Las Vegas
A word of warning right off the bat: This is an extremely long post. At last count, 14 single-spaced pages in Word. I’ve broken this post into sub-headings, so if you don’t feel like reading the whole thing, go by the headings. I’ve broken down my latest trip to Las Vegas into Thumbs Up and Thumbs Down ratings to accurately convey where you should and shouldn’t go and what you should and shouldn’t do. This is my eighth trip to Las Vegas in four years, so I have a decent handle on where to go and what to do. See if you agree with my assessment. Did your favorite place make the list? Read on and find out…
Thumbs Down: Friday Morning and E Dagger’s Pissface Mode
(The following is a stream-of-consciousness rant I wrote about my morning between 5:45 a.m. and 9:15 a.m. the day we left for Las Vegas. This is not how Vegas is supposed to start. Read on.)
I’m sound asleep in the middle of a dream. I’m failing to remember any of the context of the dream at the moment, but I can tell you that in my dream I’m extremely congested. I’m in the middle of a cocktail party (possibly a prom) and having a decent time save for the ridiculously stuffy nose. I suspect in real life I’m actually digging in my nose like that scene from Total Recall where Quaid has to get that bug out of his brain and shoves the miniature claw arm up his nose to retrieve it.
As I grab another drink (or cup of punch – like I said, it might have been a prom), my congestion breaks and I start breathing again normally. The party suddenly seems much better. A haze has been lifted like those Claritin commercials where the fuzzy top layer of whatever gets peeled off the screen revealing a vibrant, colorful, vivid reality. I’m in desperate need of a tissue since I need somewhere to deposit this newly loosened collection of snot, but aside from that, I feel nothing but relief and gratitude to the gods of mucous. I then realize that my cheek (in real life) is now warm and wet. A feeling of discomfort creeps into my belly.
Oh shit. You’re not at a prom enjoying this delicious punch, you’re asleep in your bed and now your nose is bleeding. Wake up, dummy.
I wake up quickly and as I walk toward the bathroom, I can feel it flowing from above like the mighty Niagara Falls. This is going to be unpleasant. In my sleepy haze, I clumsily grab a wad of toilet paper and haphazardly shove it up my nose. Now the cat’s awake and wants attention. I might hurt him. And before you can say “heavy flow day,” my toilet paper is soaked through and damn near dripping from its blood soak-ed-ness. My nose is doing its best impression of Mr. Orange from Reservoir Dogs. I’m a rejected overdose scene from Boogie Nights. It’s the Passion of the Dagger (Unrated Nosebleed Edition). I might as well become a spokesman for the Hemophiliac Help Society with the amount of blood cascading from my nose.
In short, I’m REALLY fucking bleeding.
I try all my old tricks to stop it – squeeze the bridge of my nose (no good); just hold the one nostril shut and wait for it to clot (nice try); hold my head back and hope for it to drain out that way (great, now you’re nauseous too – nice plan, idiot). All I’m accomplishing is getting drops on the toilet seat, the light switch, the floor and everything else in our tiny bathroom except for Buttfore (how he managed to go unscathed, I’ll never know).
I decide all hope is lost and jump in the shower to cleanse myself of this disgustingness and hopefully stop the bleeding. As I hold my nostril shut for what seems like forever, I begin to wonder what time it is. I failed to look at the clock when I jumped out of bed since the dam was breaking like before Superman had to save Lois Lane in the first Superman movie and I can only hope it’s not some ungodly hour like 3:30. I have work this morning, and then the flight to Vegas where I’ll be short on sleep this weekend from all the binge drinking, gambling sessions and random encounters with strangers. I need it to be at least a reasonable time or else I’m going to be grumpy as hell for the rest of the day.
As I finish my shower, I hear the bane of my existence, Buttfore, meowing at the door. Lady E, obviously annoyed with this feline menace, yells at me to let him in the bathroom. I’d just as soon squeeze his head like a zit than ever see him again at this point, but I begrudgingly comply and proceed to give him the most aggressive petting session I think he’s ever experienced. Remember on The Simpsons when Nelson pet Santa’s Little Helper so hard, it stretched his fur back to the point of Santa’s Little Helper’s eyes bugging out. Yeah, I’m Nelson. Ha HA!
