Las Vegas, Nevada Trip Report

Item!  The average age of players at the Omaha Hi/Lo $4/8 table in the Venetian, the only hotel and casino on the strip that spreads the game on a regular basis, is like 85 years old. To step up from the table is to trip over a tangled mess of oxygen cords and colostomy bags. I know you’re thinking “Sweet! Easy as befriending a childless elderly as a Hospice volunteer and cashing in on their last will and testament!” but you’d be wrong. These sharp, old codgers bet into nut draws with the reckless abandon of a person with a finite number of hours left to play. To them, no matter what time of day or night, it’s the 4am Sunday morning of their lives. The vacuums are whining, the cocktail waitresses have switched to coffee, the craps tables are empty, and the time is neigh for the final trudge back up to their room. Ruth, if you are reading this, I knew you were bluffing, but felt bad for you, so there was absolutely no reason to show it to the table.

Item!  United airlines, because they are staffed at the corporate level by fucking halfwits, have decided to shut down their check-in kiosks, for travelers without baggage at the Las Vegas airport, 45 minutes prior to the flight taking off. I arrived, sans baggage to check, 44 minutes prior to my flight back to Los Angeles, a conservative time based on past experience. Had I printed off a ticket at the Flamingo kiosk, I would have been two beers deep by the time my 7:20am flight took off. Instead, I was told I could not jump the queue in the baggage line, and would have to wait while everyone checked their baggage for flights departing after me. I waited. For twenty-some minutes, then sprinted like a madman to my flight, arriving five minutes before take off, and five minutes after they had already closed the doors. I missed the next flight on standby, and asked an official United Airline Jackass what my odds were on getting on a flight some time in the near future. She responded that it didn’t look good until a 9:30pm flight that evening.


I pictured myself stuffing her fool head into the turbines of one of their aging piece of shit jets. I logged onto my computer-machine and purchased a one way on US Airways. I took the tram back to ticketing. I printed off my new boarding pass. I waited again in line through security. I had a pocket knife confiscated that didn’t catch the attention of security the first time through. I arrived at work, ran the hamster wheel, took a nap, woke up, and the thought occurred to me had I not bought the ticket I would still be in Las Vegas, no doubt broke from the 80% returns at the airport slot machines. Fuck you, United Airlines!

Item!  The Bellagio buffet, while pricey at $38, will still give you the runs if you overindulge on their sashimi.

Item!  $200 for three nights at the Flamingo, given its close proximity to the most famous midget in Las Vegas, is a still, regardless of the non-functioning clock radio and the stopped up bathroom sink, a good deal.

Do I sound like I am complaining? Are you thinking I spent too much time playing Omaha Hi/Lo and am now scared shitless that the Democrats are going to take my prescription medication and cancel reruns of Murder She Wrote? If this is what you think, you are qualified for one of these jobs...

Because on this trip, I parlayed my tremendous knowledge of the National Football League into mouthfuls of cash-money.

If the Los Angeles Clippers game taught me anything, it’s that people respect a baller, no matter what kind car he drives, or doesn’t drive due to his ride in the shop with a busted fuel pump and oil leak.

On Saturday morning, Tru (NOT pictured above.  The picture above, incidentally, is from one of my Facebook friends), a massively successful old college friend of mine, sat down with me for breakfast at the Flamingo dirty spoon, and together we hashed out strategy. We agreed that to optimize our good time, we would have to come to a general consensus on the games so that we would not spend the day rooting against each other and celebrating at each other’s financial loss. We would hang together, or we would hang separately. We bent down and studied the lines. Minutes flow by like seconds. The rest of the world fell away as we poured over the statistics, bounced ideas back and forth, discussed the minutia of weather conditions, injuries, the playoff motivation factor. We had rabid arguments over the intangibles. We nearly came to blows in differences of opinions as to the effect of teams traveling east through a time zone versus west, of the potential El Niño humidity, the perceived interest in the star player’s wives when filmed on the jumbotron in the last week’s game, of injuries, and rumors of injuries, and water boys-cum-moles relaying plays across the field through a complex series of movements. We took into account the zeitgeist. The inevitable collapse of both the health care reform and climate bills. The damage to the psyche of African American males due to the massive failure of the Obama presidency. We questioned each other’s biases, explored deep-seeded childhood events preventing us from rational detachment of emotion. We called old professors and incorporated chaos theory. We utilized the law of attraction. We meditated and prayed for clarity of thought. We created pivot tables. We cross referenced. We polled the diner. We cast the bones. We talked until we were horse and exhausted and breakfast turned into lunch and we were gently urged to leave.  We were bullet proof, like one of those FOX NFL robots. 

My arguments could be summarized as follows:


Chargers:  I knew my brother in law would be rooting for the Chargers, and who am I to root against my brother in law?

Ravens – Purple looks good on evil superheroes, Prince, Acai, and hot football players that beat the spread

Packers – Bears suck, and will suck forever, and it’s time I capitalize on their suckiness

Colts – If every man that walked through my spa door looked like Payton Manning, I would be giving away Manzilians for free

Jets – I just had a feeling on this one, even though I had to fight every instinct (see Eagles) to make this bet.

