The Weird Turn Pro

It looks like I missed my chance at winning a big big jackpot last night. It was supposed to happen between 12:30 and 1:00 a.m., at Paris. I was supposed to pick a machine facing east, and the payout would have been $2000.

But that's okay, because within the next six months I'm going to meet and marry a man who is loaded. He's older than me and has salt and pepper hair and lots and lots of money from working in some kind of international import/export business. We're going to have two kids and live in Florida.

So says the psychic Suz and I met on the corner of Las Vegas and Flamingo last night, which raises the following question: if you're actually psychic and live in Las Vegas, why is it that you're doing readings for tips with random strangers on the strip?

She also told us that the Massachusetts state government is about to collapse because Deval Patrick is currently under double secret investigation from the FBI, and that I shouldn't move to California because I have some kind of prejudice against Mexican culture of which I am unaware. This is clearly wrong, because everyone knows I really hate the Norwegians.*

I'm also going to make my own boatload of cash by editing some project that will make $40 million worldwide, even though there won't be a movie made of whatever this project is. Perhaps I underestimated that manuscript about the Nazi scientists attempting to clone Jesus Christ.

One prediction she offered that I found believable was her assertion that Suz and I will be friends for another four or five decades. It's comforting to know that after the abuses we've put ourselves through this week, we might still have the chance to live that long.

And this man I'm going to meet, obviously a reference to my imminent marriage to George Clooney... or, more likely, Sam Axe.

*I do not hate Norwegians.

Another Conversation About Why Pop Music Sucks

The Suz doesn't usually drink beer, but when she does, she drinks a Dos Equis the size of your face.

This is lunchtime in the strip version of a redneck bar. They've got a lot of neon, loud pop-country music, and a mechanical bull. I want to ride the mechanical bull because I think it would be funny, but that would be against medical advice. The doc is probably right that it wouldn't be funny to have my liver pop out onto the floor of a faux-redneck bar in Vegas.

So the Suz and I sit and have a nice civilized lunch before we board something called "The Deuce," a bus that will get us to downtown.

The music is really loud, and they're playing that song about the woman who goes postal on some dude's car. I don't remember who sings it or the exact title, but it got a lot of airplay a few years ago.

Me: I get the whole angry woman revenge thing. This song is about vandalizing a dude's car after he cheats on her, which is a reasonable instinct, I suppose. But "carved my name into his leather seats?" Oh, no, no, no.

The Suz: Why not just take the car and sell it to a chopshop for a profit? Then he doesn't have his car and you have cash.

Me: That you could use to play craps! Yes! Exactly! But leaving evidence like that at the scene?

The Suz: Amateur... rookie mistake.

In the Casino, the Mighty Casino

"I'm a freaking lion, okay? I'm supposed to be stalking the Serengeti, taking down wildebeests and springboks in a fearsome fashion. Instead I'm living in a glass enclosure in a casino in the middle of the fucking desert. Not a springbok to be seen for thousands of miles.

"I can't even take a nap. We've got these two jerks out here in our enclosure lying down with us just to demonstrate how fearsome we're not. Little kids are watching! It's humiliating.

"Listen, asshole, the day is coming when I will reclaim my dignity and eat your leg. Just not today, because it's really hot out here."

Grievous Skankage

"Matt Damon should have never married that waitress. It just gave people hope," says The Suz.

This is Saturday night in the heart of The Strip in Las Vegas, wandering between Planet Hollywood and The Cosmopolitan. A lot of the casinos here have themes, e.g. New York, New York, The Venetian, Treasure Island. The best The Suz can come up with for The Cosmopolitan tonight is, "I wear very little clothing and and professionally attempt to starfuck."

I like her turn of phrase, but borrow a better one from Christopher Moore: "Grievous skankage."

There's an abundance of tube dresses and hot pants and halter tops. This is clothing that requires waxing of pretty much everything.

But at least skankage is democratic. There do not appear to be any sort of age or weight restrictions on wearing this stuff.

"Manda, it's 2:00 a.m. on Sunday. These are people trying to salvage the weekend," Suz tells me.

Salvage the weekend? All I had to do was put on a tank top in a futile effort to beat the desert heat, stand outside the poker area at Planet Hollywood to watch highlights of the Giants game.

I'm engaged in sending The Kiwi a message about the game on facebook.

"You're texting about me, aren't you?"

I didn't even see him until he was really too close to my personal space. He's tall, reasonably good-looking, and younger than anyone trying to chat me up should be. But he's got one of those weird piercings in his face.

"Nope, not texting about you."

"Yes, you are. You're texting about me."

"Actually, I'm texting about Cody Ross, but thanks for your interest," I say in my very best I'm-bored-with-you-now voice.

You can get the same results by having boobs and walking up to a craps table in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. Of course, in either case you're also likely to pick up something that will require broad-spectrum antibiotics, but if all you want is to hook up with some dude, it's clearly not that difficult.

