Monday.
I generally defend Southwest Airlines against all defamation, but I’m forced to admit that my flight out of Austin was inexcusably dirty. There were food crumbs on the seats and trash stuffed into the seatback pouches. The flight crew seemed complacent and stuporous at first, but performed their jobs dutifully. And since the flight was also completely full, I flew into the Las Vegas Valley disgruntled and constricted, but slightly elevated from a cocktail.
At Planet Hollywood, I accompanied my pal Blanche to Seven Stars check in (where doors close and eliminate the sound of unhappy children in the lobby) and she employed her metaphysical currency to upgrade my room to what they like to call a Strip Suite. The view was spectacular. On the 28th floor, I was at sufficient height to enjoy a stunning view of the strip and the mountains. I could recline in bed and watch television and the Bellagio fountains simultaneously – which was good, because I have a short attention span.
This was only my second stay at PH, but I think that on my next Vegas trip I will eschew the dubious charms of in-room memorabilia (Little Shop of Horrors and Easter Parade, so far) and leftover Aladdin-themed faucets and fixtures, and book a different property. There are aspects of these particular rooms I find perplexing. First and foremost, they are dark. Open the drapes, turn on all the lights, and even at high noon the room is dark. The products in the bathroom are remarkably unimpressive and unworthy of pilferage, the closet is too small, and there are empty spaces beneath both flatscreens where a minibar would fit. But there is no minibar – and what’s a trip to Vegas without a $12 bag of artisan potato chips? Okay … there are other things I could mention, but complaining about a free, upgraded room suddenly strikes me as petty. Like I said, the view was gorgeous -- even through the fabric of the Peep Show building wrap that, unfortunately creates a moiré pattern on photographs. (I think it was a Peep Show wrap. It was too hot to walk outside and look up at the facade.)
From these rooms you can see most of CityCenter, even the doomed Harmon, and next door, the Cosmopolitan rises above its neighbors, literally and stylistically. The aforementioned fountains and mountains are dead center, and between them, an obstructed view of the Rio and Gold Coast. Caesars, the Mirage and Bally’s are all visible, and the perennially unimpressive Trump Tower peers over the Treasure Island rooftop, looking appropriately gaudy and irrelevant. I also spotted two more properties in the distance, which I may try to identify using Google Earth – if I absolutely run out of anything else to do.
Speaking of Blanche … while avoiding the embarrassment of an accounting, I should point out that without her help, this trip would not have happened at all, as I still reside in that gray area between unemployed, self-employed and egregiously underemployed. So, this was all a very special birthday gift – right down to the two bottles of Bulleit waiting in my room.
It was also Blanche’s birthday. I bought her a pony, but the sonofabitch bit me and ran away. And the Carvel ice cream cake melted on my way to the airport. That’s my story, anyway.
Blanche returned to Paris, which is where I was treated to an excellent birthday dinner at Le Provencal, several hours later -- courtesy of two old friends from Los Angeles. I had salmon and fingerling potatoes tasting suspiciously of duck fat. Dinner conversation was most enjoyable. I appreciate discussing classic Hollywood with people who not only know who Andre de Toth was, but also once met him at a party. (That was an earlier discussion. This one involved Jane Withers.) After dinner and about thirty minutes of unremarkable video poker, I abandoned my friends much too early. This was inexcusable, but the day was catching up with me lengthwise, and I returned to Planet Hollywood where I immediately dropped dead.
Tuesday.
I was resurrected the next morning and eventually continued churning my meager funds through the machines downstairs. I searched high and low and in-between for the solitary Cherry Bomb machine that had paid off like an ATM on my previous trip, but that entire bank of WMS games (including, as I recall, Goldfish and Funhouse) was gone.
On my way to breakfast (Spice Market Buffet) one of three attractive young women shoved a camera in my hand and directed me, with a British accent, to take a photo. They posed, I snapped, but the resultant image was unsatisfactory. My hand jerked while navigating the unfamiliar camera. Before I could take another, the camera was snatched away, and one of three young men (who had materialized behind me) said, “Well done, my man. Excellent work. That’s a fine photograph you took there.” I looked at him and replied, “Thank you. That’s very sarcastic of you.” I suppose it wouldn’t be a proper Vegas trip without at least one douchebag encounter. One of the young women repeated “sarcastic,” and laughed. At least one of them got it.
They were posing in front of an interactive buffet sign. I am constantly astounded by what I consider painfully obvious and pointless photographs taken in Las Vegas. On the other hand, I always pack a camera, and almost never use it. That seems equally foolish. So, here’s a picture of the carpet in room 2853. Pretty.
After a late breakfast of tepid egg whites and hashbrowns, I received a text from Blanche asking if I would like to meet at Mon Ami Gabi for an early lunch. (Insert appropriate sound effect.)
After more gambling (all machines, all the time) I returned to my room and fell asleep watching the Asian channel. As I slipped into blissful repose, I told myself that a nap would grant me the luxury a late night.
