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Thursday, August 22, 2013

Curse of the Single Lonely Diner Table

Continuing on my Wednesday, I decided to do my walkabout and get some exercise. I hauled ass straight to the El Cortez.

Yes, one hundred degree desert heat is indeed very fucking hot. Dry heat or not. It's the kind of dry heat that Planter's uses to roast nuts. So if you want your nuts roasted, come to Vegas in August.

(You'll be glad for the Big Dipper, trust me. Ladies, you are exempt.)

My notes from the El Cortez:


That Slotzilla zipline structure at the east end of Fremont is pretty imposing and it causes really tight choke points on each side - I'm not sure I would want to be going through there on a busy night when drunken louts are about. For about 30 feet, there is nowhere to go.

I got some life-sustaining breakfast supplies at Walgreen's (low fat yogurt, dry roasted nuts (almonds, this time), and some Aveeno shaving gel). Carry on means no shaving cream in the suitcase.
On the way back, took a boo at the Downtown Grand - it is coming along beautifully. I have a feeling all sorts of degenerate adventures await me there, in the near future! (Hopefully, after it opens, not before.)

Back at Main Street Station, I took a flyer on Super Double Fucker Bonus and did get a quad - but not one of the premium ones.

And I lost some more. And some more.

And I found I was down about $240 on the day. How did that happen?!

Well, I lost, that's how.

I hit up the MSS bar for a beer or two - and lost $200 more in about two beers. WTF?

JoB 'Near Miss'
All of a sudden this was getting serious. I showered and shaved with my exciting new can of Aveeno. I wrote up yesterday's hilarious blog posts. I took an additional $200 stake.

I bought a 50 cent seven number keno ticket and was a good boy - I went straight to the Pasta Pirate for dinner. And I was told it would be a one hour wait. Damn them! I had no choice - NONE - but to gamble.

Craps would be my saviour! Bought in for a hundy and 15 minutes later walked away with $18 in chips and two Absoluts down. I holed up at the blackjack table, and with an additional $20 buy-in managed to make it to dinner-time, with another four Absoluts down.

View from The Single Lonely Diner Table at the Pasta Pirate
Like the night before, I was seated at "The Single Lonely Diner Table". This is the worst table in the house, next to the little bus-boy closet. Fine. Every restaurant has one, am I right?

I tried to stay in good spirits, having a couple glasses or three of their house wine. My medium-rare rib steak came well done. I sent it back. I checked keno online and it looked like I'd gotten 6 of 7 for $100. This pissed me off.


Because 7 out of 7 is was worth $8,000 and I'd missed it by one number. The gambling fever was turning me into an ogre!

I noticed there was a tray on a folding stand, just a foot or two off my elbow. It had someone's crab leg exoskeletons on it. And I kinda started to lose it. I reamed out the waiter, and then asked for the host and reamed her out, babbling about The Single Lonely Diner Table, and how I shouldn't have to eat next to garbage.

And I think I actually do have a point. But the wall by the Single Lonely Diner Table is scarred from years of having the garbage tray on the stand right next to it. The wall is gouged. I don't think the Curse of the Single Lonely Diner Table will be cured soon, not until the Pasta Fucking Pirate walks the pasta fucking plank.*

So. On to more losing. $20 on four $5 spins on roulette. Treasure Chest dollar VP. Some dollar slots.

At some point I wandered into the lovely, well-appointed Maile room at The Cal to partake of some Aloha Spirit. There was some sort of reunion going on in there and I felt a bit down and lonely. And hammered.

I was just about to take a picture inside when some scrunchy-faced woman said pointedly, "This is a private reception."

"Well, I'm a sargeant. I outrank you," I said.

She glared at me.

"I have to leave now, right?" I asked.

On the way out, I found solace with Some Old Guy - as I walked by I looked at him and said, "She kicked my ass out!!!"

He laughed and said, "Kicked your ass out did she? Heh heh heh."

It made me feel 1% better.

Apparently Aloha spirit doesn't extend to the Maile room for drunk savvy degenerate gamblers.

I joined the "I got kicked out of a reception in the Maile room" club.
I finished the day down $600. Great start to the day, and then right into the stink-eye guy dumper.

Day: $-600
Trip: -$400

*This turned out to be prescient, as the Pasta Fucking Pirate sank to Davy Jones Locker in 2014, replaced by the California Noodle House.

    1 comment:

    1. I hope your wife will come soon to save you...Your reports are "happier" when she is there...:-) Good luck.


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