So with the abundance of desperate tube dresses out there on any given night, I'm beginning to wonder how the pros stay in business. My suspicions were confirmed by two guys I overheard on the sidewalk: "All you have to do is go to a club, hang out until about 2:00 a.m. and wait for the runoff."

So this is where the home delivery option clearly provides a competitive edge.

It also eliminates any possible need your average fan of The Hangover might have for using charm or wit to seduce "the runoff," so I'm guessing these jobs are reasonably secure.

The Pursuit of Happiness, Not the Sit-Around-and-Wait of Happiness

Massachusetts license plates are decorated with the tagline "The Spirit of America." It's the colonial tradition that makes some cities think of themselves as quintessentially American. Philly is kind of that way. New York probably would be if it didn't have so many other things going on. I suppose Washington has a pretty good claim on the title, on account of it being the seat of government and all.

But for my money, Las Vegas is the distillation of all the things that make America great, and it creates a corrosive, yet delicious, paste that you can spread on toast.

Naked capitalism.

Fully dressed capitalism.

Crass commercialism.

Marginal entertainment.

Extreme gluttony.

Giant lizards.

Pyrotechnics.

And the Sweet Taste of Liberty.

So, today we remember the wise words of Barney Stinson: "Look: our forefathers died for the pursuit of happiness! Not the "sit-around-and-wait" of happiness! Now if you want, you can go to the same bar, drink the same beer, talk to the same people every day, *or*, you can *lick* the Liberty Bell! You can grab life by the crack and lick the crap out of it!"

Poker Face

Not a lot of women play poker.

The Suz and I are just good enough at video poker to be able to stretch $20 in the machine to about $40 in free drinks. We're not good at table games at all without guidance, so mostly we sit in the bar and people watch.

Upon arrival and check in last night, we went out to walk around and cruise for action. Vegas might think it's cleaned up its image, but it's actually remarkably hard, even at the upscale places-- maybe especially at the upscale places-- to find a bar without go-go dancers.

We did locate one in Planet Hollywood, although their tables do come with go-go dancers. The bar had a band playing "Piano Man" when we walked up, which led me to believe that we had stumbled across a Billy Joel tribute band with a lead singer who looked like Russell Brand.

Then they played something else, and I realized it was just an ordinary cover band with a lead singer who looked like Russell Brand.

Suz found a spot with a poker machine right away, but the only other empty sport was next to a couple of guys-- we call them The Burny Twins-- who were gesticulating wildly with their cigarettes. They had a woman with them-- let's call her a friend-- wearing a teeny yellow tube dress and sunglasses made out of glow sticks. She was falling-down drunk and also smoking a cigarette with an ash roughly seven inches long.

Me: I want to drink for free, but not badly enough to get set on fire.
The Bartender: I bet you could take her.
Me: That's not even a question, but I don't want to start my vacation on manslaughter charges.

So I left The Suz and the friendly bartender and set off to wander around the casino floor. I ended up over by the poker tables, where I lingered because they had a TV showing highlights of yesterday's Giants game, which you can't really see in the photo, but I tried.

I noticed very few women at the poker tables. In fact, I only noticed one, and she looked like somebody's arm candy. Big blonde hair, strapless satin dress, copious cleavage, pearls... and a five o'clock shadow.

That's much cooler than being someone's arm candy, but doesn't give me much confidence about stepping into a poker game myself. I still can't pull off the strapless look.

Vegas, Baby!

I could tell you about how Suz almost had a meltdown before we even left my house when she discovered she had left her bank card at home in New Hampshire. Which she did.

I could tell you that G-Man is a rock star for bringing her said card at the departure terminal at Logan. And he is.

I could tell you that I still don't know how I missed the announcement on the MBTA website telling me my local line wouldn't be running trains on Saturdays and Sundays all summer. Screw you, MBTA!

I'd rather tell you about the woman ahead of us in the security checkpoint who was wearing suede lace-up knee-high moccasins-- because that's the most convenient footwear choice for a situation in which you will need to take off and put on shoes quickly.

I'd also like some credit for not kicking her in the face.

But if I had kicked her in the face at airport security, Suz and I wouldn't be here in Las Vegas now.

Suz and I came out here with E-Money back in 2002. I don't remember a lot of it, except that E-Money had a confusing moment the first morning when he woke up to hear the shower running and neither Suz nor I could be seen. Then I returned with a dozen Krispy Kremes, which I think was a bigger turn-on than anything that he might have been imagining.

I also remember a gaggle of Elvii trooping through the floor at Mandalay Bay.

Me: Is that what I think it is?
Suz: Is that what I think it is?
Me: That's a lot of Elvis impersonators.
Suz: So you see it too?
Me: Yeah. So we're not just that drunk?
E-Money: You are that drunk, but those are still Elvii.
Suz: Okay, then.
Me: Okay, then.

The rest of it is kind of a haze of alcohol, beers, In N Out Burger, and doughnuts, but otherwise embarrassing for its sheer lack of embarrassing moments.

This morning, nobody woke up to hear anyone else singing "Hot, Hot, Hot" in the shower, but we did see this from the condo window: