Day 12 Wednesday Nov 5, 2013 - part 1
Well guess what? I had about three reasons to like the Downtown Grand. One of them was the restored full pay video poker which had been ransacked yet again by the suits, as mentioned. And, one of them was the bold, dark flavorful coffee roast they supplied free in the morning.
The coffee in the morning at the Grand is now, officially, crap. It's horrid. The same sort of corporate cafeteria low grade utility crap you get as the lowest common denominator.
I was so disappointed! I had two cups each morning, and I am positive they've changed the coffee used. There was so much attention to detail when they first opened, but they fumbled the casino. Now they are backpedaling and cutting quality to try to get back on their feet.
The Aces kicker progressive at the Downtown Grand had still not been hit, and was well over $1000, so we chased that some more, first thing in the morning.
Frustratingly the Quad Queen hit Aces... but no kicker. That particular missing kicker cost her about $750.
|Quad Queen hit four Aces. No kicker though. Almost $300 win...|
The Grand has a number of promotions on including point multipliers. And, for every 1000 points you could earn $5 in food, up to a maximum of $50 a day. I had no trouble earning out the maximum. So, I'd eat free if I wanted. The virtual vouchers are good for 48 hours.
Combining this with point multiplier days, and food discounts such as half price for people over 50 on Thursdays, your dollar could go a long way on the better video poker machines.
We ate breakfast at S+O (which is the new-speak name of Stewart Ogden, which was the name of the main eatery in the Grand).
I had the egg and sausage sandwich thingy and Mrs. Flusher had an omelette. Both were good but the bill came to over $30, which is a bit high for downtown notwithstanding any discounts. Good thing I had vouchers to cover it.
We went at the Aces and still could not get them. So frustrating to have that ripe delicious peach of an Aces Kicker just out of my tippy-toes finger-tip reach and not be able to taste the succulent juices of four Aces and a kicker. How frustrating? So frustrating, that's how.
I had to return the rental car, so at eleven I headed out, picked up the car, and went on a drive, looking for a gas station. I know the rental peeps can be kind of anal about you returning your car at the appointed hour - not before, and not after, lest there be charges for such temporal crimes.
And, it was vital that I fill the car, because they would charge me the price of a full tank if I returned it anything less then brimming with petrol.
Thinking I had plenty of time, I thought I remembered seeing a gas station down Las Vegas Boulevard, near the Strat. It was another beautiful sunny day, so I rolled down the windows on the Ford Taurus and moseyed down that way.
I can say that it took until this, the seventh day of my week long car rental, to finally fathom how the abso-fucking-screwy turn indicators on the Ford Taur-ass work. (Or don't work.) I was constantly fighting with these things, signaling, not signaling enough, signaling the wrong way when trying to turn off the signal after a lane change.
Anyway, it took me a while to find the station and then took me a couple of passes to get turned around and into it. Hmmm, five to twelve, and I was supposed to have the car back at twelve.
I pulled up to the pump and then remembered something I'd seen on one of those listicle things that pass themselves off as journalism - 839 things you must know about pumping gas into a car. Usually there is a little arrow indicating on what side the gas-hole is on. Now, as a rational human being, I'd assumed that it would be where God intended it to be - on the driver's side - and had parked accordingly.
It's on the passenger side. So I got back in, started 'er up, did some fancy maneuvering and got lined up with the passenger side gas-hole next to a pump.
Then I had to navigate the 'we don't trust you one bit' gas pumping system I've found in various places in the US. Things are much more relaxed up here in Flusherville - its virtually unheard of to have to go inside to use your credit card, or pay in advance.
I went inside and said I wanted to fill the car to the brim, and presented my credit card.
Cash or debit only.
What the fuck? And guess what? I had two fives and about three tipping dollars in my wallet and that was IT. I forked over everything I had.
"Thirteen dollars worth of your lowest quality gas, please. Maybe you have some made by the same people that now make the coffee the Downtown Grand serves - if so, that's the one I want."
I went out to the car, unlocked it, and got in, leaving the door open. I'd just find the fuel cover release button, and get on with it.
I looked on the door. On the console, On the dash. Under the dash. Around the seat. Inside the bins. Inside the glove apartment. I looked everywhere for that fucking thing and do you think I could find it? Hell no.
I got out and checked the cover to see if was an old school one I could just pull open. Nope, that was clearly not the case. It was now five after twelve and I was late.
If only I had some sort of device that I could consult, giving it information about what I wanted, maybe even asking it questions. Some sort of portable device that could connect to an information store that might hold the precious answers to the petroleum conundrum that stymied me.
"C'mon, Flusher..." I said, "use that fabulous brain of yours!"
I wished I could suddenly get smart about all this.
And then it came to me. My piPhone 3.1.4! I pulled up Google and clumsily thumbed in a query.
"FORD FUCKING TAURASS GAS COVER RELEASE"
I thumbed enter and the answer came back.
"IT DOESN'T HAVE ONE, ASSHOLE!"
I read further and then performed the motion I'd performed a million times before, slapping my forehead, which had resulted in quite an unnatural slope on the old noggin by this point in my life.
I got out of the car, walked around to the passengers side and deftly pushed on the gas cover, which popped open with a happy little 'poinggg' that made me want to kick the shit of it.
There were two questions remaining. One, was thirteen bucks enough to push the needle to read 'F' ('F' for fuck you Taurass). And two, what kind of hefty late charge would I be looking at when I got back to the Four Queens Avis Rent-a-car outlet.
I pumped. I pumped some more. I pumped like the wind. Every last drop of thirteen bucks in gas went into the Taurass. There was nothing else for it but to get in and make a run for the hotel.
Starting the car, I was pleased to see that the needle was indeed showing a full tank of the good stuff.
Signaling right, I turned left onto the boulevard and raced uptown. Thank God it was a quick trip. I whipped into the garage, parked, and even remembered to take note of the odometer reading and the spot number, and hauled ass down the piss stairs to the counter.
Parking garage stairways always are piss stairs - its the go to place to have a piss outside of an actual men's room.
Regardless, I incurred no further charge, and the Ford Taurass was no longer my problem.
And just to show 'em, I left the turn signal on.