When I emerge from the bathroom, I’m comforted to find that it’s only 5:45, an hour before I usually get up. This is not ideal, but at least I’m not that far off the normal routine. I somehow manage to fall asleep on the office futon watching a stray Sportscenter despite Buttfore and Bumhug (the other cat – much sweeter, much more needy, slightly more retarded) walking all over me like they’re trying to play “Dance Dance Revolution” on my stomach. Before I nod off, I catch that the Nuggets won last night, as did the Cubs. The day is turning around slightly. Back to dreamland for a bit…
I wake up unhappy. I got about 40 minutes of sleep – the perfect amount of sleep to both make you feel more tired and piss you off. As I get dressed, I recount the tale of gore of my Grindhouse nosebleed to Lady E. She seems nonplussed by it, but I persevere undeterred. Unfortunately, my zeal proves to be my fatal flaw as I get a little too animated in my recollection and start the whole episode again.
Fuck.
Someone call the makers of Saw V because here comes the blood. It’s going just like before. Soaking through tissues, dripping all over everything, same nauseous feeling in my stomach. Lady E has a nosebleed stoppage trick, but it doesn’t work for me. I can’t get back in the shower at this point, that would be crazy. So I squeeze the sumbitch until it clots and then leave it alone. I think I’ve got the faucet plugged, but as a result of the morning’s transpirings, I’m now in full-on “E Dagger Pissface Mode.”
Those of you who know me know that when I’m unhappy, I’m an utterly insufferable prick. I know this. I realize how self-indulgent this whole production is. And I’m working on it. But until I can deal with my unhappiness like a grown-up, just stay the hell out of my way until I’m done pouting. I’ll get over it, just don’t say anything or be prepared for a petty and scathing rejoinder.
Lady E, bless her heart, understands this and knows how to deal with it. She speaks minimally, she stays out of my way, and she doesn’t make it worse. I love her for this. She sees the signs, and immediately she goes into stealth mode. She moves around the house like guys do around a strip club. No eye contact. Focus on where you’re going at all times. And for the love of God, don’t make any small talk. This is not the ideal way for her to begin a Vegas adventure either. She’d rather go with me rather than my Pissface alter ego. But I think (hope?) she knows that like all things shitty and self-indulgent, this too will pass.
As for me, the remainder of this entry could read as about 18 “Things We Hate” entries that pertain to either no one or 0.5% of the population. Here’s a sampling of my malaise:
Things I Hate #1: My blue and white shirt from Banana Republic that’s now too big
I have (apparently) lost weight since I bought this $50 slice of upper-middle class couture, which now makes me look like I’m wearing a rain poncho. I was planning on wearing this to work, and then on the plane so I could transport my collar stays to Vegas without having to pack them. (Quick aside: What the hell was I thinking? Have you ever seen collar stays? They’re like the size of two paper clips. Yeah, I better put them in my shirt or else I’ll need to pack a bigger bag. I’m a lunatic. I ended up placing them in my quart-size Ziploc bag like a sane person – no problem.)
I end up like Diana Ross changing in and out of this thing to no avail. I can’t make it look right. I end up taking it off in disgust and change into my reliable black, silk-cashmere sweater. I look fine, but my whole collar stay transportation scheme has been busted. I’m pissed.
Things I Hate #2: The left lane of Logan St. between 6th Avenue and Colfax
At least three times per week some shit-for-brains dickhead parks in the left lane overnight and forgets to move his car before the 6 a.m. requirement. Between the hours of 6 a.m. and 7 p.m. this lane is for traffic. During the night, you can park there. Why is this so hard to understand?
Do these people get fucked up the night before and become unable to wake up in time to move the car? Do they not see the sings erected every 15 feet or so? Are they related to that Corky kid from “Life Goes On?” Who knows…
All I know is that everyday there’s a tow truck in the left lane hauling the cars of these nitwits away and it screws up my commute. I need the left lane eventually. So, like an idiot, I drive everyday hoping no one has been dumb enough to overstay their welcome in my lane. And nearly everyday, my idiocy is reinforced as some shitty Nissan Stanza gets trucked away to impound hell.
Needless to say, this happened this morning. I’m pissed.
And one more thing: To you in the goddamn minivan who tried to speed up when I put my blinker on to escape the inevitable left lane logjam. Fuck you. Fuck you in your stupid minivan with your ugly mustache and your shitty broken left mirror. I can’t believe I gave you a thank you wave, you prick. I hope you burn your mouth on your coffee this morning only to go home and find out your dried-up old milk cow of a wife is making soup tonight. Fucker.
Things I Hate #3: The homeless bitch who asks me for money everyday
For the last time: No, I don’t have any money. Leave me alone. You ask me for money again, I’m stealing your bag of cans. Goddammit. I’m pissed.
Things I Hate #4: The rent-a-cops who always say good morning when I walk in the office
I’m in no mood for you and your blue blazer this morning, rent-a-cop. Leave me alone or I’m crumpling this receipt and throwing it in the potted plant just to watch you clean it up. I’m pissed.
