed ("finest cush in from L.A."), a free limo ride to a strip club (by a guy who began his spiel with: "Have you ever stuck your entire hand in a woman's vagina?", which I guess he uses because it sorta demands a response, and when I demurred) a prostitute delivered straight to my room, anything ("I'm your candyman, I've got what you want" said the guy as he approached), and another limo to the strip club by two jaded women ("we thought you might like to go because you're so HANDsome"). In the meantime, I saw a lot of little human drama, the kind that always happens when a long day of drinking winds down: arguments, unclear relationships hurtling towards closed doors, and the police rounding up the worst offenders.
Somehow, we woke up in time to check out before they charged us another day, and we snailed our way to brunch at Planet Hollywood, where unlimited champagne only costs another three dollars. Waitresses walk around with pitchers of mimosas and top off glasses as you eat steamtable delicacies. We decided to let our stomachs settle by riding the roller coaster at New York, NY. Then the monorail, then Speed: The Ride at the Sahara, where they shoot you 60mph through a few loops and then again backwards.
After a short stop at fashion show mall--it has its own runway and backstage area that rises out of the floor and then disappears again, taking the models with it--we were on our way back to the airport. By the time we were home, it was Monday, work was imminent, and the whole thing had the feeling of deja vu centered on a leg that's fallen asleep.
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