Well, dear readers, I shall be leaving the city known as Las Vegas in a few hours. Let me fill you in on the rest of The Las Vegas Story. As you know, I did a last minute update to these here notes last night (if you missed it merely click the Unseemly Archive Button above and you will be whisked away to the Unseemly Archives), and in that update I updated you to the fact that I had eaten. Then eaten again. Then eaten some more. I also took in a movie. Have you ever taken in a movie? Sometimes movies are lonely so I always take one in if I see them out wandering about. In any case, I took in a movie called Spy Game (there are movie theaters right here in this very hotel). It was very bad, I thought, but I do enjoy Robert Redford, so it wasn’t a total waste. Big, vapid, loud, muddled, strangely structured and endlessly trying to be hip, photography and editing-wise.
After the film we went to the La Louisiane restaurant here in the hotel, and I had a rather spectacular hunk of fried catfish over crawfish etoufee and rice. Then David and I shared a rather spectacular bread pudding. Then they brought over a dolly and wheeled me out of the restaurant. We played a little craps (well, David played – we partnered funds) and we won. So far, I have the exact same money I arrived with, so all the meals have basically been free. I had played a spot of poker earlier, and, after two hours I’d… TEASER ALERT…. TEASER ALERT… CLICK UNSEEMLY BUTTON BELOW… CLICK UNSEEMLY BUTTON BELOW…
lost eight dollars. Not bad for two hours of somnambulistic amusement. Two older folks got into a real tiff at the table. This tiff at the table had us players all agog (goga, spelled backwards). A crotchety old man won a hand. The crotchety old woman next to him (not in the hand) asked to see the hand of the person who’d lost to the crotchety old man. The crotchety old man took exception to this and started screaming vile epithets at the crotchety old woman, things like, “Stay out of it! I hate you! Mind your own business!”. She replied with her own set of vile epithets, such as, “Shut up, you ugly old man. I have the right to see the hand (she did indeed have the right – Vegas rules)! You mind your own business”. And back and forth it went – they simply couldn’t stop. The dealer tried to stop them, the floorman tried to stop them, but the screaming continued unabated. Finally, the crotchety old man had had enough, picked up his crotchety chips and left for the buffet, where, he told us all, he would have a lot to drink. The crotchety old woman left soon after, with quite a few crotchety chips of her own.
I am in a non-smoking room, dear readers, and yet it smells like smoke. Everything smells like smoke, frankly. I have to run and get in the shower (well, it’s not that far, I guess I can walk, or mosey, or saunter), as we’re going to have a spot of breakfast, then maybe do a spot more gambling; then we must make tracks for the airport and return to our lovely home town of Studio City, California (well, that’s my lovely home town, David has a lovely home town of his own). Tomorrow, I will tell you of the exciting thing that came out of this trip, and yes, Virginia, it has something (at long last) to do with musicals.
I’m telling you, I smell smoke. My eyes are burning (no mean feat) and that doesn’t happen unless it’s smoky. And yet, my room abstains from smoking. Unless they lied to me and put me in a room that hasn’t given up the habit yet. But that would be dastardly, non-smoking room-wise. Well, what can I do, I’m leaving in a few minutes and shall not return to this non-smoking yet smoky room except to get my travel bag. Well, time to saunter to the shower.