Vikings – I wish Brett Farve was my father, and when the Vikings win the world series of football he would hoist me on his shoulders and my long blond hair would be pulled into a pony and I would give the camera a “V” for victory just like my Daddy!

Eagles – I hate everybody and everything east of Ohio, but my hatred can be pinpointed to the New York/New Jersey area.  I had to bet on a Penn team, because while close to New Jersey, if I found myself rooting for two New York teams in the same week, I would be forced to admit my complete and utter failure as a human being.

Saints (aka "aints") - They are unstoppable, no matter what the spread.

Texans – Somewhere, Jenna Bush was rooting for the Texans, and we would both be pulling for them together.

I had to differ from Tru somewhat. We were both willing to compromise up to a point, but diverged on three games, and he bet on a few games I sat out on because they were simply too close to call.

During the first set of games, I won every one except for the Saints who let up in the second half, and didn't cover the spread. (Even when the Saints win and I am rooting for them, I still lose.) I was spent with effort, and took a side trip off the strip to the coolest place in the world, the Las Vegas Pinball Museum (aka Pinball Hall of Fame) which is a massive warehouse of pinball machines both old and new, all playable. It was truly sublime. This was turning into a very special, almost magical day.

I called a cab, and even though I was many miles off strip, I walked down the street to see if I could hail one sooner. Five minutes later, a cabbie and I locked eyes, and he picked me up. He was an avid sports better, and we talked football for a few minutes prior to him asking me if I had any action on that evening’s game.

“The Eagles, of course.” I replied. “I’m sure as a cabbie you encounter East Coast assholes all the time, and recognize the complex matrix that informs your betting decisions based on the team's proximity to New York and New Jersey."

He glanced in the rearview mirror and I nodded my head. Solemnly. I knew he wasn’t sure if he could trust me. “Two words,” I said, “Guido Beach.”

With a dramatic screech of rubber, he jerked the cab over to the side of the road and came to a stop. He reached under his seat and pulled out a giant loose leaf binder. He flipped through pages. In an aged voice, he whispered, his eyes bulging from their sockets, “It don’t matter that you already have skin down. Bet the Eagles and parlay the over.”

I nodded deliberately to ensure he knew this was not a knee-jerk response. My nod communicated that this man and I were on the same page, not just with respect to football, but on the same page of life. I paused and said, “Thank you. I will.” He nodded back at me, grunted, and we did not speak for the rest of the ride back to the hotel and casino.

I met back up with Tru, who was listing a bit as he walked, and told him that we would be betting the parlay. We made our way over to ground zero to watch the spectacle. New York, New York hotel and casino, ESPN Zone.

The over was damned near hit in the first half alone in the highest scoring match up between the two teams since they began playing each other. The Eagles cruised to a relatively easy victory netting us both fistfulls of cash. Oh, there were high fives and jeering of New Yorkers and screaming at the bigass flat screens. I hadn’t been so absorbed by a sports game in more than a decade. No matter what happened with the geriatric card sharks, no matter what was to happen with United Fucking Airlines the next day, no matter the clogged sink and the broken clock radios, for a few hours I was downing large mugs of beer, eating tasty fried food, hanging out with an old college friend, and winning in Vegas.

Cinderella at the Ball

Last Sunday evening, I received an email from the BossMan*, to wit:

For all your hard work on the [Henderson Account] and other projects, [Johnson] and I want you to have two Clippers tix for tomorrow night. Even if you aren’t much of a basketball fan, the seats are amazing. They are courtside (sublime – right on the court, first row), and they come with valet parking right at the Staples Center.

When I arrived at work, I saw two of these beauties sitting on my desk.

That’s right, the Los Angeles Clippers, one of three NBA teams to have never won a Championship, Conference Championship, or a Division Championship in their franchise's history has $1000 dollar tickets. $1000! $1000 is almost as much as the most expensive NY Yankee ticket money can buy! $1000 times 200 would cover the down payment for a small 1+1 on the west side! I’m not a baller in the traditional sense, but I was definitely living like one, if for only a few hours on the Monday evening of Thanksgiving week.

When the Old Lady and I arrived at the Staples Center, we pulled into a semi-private road that led to the rear entrance of the building. I pulled my aging Jeep Cherokee with 4 months of city-dirt over to the shoulder, handed off the car to the valet, and we walked 15 feet into the entrance. After receiving a complimentary program, we walked past the team’s locker rooms, the family green room, and out onto the courtside level.

I will try not to exaggerate in this post, but the experience was incredible. I felt like Cinderella at the ball. In spite of not recognizing anyone on the court, it was fascinating being up so close, and experiencing the speed and athleticism of the players. We could hear the players talk to themselves, to each other, and to the refs. The cheerleaders were close enough to give us lap dances. We were making eye contact with these giant athletes in between plays, and heckling fans taking part in TV time out contests.

