The Last 48 hours in Vegas

To be honest, a good portion of the last forty-eight hours of my trip in Vegas is kind of a blur. I am doing my best to piece it together from the fragments of my mind. So, here goes nothing.

First off, let’s talk about the “THE DARK KNIGHT.” With only a few foibles, this is what a comic book superhero movie should be. I will not reveal any of the plot to y’all, but I will tell you this, Heath Ledger’s deception of the Joker clearly shows why the Joker is such a dangerous psychopath. M, J and I had to go to Red Rock Casino near the mountains to see the movie. It was utter insanity to get into the movie, even with pre-purchased tickets off the internet. The only seats that were left in the theatre were done in front. Even at this crappy angle, the movie was a miracle to behold. This movie will win some Oscars for the cinematography and stunts alone, and you can take that to the bank.

One of the allures of Las Vegas is gambling. Gambling is everywhere in this town from the gas stations, the grocery stores, the bars, and anywhere else you can think of people. I did not want to gamble while I was in Vegas because I did not want to become one of the mindless tourist drones that would sit at a machine or a table for minutes, hours, and days on end. And trust me bojack, there were quite of few of these characters at Red Rock Casino when we got there for “THE DARK KNIGHT” and when we left. To be honest, it was damn scary seeing people exist like that while I was on vacation.

Saturday was “X-Mas in July” at a bar near where M & J lived. Women in bikinis, cheep beer, and house prizes. From my cell phone pics, and the account from J was that I did the following: a.) I drank about five beer steins (22 oz to 32 oz) full of beer and five jello shots, b.) was talking and hitting on most of the women that worked at this bar, and c.) talked a lot in general. My memory of that night is fragmented, at best, and at worst, shot.

I would not recommend being hung over and taking a four hour airplane flight, especially with very little on your stomach and five hours of sleep. AirTran is a great airline with some beautiful flight attendants. I think if it was not for them and the five Sprites that I drank on the way home, I would have vomited on the plane and made a spectacle of myself.

I have some other random observations about Vegas, but I will save them for a later time. Fast Times at Ridgemont High is coming on. “What are you, people? On dope?” – God, I love me some Mr. Hand and Jeff Spicoli.

Day Three of the Vegas Vacation:

After three days in Vegas, I have to say that Nevada DOT are a bunch of fuckin’ morons. None of the major roads out here have painted lanes. They are those lines that tell you when you can pass, when you cannot pass, where the turn lanes are, and where the edge of the lane is located. They have reflectors that are their to help guide you in lieu of painted lanes, but most of the roads here appear to have been recently tarred or resurfaced. So, those reflectors are of little usefulness.

I have enjoyed being about utterly useless, and spending time either at the bar, or hanging with M and J. Plus, I have become quite good at Wii Sports. God, Nintendo has created an entertain console that is superior to the Xbox 360 and the PS3. Yes, I know the tech geeks, and the respected fanboys of each console will try to rake me over a great number of hot coals, but I don’t care. The Wii is more fun, it gets you off the couch, and makes you to become an active part of the game. Also, it is a great way to socialize with people.

The plan last night was to go to a local jazz/blues place. But that fell through pretty quickly. This place was a part of an industrial park and tucked away from the major thoroughfare. There were only two cars at this place at 9pm. One was an El Camino with rust spots on it that appeared to be older than M, J, and myself. The other car appeared to be new, until you saw the numerous bondo patches on it. The smell of the place reeked through the car windows. It looked like a place where drug deals went down, and where a police report about a nefarious crime would describe in its opening words. So, we decided to skip it and go back to Double Down.

One of the fun things about a place of Double Down is that all types of people decide to show up. A group of five people (3 males and 2 females) showed up shortly after we did. You can tell by their manner of dress that they were tourists. They ordered 5 bacon martinis. Yes, you heard me right. A bacon martini. I am drunkard, and willing to try most any alcohol beverage, but martinis and bacon are two things that should never mix. Call me old fashion if you like. At the exact same time these brave souls were ordering said drinks, there was a clip from the Travel Channel regarding Double Down. It was was rather surreal to see this footage between the previews of B-rate horror / sex films, and the All-Star game.

15 innings! I think that it was the second longest All-Star game in terms of innings, and the longest one in terms of time. When we got to Double Down, it was in the 11^th. God, I feel for the National League, because they have lost 12 All-Star games in a row. It was fun (at least to me; I cannot speak for J) answering M’s questions about baseball. Plus, I was having fun trading baseball trivia with the locals. One of them, who appeared to be a cheap knock off of Vince Vaughn’s character from “Swingers” asked me about where I came from dressed in the shirt that I had on. I had on a green short-sleeved shirt that looked like it came from a Tiki Bar. (A small aside, I miss watching TikiBar TV and seeking Lala. God, she is smokin’!) I told where I came from, the great state of Georgia. The Vince wannabe started making comments about Georgia Peaches, such as damn them or they all make good wifes. The last thing that I wanted to do on a Tuesday night was to argue with a drunken washed up 40 something white dude in a dive bar in Las Vegas. So, I brushed him off with a few jokes about Georgia Peaches, and moved promptly to where M and J were at the bar.

I know when I get back to Georgia (and not on the midnight train), there will be a number of people that will be disappointed with me because I did not do one (or more) of the following:

1. Drink myself into a stupor,
2. find a female tourist and have a booty call with her,
3. Gamble half of my checking and savings account away and have nothing to show for it,
4. Go to a brothel, or
5. Go some other cliché associated with a vacation in Vegas.

To those people, I repeat my earlier disclaimer: Go Fornicate Yourself. If you are too stupid to know what that means, please let me make myself more plain, Fuck you. I am enjoying taking it easy and not having to worry that my vacation is not living up to some hedonist quota set forth by people that really don’t give a damn about me.