Things I Hate #5: The guy who politely held the elevator for me
Ok, I’m not actually pissed at this guy. I wanted to be. I had a good lather going, didn’t want to see it end but was running out of targets, and was all set to chastise him in my head for failing to hold the door, but when I got to the bank of elevators, there he was waiting for me holding the door. No one else was even around, this was just for me. This simple act of courtesy melted away a lot of the frustration I had built up. My nose was still stuffy from the wretched clot protecting the world from my cascade of booger blood, but it was time to get over it. I’m going to Vegas today!
(One final note to this section: I was never pissed at the rent-a-cops and would never do something that petty and borderline evil. I was in no mood to say hi, but did anyway and felt a little better. The receipt thing was something I thought of when I was writing this and added it in for enhanced effect. Treat your building security kindly.)
Thumbs Up: The Fort Collins / Loveland Airport
You know how Denver International Airport sucks in virtually every way? Poor layout, ridiculously far from town, inconvenient parking configurations, high prices, painfully long security lines, marathon walks everywhere, shitty food, etc? The Fort Collins / Loveland Airport is the complete opposite of that. Since only one flight per day flies out of there, there’s a counter inside with a ticket taker, one security line, a convenient smoking area, and a waiting area with a cheaply-priced bar featuring beer from the nearby New Belgium and O’Dell’s breweries. Parking is only $3 per day compared to the $5 at DIA’s cheapest shuttle-necessary lot. The flight always leaves early, and everyone is always in a great mood from the lack of logistical hassles associated with this airport.
Some of you may feel compelled to quibble about the distance with me, but I don’t even think this is an argument. Driving from Denver to Loveland takes about 45 minutes. Driving from Denver to DIA? 30 minutes. When you factor in the extra time it takes to park in the shitty economy lot, ride the stuffed-to-the-gills shuttle, stand in the never-ending snake line at the ticket counter only to stand in yet another endless line at security, pack into the underground tram and walk the mile and a half to your gate, there’s no comparison. Isn’t it much more preferable to blast some tunes in your car while cruising at 85 miles per hour up I-25, show up to the airport where you walk approximately 30 yards from the car to the ticket counter, stand in no security line, and enjoy a $3 Fat Tire stress-free? People at DIA always look like they’re ready to snap like CT from The Gauntlet on someone. People in Loveland: pleasantly buzzed.
I will never fly to Las Vegas from DIA ever again. If the above reasoning isn’t convincing enough, I’ll add this final coup de grace: My round trip ticket on Allegiant Air only cost me $118. I love this airport.
Thumbs Down: McCarran Airport
This airport usually smells pretty good (except near the crushed-by-life, gambling addicted, chain-smoking scumbags in the slot machine-filled smoking areas, natch), but that’s about all.
My problem with this airport doesn’t necessarily stem from the airport itself*, but rather all the slack-jawed tourists aimlessly wandering around the concourse, the baggage claim, and the cab queue. Since no one ever knows where the hell they’re going (this is a bigger problem in Las Vegas than anywhere else except maybe New York) and you do, you’re constantly running into people staring at the giant Bette Midler billboard in the baggage claim instead of walking with purpose toward picking up their bags. Fridays are the worst since this is when everyone arrives and you get amateurs like middle-aged women wearing fanny packs and guys with big French braids and Harley Davidson tank tops cluttering up all the walkways.
After you’ve managed to navigate the human barrel of snakes known as baggage claim, it’s off to the soul-sucking cab queue. Remember when I bitched about the walk down the concourse at DIA? The winding, back and forth, insufferable line for taxis at McCarran makes the walk at DIA look like a Sunday stroll in the park. This is a Nazi death march. It wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t usually take 45 minutes, wasn’t always 150 degrees, or if you didn’t have to pass the same ugly people you uncomfortably make eye contact with 6 times before getting to a cab. I hate this line. You’re hyped about being in Vegas, but this line is a remarkable buzzkill.
Amazingly, this trip we cruised through the queue at an astonishing clip. Less than 10 minutes, we stood at the curb and climbed into a cab. Miraculous.