And of course, the best part about attending professional sporting events in Los Angeles is people watching and star sightings. In our section, we spotted luminary Rick Moranis, we met Spike Lee’s attorney, and the Old Lady sat next to Danny Baduachue from TV's Partridge Family.

“Danny!” I said leaning forward to make eye contact in front of the Old Lady when we sat down, “I used to listen to your radio show on the LOOP in Chicago.”

“Al-RIGHT bro! That brings me waay back! I tell you – I don’t miss those winters.” He responded in his trademark scratchy voice. He looked around conspiratorially. “Hey – you want a pull?” He handed me a flask, elbow brushing against my wife’s chest, “It’s cognac. Good cognac.” I thanked him for the offer, but had no intention of risking backwash. I am not often star struck, but I have to admit it was kind of cool that an F-List celebrity with a history of addiction handed me a flask of high-end alcohol at a sporting event.

Shortly after, I felt someone tap on my shoulder. I turned around and a smallish black man with wire rimmed spectacles was leaning forward in his seat.

“Hello!” He said, “I am groundbreaking film director Spike Lee’s attorney. Between you and me, Danny gets drunk every game. Keep your eyes on your wife and let me know if anything actionable occurs,” he said slipping me his card. “I am supposed to be fully private, but these are tough times. Even for attorneys.”

“Indeed,” I replied eyeing his seats, a full row away from the floor, “it’s a crime they have you in the back of the bus, so to speak.”

A waiter in a tux appeared out of nowhere, white cloth draped over his arm, and handed us a menu.

“Our specialty is 100% Kobe beef hot dogs, and we have chef Yountville on loan who appears to be preparing nachos to honor the 39th year of the Clipper’s franchise.”

“Nachos? I said turning my nose up to a refined angle, “Is Yountville mad? This is what happens when quote-unquote ‘celebrity’ chefs drop acid and go on spiritual quests to spur their creative juices. Chefs select, prepare, and apply heat to food. It’s not like they are producing masterpieces of cinema that comment on the role of race relations in the United States, am I right, Spike Lee’s attorney?” I said, pointing my right elbow forward, knuckles behind my head as though winding up for tennis serve.

“Damn straight,” he responded, giving my knuckles the love and respect they deserve.

“I will not ruin this powerful appetite on one of Yountville’s egocentric and Pollackesque takes on classic American sports food…Is the Kobe beef from Japan?”

“Of course.”

“Which farm?”

“Wagyu”

“His quality has been slipping in his dotage. Rumor has it the marbling has shown signs of stress. How has the quality been?”

“Much improved, Sir. The cows were apparently picking up on news of the financial global meltdown, and so Wagyu has banned all audio devices from the ranch. The cows are much happier, and their muscles are responding to their new masseuse.”

I rubbed my chin, a wan look came over my face as I was lost in thought, “This financial devastation has been tough on us all…Even the cows,” I mused. “OK – We’ll take five. Put it on the house tab, and let a few Jacobsen Vintage No 1.s warm to cellar temps.”

“Very good, sir.”

The national anthem began playing, and all rose except for Danny Bedadouche, a fierce, if poorly informed political advocate of various left wing causes, who lit a cigarette and looked around, daring someone to ask him to stand, snuff out his smoke, or stop being such a douche bag. He sprawled out, feet nearly onto the court, and fell asleep until the horn sounded signaling the end to the first quarter. As he was waking up, Rick Moranis walked past us, and Danny snorted, “Honey – I shrunk the actor’s career! HAHAHAHAHA!”

Rick stopped, eyed the little man in front of him, and responded coldly, “The movies I have appeared in have grossed $2 Billion dollars. Look it up, asshole. Your only talent is being washed up.”

“I don’t mean to pile on, Danny” I said, leaning over, “but you sort of ruined the Adam Corolla radio show. Adam would get a rhythm going, mining a vein of comedic gold, and you would insert a non sequiter that would spoil the moment. I have to be honest, I felt terrible for Adam, and of course, all of his listeners including me.”

Danny turned bright red. I could sense something behind me, and heard a whisper, “As Spike Lee’s Attorney, I advise you to make a hasty retreat. That whole Adam Corolla thing is a real sore spot with him.”

We had seen enough, and decided to leave fashionably early, slipping behind the arguing “actors,” and toward the exit. Before leaving, I turned around to take one last look at the stadium from the unique vantage point afforded to people with more money than they know how to sensibly spend, more money even, apparently, than washed up celebrities have to burn in this economic holocaust. When I looked back, Moranis and Spike Lee were now sitting in our seats next to Danny, all toasting Jacobsens with a platter of Kobe hot dogs in front of them.


*The BossMan is no longer Indian. He is now an average looking white guy with a background in financial consulting, and an MFA in creative writing. This doesn’t stop my Indian ex-BossMan from opening my shut office door, setting down, and talking to me about his son’s latest accomplishments for up to 30 minutes at a time.