Las Vegas: July 1-4, 2006
Since early this year, I had been having Las Vegas cravings. These cravings grew to horrible yearnings as spring turned to summer. I was haunted by images of the sun coming up and throwing the back of the Luxor sphinx's head into silhouette while the monorail whizzed by.Given a hectic schedule, including some work matters that kept getting pushed back further and further into summer, I just didn't think I would make it out until late in the year. However, I got a last minute reprieve from some depositions that were supposed to start July 5, and with about three days' notice, I booked my flights and hotel room. The Luxor wasn't having any of my 'checking in on a Saturday' nonsense, and the Las Vegas Hilton had pretty decent weekend rates, so there was no Sphinx sunrise this time, unfortunately. However, the monorail made the stay convenient, since you no longer need a cab or a car to get from the LV Hilton to the Strip.
Before I could stay in the hotel where Elvis slept, though, I had a connection in Atlanta. I was last in the Atlanta airport, I believe, returning from a semester in Buenos Aires at the end of 1996. A lot has changed. Specifically, the trash cans want to eat you. I know this thing looks completely innocent, but that's how it traps its prey. I tossed out a bit of trash into this one and stood by for a few moments. Then, suddenly, with a mighty ROAR, the damn thing made some mechanical clangy noise. Sure enough, I circled around and it was plugged in. I'm not sure what this portends, but I do think they should keep toddlers away from these things.The remainder of the flight out was not bad. Vegas was in the midst of a big, forky lightning storm while we landed. It was as if Zeus himself was saying, "You fools! Leave Tyler and Madison at home, or at least corral them in Circus Circus. Kids don't gamble!"
The next day, having spent the morning sipping coffee and winning at blackjack, I decided it was time to hit my sentimental favorite for lunch -- the coffee shop at the Tropicana. To do this, I hopped on the mercifully air-conditioned Las Vegas monorail. There were no fatalities, but I did have to wander through the MGM Grand to get to the Trop.Sadly, the Trop (which has been run down for a while) is plunging rapidly from "shabby" to "depressing." The bird show is gone (even the bird show with the inferior female host), and they have a trapeze or some similar aerial monstrosity installed in the casino. Plus, the fruit in my pineapple boat salad was pretty bland. Tropicana -- congratulations. You have finally become more soul-crushing to visit than the MGM. One of my cab drivers on this trip claimed the Trop is looking for buyers. I'd hate to see it go, except...it does sort of suck these days.
After lunch, I wandered around and gambled a bit at some of the South Strip casinos. For once, I did OK at the tables at Mandalay Bay. In fact, by the time I decided to head north again, I was feeling pretty flush. It was time to visit some of the, relatively speaking, classier places. To get there, I went through:
New York, New York...
and Paris.
Eventually my money and I found our way to the Bellagio. I should explain that, when I go to Las Vegas, I estimate ahead of time how much money I plan to lose. If I lose less, then great! However, I consider the estimated loss to be part of the cost of the trip. Since I was way under budget for the trip when I wound up at the Bellagio, I decided to hit the $100 blackjack tables.
I wasn't there very long before I was right back within budget. It was around this time that I decided I should hightail it back to the Hilton for some tacos.
However, I was waylaid by the artificial lake in front of the Bellagio. Specifically, there was some sort of waterfowl swimming around in the lake.
Those of you who have been subjected to my England pictures may recall my study entitled, "30+ Photos of the Same Five Ducks at Westminster Abbey." I won't subject you to all of my bird photos here (I'm not convinced the thing is a duck, but it's something similar). Suffice it to say, I got quite a few of them.
As I was taking photographs, suddenly, up swelled the music. It was the Bellagio dancing fountain show, this time featuring Elvis singing "Viva Las Vegas."
I assumed that the duck (or whatever it was) would tear ass out of there as soon as the fountains started going, but it just paddled off to the side to wait things out. I suppose it's used to the fountains by now.
The rest of the day passed without incident. The next morning, however, brought crankiness all around the blackjack table.
I should explain that I have developed the habit of spending my mornings in Las Vegas playing blackjack and drinking free coffee (though, obviously, I tip the waitress who brings the coffee -- I'm not a barbarian). When I wandered down into the Hilton's casino on the morning of July 3, I couldn't find a decent seat at a $10 table. Fair enough -- I didn't want to start off the day with $25 blackjack, because I am just not that classy, but on the plus side, I figured, the drink service would probably be better in green chip country.
Wrong! I sat there losing money for the better part of an hour, but the Coffee Dispenser (aka, waitress) never wandered by. I saw, from across the pit, a free seat at a $10 table, and more importantly, people with drinks at that table. Naturally, I moved.
Happily, I didn't lose at the $10 table at the rate I had been getting my ass kicked betting $25 a hand. Unhappily, another half hour passed, in which the only waitress in sight explained that she was only delivering drinks, not taking orders. Eventually, in the course of conversation with a nice California couple at my table, I explained that I really did want some coffee. At first they were confused, and seemed convinced that I hadn't ordered any. I explained, patiently, pleasantly, and politely, that in fact, I was more than capable of ordering, had done so many times in the past, but was being stymied by the utter lack of waitress action in the coffeeless vortex that had become my life.
Maybe I didn't use those exact words. Whatever I said, the dealer overhead, who tipped off the pit boss, who radioed for a waitress. He was much nicer than that pit boss at the Golden Gate who, upon seeing my "Trust Me, I'm a Lawyer" t-shirt, went into a tirade about his hatred of lawyers. Anyway, later (as opposed to sooner), I had my coffee in hand, and could gamble in relative tranquility. I wound up doing pretty well at the table, despite some crusty old broad lecturing me for hitting a 15 with the dealer showing a 2.
