The Travel Log Of Two Thirtysomethings In Las Vegas
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A response to Drew Swinburne's July 5th piece.
So then the hooker says, "Hey, I got a Yahtzee! Ha ha! That's another twenty you owe me, chief." Then she fired up a Winston, her fifth in the last ten minutes. Great. I'm about to get my freak on with Marge Schott. I could feel my plan, so simple yet elegant, suddenly falling apart.
To show those punk teens how to party in Vegas.
When Drew Swinburne posted his swinging little escapade, "The Travel Log of Two Teenagers in Las Vegas," that was a throwdown which couldn't be ignored. Someone needed to speak out on behalf of ex-teens and ex-twentysomethings.
Maybe us older guys have lost a step but we still have skillz. When it comes to jumping into the middle of some crazy shit, we are totally there. Since I live just a morning's high-speed drive from Vegasburg, I seemed like the logical choice to accept the challenge.
I put the word out to my peeps but since they are all gainfully employed (i.e., not writers) they were unavailable. What does it say about your street cred when all your peeps are in meetings or giving a presentation on the horrors of foot fungus? Finally, I snagged an old amigo, newly pink-slipped and itching for adventure. He agreed to go if I sprang for tickets to Riverdance. (Note to Ben Brown: Hope this partially explains the hefty expense voucher I've submitted to Über.)
A few hours later we were kicking it old school in Caesar's. Caesar's, baby, Caesar's. It was awesome. We were in the zone, absolutely tearing those tables up! We scored on every pass. Roast beef, prime rib, shrimp, stir fry, pasta, and more sides than I've ever seen in one place. And don't get me started on the desserts! No wonder they call this place Sin City. Where else can you find buffets this decadent?
Once we were carbed up there was only one thing left to do. Grab a nap. Just six, seven hours worth. Everybody knows they pretty much roll up the sidewalks in Vegas in the evenings anyway. Tomorrow we get wild.
We were kicked out of Caesar's for counting cards. Bastards! We weren't counting cards in the traditional sense. My amigo just couldn't resist whipping out his impression of The Count, complete with menacing laugh to describe each and every hand. "One red diamond, aah, aah, aah, two red diamonds, aah, aah, aah, three red diamonds, aah, aah, aah!"
Finally, the dealer called the pit boss and we were bounced out on our asses. It was obvious the casinos were running scared.
Only one thing to do now. A little souvenir shopping. We went off-Strip, to a little place I know about where the locals go to buy their snow globes.
PEOPLE YOU DON'T HAVE TO TIP IN VEGAS
Cops who pull you over for speeding.
Ambulance drivers. Unless they perform CPR.
Priests. Unless they perform last rites.
Total strangers you pass in the street and have no contact with.
Restroom deputy attendants. Turns out restroom attendants don't have deputies. That guy who claims he's supposed to stay in the stall with you at all times is just messed up.
The voices in your head.
Everybody else gets a taste.
THE WHORE: PART II
So we decided to close out our weekend in style. By eating breakfast off a hooker's chest, an homage to Sinatra.
We procured the services of a young woman who specialized in portraying fiesta ware. But when we got back to the room, we couldn't agree on a suitable menu. I wanted waffles, my amigo was leaning towards an omelet. We compromised on Toaster Strudels.
Unfortunately, that was the one item not offered by room service. So we rock, papered, scissored to see who would run to the store and who would stay behind and entertain our guest, the harlot. It was a sucker bet on his part because he always, always leads off with scissors. I lay the fist on him, and bada-bing I am alone with and small-talking my new girlfriend.
Which lasted about two minutes before we ran out of stuff to talk about. (Note to Ben: She doesn't read Über but since we did discuss it, the entire transaction, including my Yahtzee losses should qualify as a business expense. See receipt attached to voucher.)
It is quiet in the car heading home and the tension is palpable. I am pissed at my ex-amigo since he never showed with the strudels. His alibi -- stopping to help Siegfried and Roy round up several tigers after their SUV overturned on the highway -- seemed thin.
Finally, my girlfriend got tired of waiting and broke up with me. She stormed out with over a hundred of Über's dollars in her purse. Bitch.
But the important thing is, our mission was accomplished. I don't think there's any doubt of that. When deciding who can still turn Vegas on its glittery neon ear, the teens or the geezers, the answer is painfully obvious.
Just tally up the snow globes, dudes. 'Nuf said.
Roger Naylor is a party animal