I stand waiting to check in at the Plaza. There is one person being served and off to the right, a lobbyist is talking to someone else.
After about five minutes of watching, it becomes pretty clear that the convo the lobbyist on the right and the woman on my side of the counter is having isn't about checking in business. They are buddies and are having a nice catch-up. The woman walks off and I get ready to move to the counter, but then she walks back and they talk some more. Lots of laughing and arm waving ensues. While I wait.
I am thinking that maybe the lobbyist behind the counter isn't at work checking people in. But finally she waves me over.
I ask if the other person is a friend of hers and she says yes. And I spit in karma's face and give her a polite, firm, rip. I left home 15 hours ago and as I stand there waiting for 10 minutes, she's talking to a friend?
This is how not to get established at a new joint. It is almost never worth speaking your mind about such things no matter how tired you are and how justified you think it is at that moment. I will probably run into this person again. I will need her help when the bill is screwed up or I need more towels or pens or bedroom furniture. Mostly I've learned this lesson in life.
Mostly.
The usual rigamarole ensues and the lobbyist is all business now. I chat with her and explain how I got here, and how arduous a trip it is, and how the pilots almost went on strike while I was trying to gobble a sausage at the airport.
She lifts an eyebrow.
Finally, I manage to get things onto an even keel and even apologize for speaking to her in such a rude manner.
I am not sure if I have totally blown my karma for the entire trip with this. And she tells me I'm upgraded to a suite. And I don't know if it's because I took her out for a rip. All I know is I want to dump my shit in the room, and get my ass to a trough of drink at the bar.
The one bedroom suite is in the south tower and I like it. It's up nice and high and has some views of my favorite places in downtown Las Vegas.
I grab a bunch of pics of the suite, put stuff in the safe, prepare my bedding for an inebriated slumber event later on, and finally, head downstairs and hit the bar. It's actually kind of quiet in the casino, because all the youngsters are jumping up and down and watching fireworks out at the racetrack where the Electric Daisy Carnival is going on.
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| Bar at the Plaza. |
I get talking to another guy at the bar who works with the EDC, driving the shuttles. The kids will come back at dawn, around 6:00am. Right now, he's on break while they rave on. He has tons of cool inside stories to share, but the main thing that comes back is that the kids are pretty good to each other. They take care of one another and there's very little trouble.
I am a little jealous of these folks, and wish I had had all night festivals to go to when I was a kid. He assures me that the culture of acceptance means I could still go. I file that idea under a future plan called 'what the fuck was I thinking'.
My first quad of the trip comes up. Nice. I have started with nice safe Jacks, thinking I'll ease in, and maybe do some Strict Rules of Parlay.
I notice that it is quad fours with a kicker. I think I have wasted this hand on Jacks, but how would I know that at this point?
I switch to Boner Deluxe and enjoy my first Royal Jolt, finishing one diamond short of ecstasy, pulling out at the last minute instead. Doesn't bother me, I don't have to clean the buttons.
The bartender, Maria, is making some sort of drink with hot sauce and red stuff and we get talking hot sauce - Maria, the EDC guy, and I. Next thing I know, she's prepared a little dish of it to try - they are both saying that this stuff is not like yer Durkee's or yer Chiluly - it has a lot of real flavor to it that the others don't.
A quick taste confirms it. This shit is good, and I'm going to be on the lookout for it at home.
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| My latest hot sauce obsession. Recent research indicates that Walmart carries it up here! |
I sip it. It sips gooood - and I tell her so. Maria is pleased.
Thinking she hasn't put any liquor in there, I instruct Maria to pour a healthy shot of vodka in it. She blasts it with vodka like she was ambushing a highway toll booth in New Jersey.
(I find out later that this drink is called a Michelada.)
The Michelin, which Maria has added a pound of vodka to. already has a beer in it. This sits fine on the foundation of Maker's Mark and Jameson of which I already have consumed liberal portions.
I've unknowingly completed some sort of bar session quadrafecta. A glass of wine would make the quintella but let's not be (more) stupider here.
Somewhere along the way I switch to safer Bonus Poker and get dealt Queens, which is nice. Things turn down though, and I blow through about three additional twenties on Double Double.
It's a great evening, but it's late - 4:00am for me - and I trundle off to my room, making a pitstop at Pop Up Pizza, which is conveniently placed along the wobbling way to the elevators.
The cashier is clearly asthmatic and suffering from the smoky environment. How do I know this, besides my incredible 'people sense'? She's sucking on an inhaler like (insert adult starlet name) trying to (insert unsavory act) a (insert surprising object, such as a transcontinental pipeline).
Poor thing. I do feel for casino staff who have to work in very smoky conditions.
She looks up at me and rises from her stool.
"I'll havva a slice, and a hit offa that," I say, with the precision and elegance of a bachelor party groom.
She likes this and laughs. It makes me feel good. I continue to chat up the cashier with my incredibly funny wit, tip the jar generously, and also, accost another woman in line, insisting she was on my WestJet flight. I'm sure of it.
"Weren't you on the plane tonight?"
"Yes," she says.
"I knew it. From Toronto, right?"
"From L.A."
"The L.A. that's near Toronto, right?"
I can't explain it, there was a distinctive looking lady on my plane, and this woman had the exact same features, such as: eyes, some hair, and possibly a nose or two. Goddamn Michelina!
My only slightly embarrassed carcass finds its way back to the suite and I have proof positive that the cashier really liked my wit, or perhaps found me to be fairly pathetic.
There are two - TWO - slices of pizza in the box, instead of the one I ordered and paid for. And it's good. Drunk gambler good.
I look out the window at the twinkling lights of my beloved Las Vegas, wolf down the slices, hit the pillow and am asleep in one minute.
Day: -$80
Trip: -$80
And you pulled out last min....since you dont have to clean the buttons.
ReplyDeleteGood one Flushadeedodah