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Vegas: End Game

2004-07-21_xx_3:49 p.m.


I have never been able to pinpoint exactly what it is that draws me to this city like the ever popular moth to a porch light motif. Something calls to me and it is a different sort of beckoning than the one that my desert oasis resonates; here I am home, but in Vegas I am in my element.

Maybe it�s the way I can wear my sunglasses 24/7 and not ever warrant an odd look, a disdainful glance or a disapproving scowl. Day or night, it always seems bright enough to dictate the need for me to cut the glare with my shaded spectacles. There are always exceptions. A dimly lit place called Crazy Horse Too is one of these. Here flesh is pedaled, Vegas style, for a profit and a tease. Unlike the skin shops on the outskirts of the city that offer satisfaction for a steep price, this place offers fantasy girls (that later your left hand imitates) for a moderate fee. Of course there are always bonuses to such establishments, watching your roommate pass out in the middle of the lap dance and then promptly vomit his guts out in the rest room is one. Staring wistfully after our in city sexpot as she escapes into a dark corner for a quick make-out session with another female patron is another.

Several nights, hell days too, like this smashed one on top of the other are bound to cause memory lapses. Ingesting enough alcohol to get an entire platoon of marines drunk and smoking enough grass to fund the Shining Path Guerillas, combined with little if any sleep add to the hazy dreamscape. Example? I can remember 5 of the 6 cab drivers we flagged down while there. A crazy Russian kid who spoke but a few words to us, while managing to nearly make me shit myself with the break neck speed he used to get us to the airport terminal in record time. I would definitely not recommend hopping in Nikoli�s cab, horribly hung over on a Sunday morning. Queen was the Nigerian who was ready to storm Capitol Hill with me. She possessed a surprising grasp of U.S. politics despite her lack of citizenry or grasp of the English language. The Ethiopian howled with laughter and high-fived me when I advised that I would never make it to Egypt to see the Pyramids of Giza because I would be kidnapped before I made it out of the airport based on the color of my skin and the fork in my American tongue.

This particular trip represents a number of milestones for me as well.

1) It is the longest span of time that I survived and in some cases thrived with very little food and not a single drop of caffeine for 60 consecutive hours. In order to accomplish this task, I did gamble ten-fold from what I had on my previous excursions, thus securing �free drinks� that cost me nothing more than every dime I had brought with me. Hell, I even had to borrow five bucks to pay for my cab ride with Nikoli.

2) Despite not shaking my groove thang for a number of months, I surprised myself and a number of my fellow revelers by dancing until near dawn on consecutive nights. The afore mentioned in city friend couldn�t get enough and we easily secured out own little corner of Rum Jungle on Friday night, getting down and dirty on the dance floor. And even when she exclaimed, �you would be SO hot if you gained 20lbs� I forgave her seeing as how she bought all of my drinks.

3) Being solicited by the same prostitute, at the same location, at the same time of morning on consecutive days was fantastic. The first night, the instant we made eye contact she started murmuring �hey babies� to me, crushing my spirit since only a hooker could be that forward in three seconds or less, even in Vegas. Specifically, since she was dressed to raid the Ghost Bar and was lingering near a casino entrance, I was suspect and when she had tried to invite herself up to my hotel room in less than three minutes, I was convinced. She did this odd, high class cheek pinch I would expect from somebody�s grandmother when I informed her, �I couldn�t possibly afford a morning like that� before slinking away. The second night, I was perplexed and once the �hey baby� popped out, I cut the conversation short, �you don�t remember me do you? Well hot-stuff, you tried this sales pitch last night; sorry, I�m not buying.� Obviously she wasn�t very impressed with my curtness and quickly wiggled away, giving me a perfect opportunity to lean against the MGM to NY, NY catwalk and stalk her with predator eyes. I�m still not sure if it was mild discomfort or much practiced longing that returned my gaze as she slipped into the casino, if she could have read my mind, I�m guessing it would have been neither. In hindsight, I should have probably checked her for an Adams apple before recanting this tale, but no point in turning back now�

There were several bitter sweet moments. Most of these revolved around a reunion with my best friend�s family, who at times also goes by the pseudo of my x-girlfriend. This particular pill was the most bitter of the very few that I had to swallow this past weekend. The rest of her extended family has been clamoring to meet me for years and even after our separation eons ago, they still ask about me, want me to meet cousins and Aunts I�ve never heard of and even go as far as to invite me to stay at their houses in the respected states they live in. They one and all pestered her until I finally manifested. Of course lots of back-slapping, hand shaking and drink buying ensued. I am a son-in-law by adoption. And yes, the adoption classification sometimes reminds me of darker times. This sort of bitterness is not the kind of taste to carry around in your mouth while in the city of sin. Thankfully for me, the same libations that cause such thoughts to populate, also work equally well to eliminate them; thank the gods for Jell-O shots, tequila bombers and flavored rums. My luck at the tables, rolled into the clubs; a group of a dozen bachelorettes, heads topped with devil horns, rebuked my attempts to snap photos of them. And even when I learned my lesson and avoided trying to converse with the women whose eyes were glazed over amidst the fever pitch of a gambling frenzy, those that were just drunk shushed me away like an annoying puppy. Finally, while very functional, the Monorail was a bit of a let down since you couldn�t drink or smoke on the thing thus leaving you with large chunks of time spent sweltering with nothing to quench your thirst with.

All in all, Vegas is still VEGAS. Over-indulgence at its greatest; massive amounts of everything sinful all available at the touch of button, ring of a phone or for those with true Las Vegas grit, a price that is never a problem.

My liver hurts, my lungs are bleeding and my sleep pattern is distorted and skewed worse than a crack-head on a week long bender. My wallet is empty, my eyes are cashed and I left my soul (along with the contents of my stomach) somewhere on Tropicana Blvd. �They� say that a picture is worth a thousand words, so here are 140,000 or so. VEGAS 3a & 3b FOR THOSE OF YOU PLAYING ALONG AT HOME.

�Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride� Viva baby, Viva

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