Day 8 - Sat Oct 29 - part 4
Even I had to admit that that was a non-starter for Piffles and his wife Ronco. ("Roni.")
"Do they have roll-away beds in this hangar? I wonder how much that would be..." said Piffles, leaving it hanging in the air like a cocktail party fart, where you know something's wrong, but everyone you look at has an overly innocent face.
This was supposed to be the luxury peak of the trip for the Quad Queen and I, our chance to have romantic room service, take long baths, and wear the provided robes and slippers down to the ice machine.
Now, I love my cousins, but that doesn't mean I want to sleep with them. Sleep in the same room with them, that is. But family is family, and if needs must...
I put my panic thinking cap on. It's a big red fez, with a long black tassle. When I'm wearing it in public, people ask me where my little go-kart is.
Quickly reviewing my mental map of the strip, I thought of the closest places. New Frontier? Turned into dust years ago, although I saw some very determined picketers out front of it earlier in the day. Riviera? Imploded earlier this year.
Something close by would be good. The Venetian Palazzo? Near, but probably expensive. Plus I had no juice there.
Circus Circus? I had a bit of juice there, just a squeeze - they have been sending comp room offers since my excursion on the Aces and Eights machines. (See the hysterical post Arthur Nutsack and his Flying Squirrel.) Let's file that one away as a last resort. Even Piffles and Ronco ("Roni.") didn't deserve to have the candy colored kid-claustophobic C2 inflicted upon them.
T.I. was probably the next closest choice. And hey, I had juice there! A host! A host I've been tipping for three or four trips now!
"Let me try something, Piffles," I said.
I fired off a text to my host saying that I was in a bind, a cousin and his wife had arrived in town and needed a room, and could I get any help with that.
We sat and had a nice visit, getting caught up with all the family goings on.
No text had come back so I called the T.I. 800 number and asked for my host. I ended up with her voicemail, so I left a message.
I decided I'd better get on this, so I got my Bonebook going and logged onto the 'internet'. You've probably heard of it.
I clicked, and poked, browsed, prodded and squeezed slightly. I told the internet to turn its head and cough.
I checked my texts - nothing from my host. Hmmm.
A little more mousey mousey on the T.I. web site and... golden.
"Piffles, I can get you T.I. for two nights, $180 for tonight and $70 for tomorrow," I said. "If my host can do better great, but at least you'll be covered." And I'll be able to walk around in my room naked, I thought.
Piffles pulled out his wallet and tossed a credit card onto the desk.
"Clearance to book it," he said.
Disaster averted! We had a few more cocktails and figured out our next moves. Both Piffles and I were flying high without a pressurized cockpit and we thought it would be good to put a snack into our stomachs.
So, we headed down to the casino.
I'm very saddened by the music they are playing in the casino at Wynn. No more smooth chugga-chugga chill tunes to relax by. The soundtrack used to perfectly complete the feelings of luxurious retreat and inobtrusive, impeccable service that were Wynn's hallmarks.
No, now it's all your favorite horrible songs from the 70s and 80s that are just as bad now as they were then. It's turned up and it's absolutely grating.
I do not ever need to hear Hall and Oates You Make My Dreams ever again.
We walked over to the most stupidly named deli on the planet Zoozacrackers. I get that this is an homage to a life-long friend of Steve Wynn - that's very sweet and I'm sure he was a great guy - but surely he said some things when he was worked up other than "Zoozacrackers" that you could use to name a restaurant after. Why not call the joint the That's Great Deli, or maybe Fantastic's or even the Holy Shit!!!? How great would that be?
We lined up and ordered. I like their system, you put your order in and pay and they give you a number on a stick. You find yourself a place to park your butt and display your stick prominently on the table or counter or wherever you've landed. The server comes out, sees your digits, and hands over the delicious food.
And, really, the food at
Next stop, valet, where Piffles picked up the luggage. We grabbed a cab, loaded up, and headed over to T.I. via the tunnel at the airport.