Thumbs in the Middle: The Hooters Hotel and Casino
In the weeks leading up to the trip, everyone I talked to had something to say about me staying at the Hooters – usually some jackass joke about ogling the Hooters girls. Here are four things you need to know about the Hooters Hotel (2 good and 2 bad):
1) The location is fantastic. Aside from the Hard Rock, this is the cheapest cab fare from the airport in Vegas. You’re less than a block from a convenience store where you can buy cheap beer and fill up your bathtub with for pre-gaming and walking around. You’re also less than a one beer walk from the Tropicana (cheap gambling tables – we’ll get there in a minute), the MGM Grand, Excalibur, New York New York, and Monte Carlo. With the tram, it’s five more minutes to Mandalay Bay. And since you’re slightly off the strip, any place you take a cab to is easily accessible by back roads and avoids that soul-sucking 30 minute ordeal known as The Strip. Lady E and I took a cab from the Hooters to the Venetian, and it was less than 10 bucks going the back way. Big points for the Hooters location!
2) The check-in line would have been fantastic if our room were ready. There was no line at the desk (a heavenly site considering the ungodly waits I’ve encountered at dumps like the Imperial Palace, Tropicana and Excalibur), but upon check-in, I find that our room is not ready. Considering I booked this room about three months ago, confirmed it with a credit card, and paid extra for a preferred room, I found this annoying. She tried calling the illegals in housekeeping, but got no answer and banished us to the bar to wait for her to call us over.
Too much time elapsed and my Vegas arrival euphoria was waning. I told my buddy (who’s approximately 9 and a half feet tall) to stare at her until she motioned us back over. She said that housekeeping hadn’t called her back, but that since our room was a 17th floor “Ocean View” room (I asked her what “ocean” she was talking about since we were in the middle of the fucking desert to which her response was “You’ll see”), it was a premium room and she’d feel bad about moving us down floors. Some back and forth followed, requests to be upgraded offered by Captain 9 Foot, and eventually we’d had enough waiting and opted for the 11th floor in the same number as our previous room.
I don’t know what the hell she was talking about since our “Ocean View” was of the Tropicana’s parking lot… but the 11th floor was just fine otherwise. Ocean view… Jesus. Aside from that, small beds in the room. Good water pressure in the shower. Excellent blackout curtains. What else do you need?
3) The casino is laid out less like a traditional casino and more like a (surprise!) Hooters restaurant. Wood floors, lots or rock music, Hooters girls everywhere (I mean – holy shit! It certainly makes the hagged out old hunks of crowbait slinging drinks at the Excalibur look somehow even worse by comparison), and a ton of cheap tables. My shitty luck aside, the atmosphere is fun, the dealers appear to be having a good time, and there’s a ton of good looking broads as far as the eye can see. I’d probably gamble here again.
4) Hooters wings are overrated. It was about 2:30 in the morning on Saturday and we were all piss drunk coming off a long gambling session at the Imperial followed by cocktails at Shadow Bar in Caesar’s. Like idiots we (actually, I’m pretty sure I spearheaded this moronic decision) walked all the way back down the strip to our hotel. By the time we finally got there, we were starving and saw that Dan Marino’s restaurant had 25 cent wings between midnight and 6:00 a.m. Booya!
Needless to say we ordered 40 of them for $10 and chomped that meat like we were at Paris Hilton fantasy camp getting filmed in night vision. Even though we were all shit-housed, these wings were oddly unsatisfying. I found myself halfway through a particularly rubbery wing gazing longingly at 9 Foot’s Wife’s bacon cheeseburger silently cursing myself for not ordering food that required so much work, cost be damned.
Anyway, Dan Marino’s was marginal at best. But, what would you expect from a restaurant named after a quarterback who never won a Super Bowl and was stalked by a transsexual psychopath for failing to hold the football laces out on a field goal attempt during the 1984 Super Bowl?
Thumbs Up: Studio Café in the MGM Grand
No one knows about this restaurant, it seems. I first went there four years ago on a hungover larf to kill time before my flight. Seemed like a reasonable place, in the middle of one of the nicer casinos in Las Vegas (right near god-awful nightclub Tabu btw), decent American-style menu, what the hell? Much to my surprise, the food was outstanding, the service was hop step quick, and the price was non-wallet busting. This place is the anti-Rumjungle. Dinner for four, with a cocktail each, set us back about $25 per person. Not bad!
By the way, I highly recommend getting any of their breakfast foods, their pizzas, or the BBQ Chicken Sandwich. And if none of that grabs you, everything else is good too.
Thumbs Up: Zen Moment in the Casino Bathroom
As we waited for our check at the Studio Café, I strolled to the bathroom inside the MGM. It’s a well known fact that I get the stage fright, so I’m always leery of hitting the urinals. Fortunately, the MGM has partitions between each one to ease the pressure, and on this particular night, not a soul standing at them. I took the one on the end and waited to ease out the flow. Just as I started, a whole flood of guys poured into the bathroom (I guess a shooter finally crapped out at the craps table just outside) and I immediately tensed up.
