Vegas Report

Well Coot Fans, I'm back from my vacation and let me tell you, I need another. Yes, I know that's the oldest cliche in the book but it's for real. Allow me to go into detail...

Monday morning started at 9:00 Pacific Time with a quick jump into the shower and then off to breakfast. JD and the Newlyweds were trying to get on the road for home and didn't want to lollygag all morning, so we hit up the cafe in the hotel. It was super. A round of handshakes and hugs and they were off; NM and I headed out to catch the {Jazz Hands} Monorail {/Jazz Hands} to the south end of the strip. Or is it the north end? Well, the other end.

Once we reached the other end, the day was filled with walking, eating, a little gambling, fine cigars, and dessert. It was a nice, peaceful end to a somewhat hectic week. I won't bore you with the details other than to say they need more bathrooms in Caeser's Palace. I walked for 20 minutes looking for a bathroom only to have to go through the casino. Surrisly, the place is jam packed with stores, restaurants and bars, but no bathrooms.

We arrived back at The Luxor in time to eat dessert at The Chocolate Swan, gather the bags from the Bell Hop, hail a cab and get to the airport. With bags checked, we were greeted by a serious line for the security screening. To make things more pleasant, there were two large, obnoxious, stinky women ahead in line. I tried not to talk to them, but the one wouldn't shut her yapper. She apparently missed the sign that said "One Carryon Bag and One Personal Item (purse, laptop, etc). I don't care how you looked at them, the four bags she was toting could never be confused for two bags. I'm sure she complained her way through security anyway, I wish they would have told her she had to check some of them to teach her a lesson.

At the gate, I met a wonderful grandmother type who, in the interest of saving a few dollars, was placed on four planes to get from Cali to Florida. She was traveling for 36 hours. Ho-Lee-Crap! She was very upbeat about her situation and everyone within earshot had a good laugh about it. Then there was the girl who was passed the eff out. Not drunk passed out, just regular passed out. They were making the 5th last call when we finally woke her up. The ticket had the wrong gate (which is why we didn't awaken her) and she leapt to her feet and up to the gate. Phew.

Here's a lesson for you traveling folk. If you want to sleep at the terminal, make sure people can read your boarding pass so they can wake you up if you oversleep.

By the time I got home it was after 9:00 Eastern Time and I had been up for some ungodly amount of time, walked for hours, flown several thousand miles, driven for an hour and change and somehow in the mix missed the night.

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Word on the Street

At the beginning of our walk on Monday, we passed two éses, one of whom was on the phone. As we passed, we overheard him telling the guy on the other end of the line the following.

Yo man, I'm in Vegas. I just got one of those prostitute cards and it had yo mahm on it dude.

Of course in written text I can't do it justice, but if you re-read it in your head with a latino accent with this image in your head you might just see the humor in it. I literally busted out laughing right there on the street at that shit. Priceless.

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Smoker's Paradise

With a name like Old Coot, you might expect that I'd do a lot of complaining but I'm more of a "meh, what can you do?" kind of guy. But do you know what really gets my goat? People in Vegas smoke like it's going out of style and they do it everywhere. You can't go anywhere or do anything without sucking down two packs of second-hand smoke an hour.

On Friday morning I went for a run down The Strip around 7:15 to avoid the crowds. When I finished, my clothes reeked with a stench I can only describe as having been licked for an hour by chainsmoking grannies with complexions akin to boot leather. I prefer swamp ass to that malodorous scent.

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Burt's Bees Has No Place in an Airport

After a week in the desert's hot, arid climate, my lips were as chapped as those of chainsmoking grannies whose stink-saliva would cover even the swampest of ass. NM was packing Burt's Bees which is commonly referred to as The Bomb Lip Balm. In highschool, Kilm used to tote that shit and we would all soothe our ailing lips with a quick swipe of the finger. Ahhh, so nice. In fact, if you didn't keep your eyes on it, haters would jack your balm never to return it. You'd have to place an order with Kilm for the next time she went to her secret Burt's Bees supplier. Nowadays you can buy it in any store, but back then the shit was rare.

Anyway, it sounded like I was sanding granite whenever I spoke and I asked NM for some of The Bomb Lip Balm. It was too late to stop myself when I realized that I was in an airport and probably shouldn't be yelling things like "Bomb" or even "Balm" for that matter. I checked myself and didn't say that shit again.

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I Like Making Snobs Nervous

We were walking down a particularly seedy section of The Strip on Monday when I noticed a wealthy woman ahead of us. She seemed to be a little iffy about her surroundings and I thought I'd take advantage of the situation to do my part. Making sure the traffic noise was low and she was within earshot, I belted out "Damn, my fucking lips are chapped as hell! I fucking burned the shit out of 'em on that crack pipe last night; that was stupid." She nervously turned around and looked at me, a seemingly well-dressed white guy with a shit-eating grin on his face. I'm sure she expected to see some hoody-sporting delinquent. Oh the surprise.

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There's a Reason They Call it Sin City

I found myself sitting in a casino making 50¢ bets at one of the many one armed bandits when the drink girl came by. Not wanting to waste the opportunity for a free drink, I asked for a chocolate milk. Apparently you can have all of the Long Island Iced Teas or Cosmopolitans you can handle, but no bartender has time to stir chocolate syrup into milk. I argued the point with the waitress and she saw things my way, offering to ask the bartender if he could do it. Minutes later she came back with my chocolate milk. It was made from hot cocoa mix, but at least she tried.

The next night we were at the rehearsal dinner in a fancy steakhouse. The waiter was taking drink orders and I asked for a chocolate milk, to which he quickly replied "we don't have that". I thought maybe he thought I was joking so I asked if they seriously didn't have any and he shut me down with a quick "No".

Now, it's possible but highly unlikely that a bar wouldn't have milk and chocolate syrup, but I find it difficult to believe that a restaurant would lack both of those ingredients. Since he seemed angry with my request so I ordered a Diet Coke. Just to make my point, I should have asked if they knew how to make one.

So my point is that they make every effort to provide visitors with alcohol, tobacco and prostitutes, but God forbid you want a glass of chocolate milk you're SOL.

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One Last Rant

I'm not going to pretend that I'm a world traveler but I've stayed in my share of hotels. Each one, down to the shittiest of shit holes came equipped with a coffee maker. Staying at the Luxor, I expected to find maybe even a fancy coffee maker in place of the cheap 4-cup Mr. Coffee jobber you find in traditional hotel rooms. To my dismay, the room was equipped with no coffee maker. However, they were more than happy to supply me with all the Starbucks I could drink for the small fee of $3.01 per cup.

And what's the deal with things costing $X.01? The cashier actually counted out 99¢ one time instead of taking a penny from the give-a-penny, take-a-penny. I'm sure they want me to leave my change as a tip, but 99¢ for pouring a cup of coffee is just a little absurd. The next time I was prepared with the extra cent.

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Well, that's all I have for today. HECOW, you'll be glad to know that I barely even talked about running. I'll have more on that another day.

Over and Out,
Old Coot