Whilst toiling selflessly in Vegas last week at the thrilling
HME in the service of my
dark master, I was amazed at how much that town changed since I was first/last there in 2001 or so. And largely for the better, at least in that I ate passable food not once but at nearly every meal, and didn't even feel particularly gouged. The Grand Lux in the
Venetian where I stayed (and am now officially a "
player," gold mask not included) made a tidy little breakfast for a measly ten bucks, though for some vaguely insulting reason they called it "Peasant Eggs." Regardless, eating bracingly spicy Chinese pickles and drinking a Sapporo at lunch stood in stark contrast to my last trip there, where I remember being served a tomato slice that looked like a manhole cover (no homo).
Passable food aside, the clientele generally look like circus freaks, and the fake tits on display made me understand better where religious zealots are coming from. If seeing a four hundred pound man in lime green shorts at the buffet line is not a sign of the impending apocalypse, I dunno what is. (I say all this without having ever set foot off the Strip, perhaps other parts of Vegas are really classy, intelligent and down to earth)
And speaking of classy, I was conscripted (only semi-begrudgingly) by coworkers and other conference attendees to that Vegas classic, the
strip club. My fondness for boobs notwithstanding, this was clearly not a good move for me. All the cliches were in full force: the potty-mouthed Latina from Washington Heights (who insisted on calling me "daddy"), the tattooed hipster chick (who in a non-surreal environment might have been my steez), the kindly if dim waitress (who during a lull told me about hiking options in the Greater Las Vegas Area), and of course the dead-eyed Estonian (whose razor-like hip bones gave me the opposite of a boner). Ah, bad times. When all of my party disappeared into the private rooms and I'd had enough hiking tips, I beat a hasty retreat back to my hotel, $200 poorer, with a lancing headache, grossed out and perhaps permanently flaccid.
Gross Gambling Winnings: ~$1200 (Slots, Blackjack)
Gross Gambling Losses: ~$1200 (Slots, Roulette)
I didn't think he could top that depressing crossover single attempt, but Pharoahe Monch's cover of Welcome to the Terrordome is really a bummer. If Chuck D wasn't busy with half-baked digital schemes to resuccitate his career, he'd bumrush the fucking show and put an end to this craziness.