I was to meet Blanche at Joe Louis in front of Mesa Grill around 5:00. We had celebratory plans … dinner at Mesa Grill and a show. Absinthe. Walking from Planet Hollywood to Caesars is not much of a stretch for me, but the 112 degree heat forced me into Paris to cool down – and I live in Central Texas and walk almost everywhere, even in August. But, this heat was soul crushing.
Dinner at Mesa Grill was as impressive as it almost always is. I had a part of a large dead bird with tamarind BBQ sauce, corn soup and collard greens with smoked chilies. All I remember about Blanche’s cioppino is the pair enormous decapod crustaceans that clung to their shells as if keeping them on would delay the inevitable. And, I suppose it did. We split a bottle of house red, which infused me with sufficient bravery to sit front and center at Absinthe, where the Gazillionaire called me a Republican. I knew this show was funny, but nothing is that funny.
I have nothing insightful to add to the plethora of rave reviews this show has garnered. Absinthe is as funny, bawdy, and awe-inspiring as you may have heard. I fell in love with Penny Pibbets. Google the show. I’m done here.
My plans for a late night and for winning money were both crushed beneath the thumb of fate and a few too many birthday cocktails. I was asleep by midnight.
Wednesday.
The next morning I began charging stuff to the room, because that was part of the deal. This practice does not come naturally to me, and I’m not really a room service kind of guy. My first ten years as a Vegas visitor involved getting in and out as cheaply as possible, putting all the real money into a bankroll. But, the morning after my birthday I ordered a pot of coffee and a Bloody Mary for breakfast and sent out laundry. It was actually a Bloody Mary kit. Some assembly was required. The menu specified Finlandia, but it turned out to be SKYY. That was fine with me, as I prefer to buy American (Actually, there are several excellent Texas Vodkas that would have made me even happier.) Either way, it was a fine beverage – although a pinch of salt wouldn’t have killed them. Once I finished, I resuscitated the coagulated ice and Bloody Mary schmutz at the bottom of the glass with some Absolut Citron I had acquired somewhere. After that, I switched to coffee. Even in Vegas, I wouldn’t care to be hammered before 8:00 A.M.
Tentative plans to visit Fremont Street and the Cosmopolitan were scrapped once I read Blanche’s series of text messages ending at 2:18 A.M. Apparently, the Paris leg of the birthday tour had lasted a bit longer than anticipated. Blanche was down for the count, and I was on my own. This was not a problem. We both consider gambling a solitary endeavor, and neither wants to be beholden to someone else’s schedule or temperament.
I made no notes Wednesday afternoon, I remember playing Lord of the Rings (first time) and winning $150. I don’t know why I’ve avoided this game. Winning or losing, it’s just too much fun to ignore. I wandered from one machine to the next, looking for new experiences and playing almost no video poker. I also remember breaking even for the session, eating lunch at Planet Dailies (more salmon) and returning to my room. Checking my bill on the television, I noticed that my calls to room service and the bell desk (there was a bit of a laundry mix-up) were charged to the room. One dollar per call. They charge you to talk to them. Seriously, if they’re going to pull stuff like this, it sort of deflates the whole “no resort fees” campaign. Either way, you’re going to pay for service and incidentals (unless it’s all comped, which it was … but I’m talking about principle here, not money).
I met Blanche for dinner at Les Artistes because her waning hangover demanded a beef sacrifice. She also slipped me a few Paris freeplay vouchers (she had so many). I ordered the pork shank because it came with truffle mashed potatoes, and because I keep hearing gourmands complain about the fact that modern pork is lean. After a truly incredible salad (hearts of palm, fennel, red and gold beets and mesclun) my entrée arrived and I was officially in over my head. I don’t always agree with my cardiologist – especially when he tells me I should occasionally indulge in a high fat meal. (After all, I have four stents. He has none.) I have interpreted “occasionally” to mean “annually” and even with this adjustment, I realized I was looking down at day’s worth of food and a year’s worth of butter. And, in a related story, the pork was absolutely tasteless. The truffle mashed potatoes were excellent as was the baked apple. Blanche had to walk with a portion of her ribeye, but the remainder of my meal stayed on the table. I hate wasting food, but not as much as I hate myocardial infarction. I hereby apologize to all parties involved, living and slaughtered, for my miscalculation.
After playing the vouchers into cash, I was asleep -- once again -- by midnight. I was continuing to slumber through my favorite part of the Las Vegas night.
Thursday.
The next morning, after a cup of bad in-room coffee, I gave the casino a pittance of the money churned from the Paris vouchers. I met Blanche a little after noon, and we headed for Mandalay Bay (my first casino) and Border Grill (my favorite Vegas restaurant I can actually afford). The cab driver inquired about our city of origin, and I told him, bracing for an uncomfortable conversation about a prominent Texas official who recently took the national stage. I was relieved to discover the driver actually wanted to talk about Austin’s population of Mexican free-tailed bats. I can do that all day.
At Border Grill, I had fish tacos and a delicious Jalisco Mule. I’m drawing a blank on Blanche’s lunch order, but her drink order involved several glasses, a wooden tray and Correlejo Reposado. This is more than a drink. This is several drinks and a science project.