Improbably, everyone who came in observed Unwritten Guy Code, Rule #247: Always use a buffer zone when standing at a urinal wall.
Twelve urinals on this wall, and 6 guys all evenly spaced apart. I couldn’t believe the alignment of the celestial bodies on this night. I finished up, smiled slightly (which creeped out the guy I passed on the way out), and thanked the heavens for my good fortune.
Thumbs Down: Waking up early
After a wildly dissatisfying meal at Dan Marino’s, we all headed up to the room to pass out. Due to the absurdly small beds, Lady E and I fought for real estate the whole night rendering peaceful slumber impossible. I woke up throughout the night alternately cursing myself for forgetting to take the Advil before I fell asleep, and plotting revenge against the Phillip Morris company for creating a cartoon camel so charming I thought smoking an entire pack of cigarettes would be a good idea the previous night. My mouth had that “Did I sleep with a gerbil in my mouth last night?” quality to it, and I was so hungover my liver was quivering so hard it made my balls ache (Memo to the ladies: You’ll never be able to relate to this, but believe me, it happens.).
To top everything off, I could hear 9 Foot and his wife making out in the bed next to us. In their defense, they might not have been making out, they might have been having a peanut butter eating contest. Hard to tell…
Anyway, 9 Foot notices I’m awake and comes over to me to let me know he and the wife are awake and have been for a while. They’re going to get out of the room and head down to the pool to let me and Lady E sleep. Sounds good to me. “What time is it?” I ask him thinking it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 or 11.
“It’s 8:30,” he tells me.
What the fuck? Who wakes up that early in Vegas? Jesus titty-fucking Christ, yes, get the hell out of the room so us non-insane people can get some sleep. 8:30?!? For fuck’s sake…
I woke up at 11:30. That’s more like it. I had slept off most of my hangover and was now chugging the Gatorade I had the remarkable clairvoyance to buy the day before. I forced myself to eat some of the marginal Dan Marino wings from our to-go box and was well on my way to recovery. Just need to put away that first beer.
Lady E, on the other hand, looked like she had volunteered for trial testing anti-ebola medication in some army experiment gone wrong. Yikes. There was no way she was going anywhere without some sort of miracle cure… Something that could magically erase all the drinks she had the night before… Something to make her forget what those shitty wings tasted like… twice.
Thumbs Up: The Oxygen Bar in New York, New York
I normally hate testimonial style advertising. You know, some Midwestern housewife writes a letter to Cheer with Color Guard for helping her remove stains from her son’s soccer uniform and then re-enacts the situation in the next commercial. This type of advertising has always annoyed me because I: a) refuse to believe women like this have time to do anything outside of their daily grind besides occasionally masturbate in a bubble bath and b) get “puppies on fire sad” when I think about someone actually feeling so strongly about a household product, they’re compelled to write a letter to a multi-national chemical conglomerate thanking it for helping her provide her family with cleaner clothes.
Having said that, I would happily play the role of a dead inside housewife and act in the Oxygen Bar’s next set of advertisements (if they ever made any). This place is amazing. My letter would go something like this:
Dear Oxygen Bar,
As a loser slacker wiseass 26 year-old who drinks and smokes too much when he goes to Las Vegas, I know a thing or two about hangovers. That’s why when I found your oxygen bar and stuck your little tubules of goodness up my nose for 15 minutes, I knew I’d found the magic bullet to erase nature’s consequences for overindulgence. Now, with your help I can achieve a false sense of invincibility that allows me to imbibe like Jeff Conaway before he found Dr. Drew that will probably result in me throwing up on a pit boss someday and getting banned from Las Vegas forever!
Sincerely and gratefully yours,
E Dagger
There is no better cure for a hangover than the oxygen tube/massage/aroma therapy combo provided at the oxygen bar in the New York, New York by Nathan’s just outside the walkway that leads to the Excalibur. After 15 minutes, I was fresh as a daisy. And… unbelievably, so was Lady E. Wow!
Thumbs Up: The Guy from Dublin I sat next to at the Oxygen Bar
You meet the swellest people in Las Vegas. For 15 minutes, this gentleman and I exchanged pleasantries and cured our respective hangovers. He loves America, loves Las Vegas, and finds everyone he meets to be “polite and wonderful.” He even likes the miserable people in Chicago! I wish those around the world who hate us could spend a weekend with us in Las Vegas and get fucked up on our nickel. I think the world would be a much happier place. I won’t forget this guy soon, and our conversation was a ray of sunshine on an already sunny day.