Yes, I know what the book says. The book doesn't understand that I view a 2 as a loaded gun, ready to bust a cap in my ass if I don't have at least a 17 to go up against it. This old broad, though, had spent her time at the table talking about how she doesn't play just for herself, she tries to do what is right for "the table," like her hitting something and busting will save us, Jesus-like, from a dealer drawing a 21. When I hit the 15 (which, admittedly only ended well for the dealer), she pitched a fit and said I was playing wrong. I said, very calmly, that no, I was just playing my hand. She insisted I was playing wrong. I repeated that, no, I was just playing my hand. She shut up all too soon. I didn't have a chance to smoothly work into the conversation that, if she wanted to hand over some of her chips, I'd be happy to play any way she liked.
After the stress of the morning, I decided it was time to play some roulette at the Luxor. My dad always gives me numbers based on our family birthdays and his anniversary with my mom. There was a brief controversy before I left for Vegas when he forgot to tell me to play 3 (my younger niece was born this past March 3). Whatever the numbers, they all freaking came up short. I believe I had all of two numbers hit, one of which was supplied by a friend via text message.
After spending the remainder of the afternoon losing at the Luxor and Mandalay Bay (with the exception of a decent video poker run at the Luxor) and hunting with little success for some quick food, it was time to stop in at Fatburger for some chili fries. Afterward, heading south, I received a call from a friend who was in town for the World Series of Poker. He was pretty adamant that I come hang out with him at the Rio (which now hosts the WSOP). If you look closely at this picture, you can see the little reddish arcs just to the right of the colosseum/Planet Hollywood. That is the Rio, which is not on The Strip. I hate the Rio. The casino is noisy and annoying and kind of a pain to get to. The seafood buffet has gone way downhill. On the other hand, when would I get to see the WSOP setup for myself again? I agreed to drop by later.
In the meantime, I decided to hit Casino Royale, where the comps are legendary. Seriously, I get free room offers from them all the time. Sheryl tells me her husband once used just such an offer to store his hockey equipment, while he stayed somewhere else. Casino Royale, despite being within spitting distance of the Venetian and other Strip luminaries, is a little more downscale (and not in the depressing Tropicana way). Its rooms are small and don't have marble sinks or anything. However, the atmosphere is nice, and you can gamble all night without losing a ton of cash, if you so desire.
This time, I managed to do pretty well for myself at the video poker machine. I made sure to use my player's club card, because I don't want the free room offers to dry up or anything.
After a quick trip to Caesar's Palace to look around the shops and buy a souvenir for my text-messaging, roulette-winning friend from our winnings (the winnings weren't much -- he is now the proud owner of a snow globe with Caesar in it), I figured I'd better get in a cab to the Rio.
The Rio, as it turns out, sucks about as much as I remember. For some reason, on a weekend where Vegas was filled with kids to a horrifying extent, the Rio was kid ground zero. OK, maybe Circus Circus had more kids running around, but you'll never get me into that pit of hell. I waded through the kids, looking for the poker room. Despite signs pointing to the poker room, it was not to be found, so I left Mr. WSOP a message and won some more cash playing video poker.
Eventually, thanks to Mr. WSOP's text message, I did find the WSOP setup (which was in the convention center, not the poker room). There was a media area, a large room filled with about 100 poker tables (many of which had games going on in full swing), a separate table for TV broadcasts of important finals, massage therapists for the players, and a separate area for poker players to buy food (it reminded me a lot of the football game snack bars I patronized as a high school marching band member).
I watched my friend play a few hands. He wasn't having great luck, and when we left the WSOP area, he wanted to get some additional gambling cash out of the bank. Unfortunately, he tried to draw on a card that had some sort of problem with the numbers not being raised. This set off a chain of events that involved multiple visits to the ATM and the cashier's window, calls to the bank, suppositions about what may have happened, and, in the end, no extra cash in hand for my friend. I couldn't even loan him anything, as I had hit my ATM limit earlier that day after sucking so much at Luxor and Mandalay Bay.
Perhaps hoping to win it all back on a lucky dice roll, he led me to the craps table, where he shortly lost his meager remaining cash on hand on a seven rolled by an old poker champion.
After that, we mostly hung out in front of the Rio waiting for a friend of his who lives in town and could loan him some cash. Once the friend showed up, I asked him to please return me to the Hilton, as it was late, I was hungry, and I had an early flight the next day. As a postscript to the whole evening, the service in the Hilton's coffee shop was apparently spotty, and while I waited to order, then chowed down on some French toast, I enjoyed the antics of my fellow diners and aspiring diners.
I headed home early on July 4. As usual, I underestimated the size of the line at the metal detectors at McCarran. Also as usual, the lines moved quickly.
I had a layover in Atlanta, where I treated myself to what I believe is the best ice cream I have ever tasted -- honey graham cracker! That's it in the picture. I sort of want to marry this ice cream flavor and have its sweet, cold babies. While I enjoyed the company of the father of my future children, I watched CNN on the overhead screens and heard all about Kim Jong Il testing missles over the sea of Japan. Weather, and not missles or man-eating trash cans, delayed my flight back in New York, but eventually I made it home, poorer, and to be honest, probably no wiser than before.
posted by A-Bomb at 9:03 PM
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