Dispatch: We got the Funkhouser! Gotta have that Funkhouser!

And thus, an accounting of the second night of debauchery and large portions, hanging out with Funkhouser.

This time I'd be heading down to the Strip, where he was ensconced in a Linq suite, which was festooned with free play, I hear.

No wonder the warehouse is low on Maker's Mark barrels.

I thought it might be easiest to summon a Lyft from Main Street Station because it's open and you can't miss it. And my ride appeared in about 93 seconds and off we went. My experience with it was one of the better ones this trip...

The plan was to meet at Harrah's at 5:00 and I was embarrassed that I had got caught up in producing a live blog post and hadn't even left the room at the Cal until 5:02. I apologized profusely by text - in the end, it didn't matter - Funkhouser had found himself a hobby at the 69 Stars Diamond Caesars Stud Lounge that, for once, didn't involve a Westjet flight attendant.


I pinged the Lucky Funk from the Harrah's entrance and he told me to c'mon up and come in. I snapped a few pictures on the way on my trusty Cameron G16 (a fairly reliable piece of photography equipment that one of Jimmy Poon's distant cousins makes in Foxscam China, in between piPhone 3.14 runs).

That guy at the buffet would later get cold cocked with an ice bucket just for his plate of sausage rolls.

The lounge was busy but fortunately I had arrived after the Shark Hour when the food is put out - you could easily lose a fingertip or maybe a calf in the entitled one's feeding frenzy that ensues. I literally saw a 75 year old woman in a baby blue Chanel suit stab someone in the forehead with a fork over the quickly diminishing mini eggrolls. "EAT FORK, FUCKFACE!" she'd screamed, "THOSE EGGROLLS ARE MIIIIINE!"

Funkhouser was holding court at the bar. He had a cannonball cocktail in front of him, and God love him, had ordered me a large Maker's Mark on the rocks, which was just nicely chilled, and blunted down a bit by the slightly melted ice.

I sipped my drink and we got talking. Funk was drinking something his Crown Road Apple. But Funk hadn't just taken a little ol' country dirt road. No, Funk, by his own admission, was screaming down the Crown Apple Royal Expressway. I decided I would try to keep up and got busy sucking down my drink like a septic tank vacuum truck sucks septic.

Except I smelled better.

Don't ask me why I think of these things - I just do. Sometimes they tell me to be more mature. I tell them I'm as mature as a 12 year old gets.

Anyway, around here, we call the local unit the Flusherville SST - which stands for Shit Sucker Truck.

Funk ordered another Crown Apple Bypass and by the time I finished my Maker's and signaled for another one, he was well into the Express Lanes.

We drank a toast to Robert, one of the finest bartenders ever to grace a 69 Stars lounge. Robert had retired, and Funk spoke highly of him.

"Robert," he said, "... was...  was great. I think I need to get food pretty soon... do you want to see the suite?"

"Actually... I do. I am really low on juice on my iPhone - do you have a charger?"

He did. We got to-go cups ("How about a topper on that Maker's?") and we set off, topped up, and lifting off, taking the back way to the Dinq.

Now, I'm not busting anyone's balls here. Funk acted like an in control gentleman of the casino, even if his eyes were pointing in slightly different directions, and the casino floor had suddenly taken on mild 3 degree incline. I was quite impressed at how he handled his consumption.

It was cool being in the Linq again, having played and stayed there when it was the good ole cheap, cheesy, classless Imperial Palace. They'd done an amazing job with the decorations, to bring the standards up in what was now the good old cheap, cheesy, classless The Dinq.

Funk's suite was actually very serviceable and I wouldn't have minded it at all. The size of two regular rooms put together, it had a separate living area with big-ass TV, inexplicable shelf along one wall, and a wet bar.

So thoughtful for the Dinq to have had these printed up!

And, important for me, an iPhone charger. Funk put the TV on and flicked through channels while we compared notes about our respective Veeblefetzer employments, and sipped our cardboard-wrapped fuel depots.

I took about 19 pictures out the window with the Cameron. (I would later take another 19 or so in the casino only to find the next day that I'd shot the whole fucking bunch of them in Portrait mode. Fucking Jimmy Poon!!!)

Portrait mode shot of the Inferior Palace The Dinq.

They seemed to be playing a movie at the pool, which seems like a cool idea.

Can anyone tell what movie this is?

It was definitely time to eat, and I had a third charge, so we toddled off to Hash House a Go Go - a first for both of us.

Guess what's on the other side of these doors (note the sign).

This is what's on the other side of those doors.

Back in the day, the Interior Palace was a twisty maze of escalators, all alike. The Dinq is no different, I'm happy to say. But, like everywhere in the property, they've dressed them up!

Linq patrons that would not ever actually stay there.

The Hash House a Go Go offers what they call 'Twisted Farm Food'. We waited a minute or so for a table and I mentioned that I'd heard they had huge portions - gargantuan portions - whale-sized portions - Jersey Beach sized portions!

Well, we would just have to find out, now, wouldn't we.

More huge portions to come!