Thumbs Down: The Rumjungle
I’ve had bad experiences here, and since I was there this time in the middle of the afternoon, I wouldn’t qualify this visit as “bad,” but it’s safe to say I won’t be visiting them again anytime soon. It doesn’t matter what you order because everything you get is essentially a hangover in a glass. What’s better than alcohol? If you’re the Rumjungle, alcohol with a pound of sugar added, that’s what!
9 Foot is a rum connoisseur (I know, what?) and found their mojito underwhelming. I don’t know anything about rum except that I drank too much Parrot Bay in college and will never drink it again. But I too found the mojito underwhelming. For a place that calls itself the Rumjungle, you’d think they’d get rum’s signature drink right. Thumbs up for their chicken nachos, but if you’re pondering patronizing the Rumjungle for the food, do yourself a favor and just buy a handle of Captain Morgan’s, get a plate of nachos from Chili’s and light the remaining $50 on fire. Thank me later.
Thumbs Up: Tropicana Gambling
My previous experiences at the Tropicana tables were mixed at best. Ordinarily when you’re gambling in the middle of the afternoon at the Tropicana, the tables are cheap, but you’ve got nothing but non-English speaking dealers, morons who don’t know how to play blackjack, and cocktail waitresses that would just as soon kick you in the nuts as bring you another drink.
That is, of course, unless you’re playing at the swim-up tables in the pool area. I’ve never had more fun playing blackjack in my life. $5 table with sweet gambling goodness, Mai Tai in front of me, and you’re in a pool in the greatest city in the world. Plus, one of the greatest gambling moments in the entire history of existence happened here.
The table is full with six players. I’m sitting third position right in the middle, my friend Brian to my right, some chump to his right, a fat Mexican and his two women (whom each he affectionately referred to as “bitch”) next to him are on my left. The dealer is a barely English-speaking, but smiley gentleman named King. The lights are about to go out for me as I’m down to my last chip. I need the next hand, or I’m done. Brian’s next to me sitting pretty and continually offering to spot me money. He’s a genuinely nice guy, but I can’t help but get pissed off at his offers considering he asks me on every hand what to do. This is the same guy who on the craps table had four come bets out there and asked me if he needed to put another one down. Um, no, Brian. I think you’re good.
Anyway, last chip. The cards come out and I’ve got a really bitchin’ 14 against King’s king (how perfect). He checks for blackjack, and I’m certain it’s over for me. Naturally, King goes to flip the cards to reveal his inevitable 21, and I’m already halfway off my stool prepared to waste another $7 on a tasty Mai Tai. But alas, he’s dicking with us. And much to his chagrin, he lifted the hole card just a wee bit too much and I caught it. Amazing! It’s a 3! I’m still alive!
Right on cue, Brian and his 12 turn to me and say,
“Yo, I need to hit this, right?”
“No, just hold.”
“But I’ve got a 12 and he’s showing a face card.”
“Just shut the fuck up and stay. TRUST ME.”
Unfortunately, the guy sitting first base has 8 and needs to hit. Like clockwork, the bust card peels off and the guy’s sitting 18. Brian trusts me and stays. I call a stay like the clock is winding down on a round of Catch Phrase, and by doing so the fat Mexican catches on and also stays on his 15. His two “bitches” also stay on their god-awful 12 and 14 respectively. At this point, King knows he screwed up and reveals his 13. I’m praying there’s another face card on top and not the Vegas specialty 8 of spades that somehow always beats you against all odds.
Improbably, another face card peels off and the whole table wins! I don’t think King does his fake out move anymore, and his gaffe jumpstarts an E Dagger comeback which sees me finish with $20 more dollars than I bought in for. Greatest gambling moment ever!
Unfortunately this time around, we weren’t staying at the Tropicana and the swim-up blackjack is only open between Memorial Day and Labor Day.
So we’re back inside with the non-English speakers, Jim and Nora from Shit House Falls, NE, the douchy frosted tip guys with popped collars who try to double down on 12, and every other leprosy-afflicted gambler in the world. Everyone wins at the Tropicana!
Today is different, though. I find a spot at an open table and amazingly, the two farm girls sitting anchor know how to play. This girl and her mom look like they’d make you a wonderful boysenberry pie before offering to change your sheets in the guest room while you visit your cousins “up home.” But they’re commanding the table. Someone tries to hit their 13 against the dealer’s 6, and they bark at them until they back off. Someone tries to split 6s, and they’re all over the player like the IRS on Wesley Snipes. It’s fantastic! They look like they’re from the same bloodline as Aunt Bea, but they play like they’re due back at MIT by 7 with a belt of money strapped around their waists. I don’t have to be the dick at the table for once! And I don’t have to be the one taking the shitty hits at anchor to make up for the rest of the table’s mistakes. Perfect!
