Tuesday - Day 9 - part 4
A week of eating greasy Vegas food will do you in. I'm not saying I didn't love every bite, far from it. But there is a gallon limit on how much country throw-up gravy (with prizes in) that a guy should eat on a daily average basis.
With that nice wet-bar and fridge in my Luxor room, a stop at Hole Foods was indicated.
I piled into the VW Asshat, pointed 'er south, and cruised on down to the grocery store down past the south strip.
And that's when I really took a chance, something that was kind of audacious, kind of arrogant.
Last trip, in January, I played for 11 days and didn't get a Royal. This trip would be two full weeks long. (I didn't tell you that up front because you never would have read this far otherwise... talk about yer War and Fucking Peace).
I thought, in my own offhand way, at the start of the trip, well, I'll surely be playing enough to get a Royal or maybe even two. And I'll be due by the time the trip is into the short strokes.
So, I bought myself a split of Veuve Cliquot champagne. I would use this bottle of Veuve to celebrate my eventual triumph over the casinos. Arrogant? Maybe. Jinx? Maybe. Incentive? Maybe. Delicious? Definitely!
I texted the Quad Queen and told her I was going to buy champagne. She texted back that she was going to get some too!
I did my shopping and found all kinds of great things to stock my room with, including some amazing smoked BBQ beef ribs.
|Room Camping the Royal Flusher Way|
My piPhone rang and it was Mrs. F.
"Hey, what kind of champagne did you get," she asked.
"Veuve Cliquot. Did you get some?"
"Yes, Bright's President."
"That's not champagne," I said.
"It is too, it says so right on the label - Bright's President Canadian Champagne. In fact, I have it open and I am enjoying some champagne right now."
"You mean you are enjoying sparkling white wine made in the champagne method, or methode champagnoise," I countered.
"Whatever yourself. It so happens that 1933s Canada-France Trade Agreement Act said that the word “Champagne” is to be used exclusively for bubbly from within the Champagne district of France. Not Hamilton, Ontario, France."
"This champagne tastes delicious... have you opened yours yet?"
"No, not till I win. And the people from the Champagne region of France do not want you to refer to such plonk as Champagne unless it originated there."
"Well, they can fucking come over here and tell me then."
"They don't have to. I’m telling you."
"Who are you?"
"I’m their advocate and I’m telling you."
"They can fucking come over and I’ll kick them in their bubbly balls."
"That’s not very nice, Quad Queen! Don’t forget, we like the French… they make great champagne!"
"I’ll kick YOU in the bubbles, mister."
“You're cut off. You can’t have any more sparkling white wine made in the methode champagnoise."
Once I got off the phone, I made myself some lunch, a picnic on my desk in my room at Luxor. Life was good. I'd seen some history, and I wasn't losing today. I popped open one of my bottles of wine (red), and grabbed a plastic knife and fork and set myself up with the smoked short beef rib.
Wow, it was fairly, err, resistant. No matter. I managed to cut it into two chunks. I wanted to cut it up some more into portions, but focused on cutting a bite to eat - it looked so scrumptious.
I managed a bite and yeah, it was pretty tasty.
And it had a little, you know, resistance to it, some texture there. Yeah, delish!!!
I spent a couple of minutes sawing uselessly with the plastic cutlery. This part of the beef rib meat was indeed perhaps a little, uh, sinewy.
Oh who the fuck am I kidding, that fucking slab of beef was Patton tough. Jesus, I've had more tender pickings from a delaminated Michelin truck tire off the interstate than that 20 year old Purina plant reject utility steer.
It tasted great, and after a couple of additional slugs of wine, I became a total hotel room caveman, picking up the entire beef rib bone and gnawing hunks of it with my molars, the greasy rib press to the side of my face, leaving spice and grease up and down my cheeks like war paint.
The rest of the day kind of got filled up with some chores, which included writing, editing, and publishing the RF World article on the closing of the Riviera, which I wanted to get out the same day it closed.
That took me quite a while, and quite a bit of wine, but I got it out the door. I also did some other writing in prep for the eventual trip report, which you are now reading.
Sadly, this is where my day kind of went in the dumper, gambling-wise. I went down to Luxor's casino and played some full pay dollar Bonus Poker. I had a pretty good run in one sense, but I had absolutely nothing to show for it in terms of quads. I didn't get any.
|Is this weird spot in Luxor where the Nile River Ride once passed through?|
The day was done, with a whimper and a gristley fart. At least I'd kept myself in check and not gone on tilt.