Shitty for them (and me), they catch a string of cold cards and take their money elsewhere. But on the upside, the cock bag next to me has already gotten up making room for 9 Foot’s Wife, and with our two farm girls leaving, Lady E and 9 Foot now have a place to sit. The gal from India next to me seems to be winning, but I now have to step up as table general. Done it before. Happy to do it again.
So I take over, and right out of the gate everyone starts winning. Our new dealer is a kindly old and heavyset black woman named Dorothy. She deals the cards nice and slow which gets our visits by the cocktail waitress to hands of blackjack ratio nice and low, tells a few jokes, and gives advice on when to hit and stay for when the table doesn’t believe me.
At one point 9 Foot actually asks me the following question un-ironically: “Hey Dag, should I split these 10s?”
“No. Absolutely not. Don’t split those under any circumstances.”
“Why not?”
I’m incredulous at this point.
“First of all, you already have a winning hand. Don’t screw it up with this harebrained idea. And secondly, and more importantly, you’re going to annoy ME.”
Right on cue, Dorothy looks over at him and says, “And ME.”
Big tip for Dorothy for that one. Luckily, sanity prevailed and he stood on his 20. And fortunately for all of us, this situation didn’t present itself again as 9 Foot proceeded to go on an absurd run of blackjacks rivaled only by my friend Kyle’s run at the Stratosphere in 2004. 21 after 21 after 21. This was his first trip to Vegas, and I think he’ll be back in short order based on how much money he won at this table alone.
At one point I was dealt six, so to mock 9 Foot I ask, “Should I stay on this six?” Lady E fires back, “STAY ON THE SIX!” which became our running joke for the rest of the afternoon. Every time someone got something in the single digits, I’d yell at them, “HIT THE SIX!” This the table to be at. At one point, we had a crowd behind us watching the shenanigans like the card counting scene in Rain Man.
The rest of the afternoon flew by as everyone is winning money. Dorothy is replaced by a friendly Latvian woman named Baiba and the hot cards keep on coming. The cocktail waitress is on a Mario Andretti pace. In two hours, the two dealers only pulled one blackjack. A guy at the next table over started rhythmically clapping the Tulo chant, and when he finished, Lady E and I shouted “Tu-LO!” He did this with every blackjack he got which caused us to be louder and louder, so it became reason enough for the pit boss to saunter over and shoot icy vibes at the hot table. You got nothing, pit boss! Go back to handing out comps, you sorry bastard!
Tu-LO!
Thumbs Down: Tropicana Bathrooms
None on the casino floor. You have to go up an elevator which comes about every equinox. How needlessly inconvenient. Put one on the casino floor!
Thumbs Up: Beirut at O’Shea’s
Why did we have to wait until 2008 to have casino Beirut? How did this not occur to the powers that be until now? It’s so simple, it’s almost stupid. You pay $10 at the bar for a set of cups and a pitcher. There’s approximately 10 tables set up and about 50 obnoxious people in their 20s all quibbling over rules. It’s fantastic! O’Shea’s is generally a horrible place, so why not offer this alternative to endear yourself to the younger crowd? You sell more beer, and since you’ve already got ‘em in the door, they’ll probably stay and gamble. I did. All the shitty casinos need to start this!
Lady E and I jumped on an open table and found ourselves paired against two guys from Wisconsin. Since they’re from a cold weather state (and people from cold weather states are inherently better at drinking games), I knew we had our work cut out for us. We quickly, and amazingly I might add, agreed on the rules: Swatting allowed on bounces, no same cup rule, two in a row leads to balls back, re-rack anytime, re-racks at 6, 4, and 3, no blowing or fingering. Simple enough.
And just as I feared, these guys catch fire early putting Lady E and I into a large hole. They’re down to 3 cups left while we still have 7 to go. I’m sinking them at a decent clip, but everything she throws comes up short. Our table at home is much shorter than this table, so I tell her to move forward one step.
Bingo! The cups start falling as the Wisconsin boys hit an unreal cold snap. Lady E and I bang out 6 cups in four turns getting the balls back once. We’re down to our last cup as the Wisconsin boys avoid total humiliation by finally sinking one and getting to their last two. All we have to do is avoid choking on the last cup. Easy right? I do my best to put on my Mariano Rivera face, but end up looking more like Eric Gagne. We can’t close this thing for some reason. When the Wisconsin boys get down to their last one, I don’t even have to look. We’re done. Cold weather prevails again. We shake hands and part ways.
I’m sure some of the people who play there are dicks (as many can be while playing Beirut), but on this night, all was good. I didn’t even have to make any Brett Favre is a crying baby jokes to these guys. I wanted to, but they didn’t deserve that.
Thumbs Up: Dealertainers
Losing at blackjack is much easier when you lose to a Dolly Parton impersonator. This is the charm of the Dealertainers at the Imperial Palace. All the dealers dress up like celebrities with varying degrees of success. Roy Orbison has the part nailed. Gloria Estefan, despite being from Israel, looked quite a bit like the real latin one. Alice Cooper, on the other hand, couldn’t even lip sync properly to “School’s Out for Summer.” Ricky Martin looked nothing like the real one and wore an obnoxious mesh shirt where he would bounce his pecs. God…
Blackjack should be a party, and the Dealertainers make it one. Between dealing hands of blackjack, they jump onstage and lip sync to their hit songs. It’s campy as fuck, but who cares? This is Vegas! I ended up playing with Elvis, Roy Orbison and Toby Keith on this trip, and they all earn the E Dagger seal of approval. Toby Keith was especially surprising considering what a lowlife, loudmouth scumbag I find the real one to be. Fake Toby Keith was a great dealer, a swell guy, and someone who loved to continue tipping.
When you play with the Dealertainers, and I wholly advocate that you should, here’s who to avoid at all costs: Ricky Martin’s bouncing pectoral muscles, Alice Cooper, Cher, and Little Richard. Jesus God, Little Richard is terrifying looking and a lousy dealer.
E Dagger approved: Dolly Parton, Toby Keith, Roy Orbison, Gloria Estefan, and especially Elvis. Elvis is played by a guy named Gary whom I told I remembered from when he played Buddy Holly four years ago. He was so taken aback by that, he came up to me to say hello the second night and remembered Lady E’s and my name. Great guy! Hit him up.
Thumbs Down: Idiot Fellow Blackjack Players
There was some idiot at the Imperial Palace who insisted on high fiving me every time I got 20. He’d want to celebrate and stick out his hand until finally I said, “Dude, sit down! We haven’t seen the dealer’s up card yet, you fucking maroon. What if he’s got blackjack?” You want to high five me? Stop splitting your fucking twos! Even worse, this guy split 6s. Who does that? Ever? I mean really, what the fuck? He would stay on 16, he was sitting too close to my girlfriend, and worst of all, he was winning money with his moronic play and screwing up my necessary hits. I hate this guy. I’ve played with one of him every trip and you’d think I’d either get over it or wise up. You’d be wrong. I will piss and moan about this forever.
Thumbs Up: V Bar in the Venetian
This is the best place to hang out in Vegas, bar none. Here’s what Vegas.com had to say about it:
“No cover, no line, no list. And may I add, no pretension, snobbery or attitude. V Bar recently went where precious few clubs have gone before by celebrating its five-year anniversary. Many a Vegas nightspot’s lifespan can be clocked from grand opening to grand closing in mere months or in the time it takes to enjoy just one cocktail. But as with a fine wine, cheese or an unpaid parking ticket, this small bar has gained complexity over time.”
Lady E and I hit this place every time we’re in town without fail. It’s hip, it’s not too loud, it’s classy, and they played nothing but Unwritten Law one night we were there. This is the place Lady E and I re-discover, re-invent, or just rekindle our relationship. Neither of us actively looks for that, and to be honest – I didn’t even realize this until I just wrote it, but somehow this bar facilitates romance and clears all your cobwebs. You’ll feel like you’re starting your relationship anew. I love this bar. And the fact that I love this bar reminds me why I love my girl. <end sappiness>
We were having a good night before getting to V Bar, but two Grey Goose Citrons later, our night was better.
Thumbs Down: McCarran Airport (Again)
Boo on the obnoxious celebrity voices telling you when to get off the moving walkway and the goddamn Wheel of Fortune slot machines that magnify your hangover before the flight back. You’ve probably lost money, you’ve drank enough to kill a small to medium-sized Asian family (My apologies to whomever I ripped off that joke from, I can’t remember), and your stomach is performing its own Cirque du Soleil show. The last thing you want to hear is Don Rickles advising you about the moving walkway. Christ. Just shut up!
Thumbs Up: Coming Home
As great as Las Vegas is, there’s nothing like coming home. You’re ready to not start drinking at10:30 in the morning. You’re ready for your own bed. You’re ready to quit walking three miles a day for a while. You’re ready to keep all your money in bills, not chips.
And you know after some down time, you’re ready to go back and do it all again.
Until next time…
20 Apr 2008 E Dagger