After lunch, Blanche hit the high limit room, and I wandered the Mandalay Bay casino, trying to locate the exact location I became hopelessly enamored of this outrageous pursuit. It was over a decade ago, during my first night in Las Vegas -- at a one-dollar Big Bang Piggy Bankin' machine with a primitive LED bonus feature. These machines are long gone, of course, but when I get near the location, I react like Patton approaching a Carthaginian battlefield. An appropriate analogy, considering the number of times I’ve been massacred since that first session.
We didn’t stay long, and I returned to my room at the Ho. This was my final evening in Vegas, so a late night was practically guaranteed. But, a nap couldn’t hurt.
I woke up in the dark and looked out the window. The Cosmopolitan looked particularly appealing against the night sky, with its strategic smattering of blue lights and ultra-hip use of typography. Enchanted and sleep-addled, I changed into nighttime apparel, descended to the street and navigated the walkway over Las Vegas Boulevard.
Cosmopolitan. You can Google that, as well.
I stood in line for a player’s card (or “Identity”) before making a modest profit playing several IGT server based games (none of which I can remember). Then, I spotted the very large screen of a retro/tiki/devil/lounge-themed game. (Again, I failed to take notes.) The graphics appealed to me and I hit a generous bonus almost immediately. I played this game for at least an hour and left the casino a tiny bit richer. I didn’t churn enough money to anticipate any offers, but I will definitely be back. It’s difficult to dislike the place.
Back at Planet Hollywood, I was strolling through the casino on my way to the gift shop to procure some free stuff to take home, when I spotted someone playing my Cherry Bomb machine. The entire bank of machines had simply been relocated, and I had spent the past few days walking right past it. I suddenly knew how I would be spending my last night in Vegas – seated at a fun but idiotic slot machine, drinking free cocktails and catching the occasional wisp of second-hand smoke. My little slice of heaven.
Checking my text messages, I see that I sat down a little after 10:00, and played until a little after 1:00, which is when I texted the message: “When will I learn to just stay in my room?” Of course, that would make for a pretty boring trip.
So, for three hours I played Cherry Bomb, and for most of that time, my luck from the previous trip held up. And then, it just didn’t. But, I continued chasing the money while the lovely cocktail waitress continued furnishing the Maker’s Mark. This is as dangerous a combination as it sounds. At one point a large women in a bowling shirt sat down at the Funhouse game to my right and proceeded to hit one high-decibel bonus after another. At one point, I glanced over (because, like me, she enjoyed letting the noise and hoopla play itself out, rather than pushing the button that stops it) and she was up over $800. I smiled and offered a sincere thumbs-up. My luck never returned.
Friday.
I had an early flight, so I turned in around 2:30. My phone woke me at 8:00 and I showered and packed. Blanche had to check me out. That was a good thing. It meant I didn’t have to wait in line, and my $260 room charge was dropped to about $18 (all tips, the currency of karma).
Blanche was supposed to go to New York a few hours later, but all flights were canceled. She had to give up her Book of Mormon tickets, but she got to stay in Vegas a little longer. She may still be there.
I generally defend Southwest Airlines against all defamation, but I’m forced to admit that my flight out of Austin was inexcusably dirty. There were food crumbs on the seats and trash stuffed into the seatback pouches. The flight crew seemed complacent and stuporous at first, but performed their jobs dutifully. And since the flight was also completely full, I flew into the Las Vegas Valley disgruntled and constricted, but slightly elevated from a cocktail.
At Planet Hollywood, I accompanied my pal Blanche to Seven Stars check in (where doors close and eliminate the sound of unhappy children in the lobby) and she employed her metaphysical currency to upgrade my room to what they like to call a Strip Suite. The view was spectacular. On the 28th floor, I was at sufficient height to enjoy a stunning view of the strip and the mountains. I could recline in bed and watch television and the Bellagio fountains simultaneously – which was good, because I have a short attention span.
This was only my second stay at PH, but I think that on my next Vegas trip I will eschew the dubious charms of in-room memorabilia (Little Shop of Horrors and Easter Parade, so far) and leftover Aladdin-themed faucets and fixtures, and book a different property. There are aspects of these particular rooms I find perplexing. First and foremost, they are dark. Open the drapes, turn on all the lights, and even at high noon the room is dark. The products in the bathroom are remarkably unimpressive and unworthy of pilferage, the closet is too small, and there are empty spaces beneath both flatscreens where a minibar would fit. But there is no minibar – and what’s a trip to Vegas without a $12 bag of artisan potato chips? Okay … there are other things I could mention, but complaining about a free, upgraded room suddenly strikes me as petty. Like I said, the view was gorgeous -- even through the fabric of the Peep Show building wrap that, unfortunately creates a moiré pattern on photographs. (I think it was a Peep Show wrap. It was too hot to walk outside and look up at the facade.)
From these rooms you can see most of CityCenter, even the doomed Harmon, and next door, the Cosmopolitan rises above its neighbors, literally and stylistically. The aforementioned fountains and mountains are dead center, and between them, an obstructed view of the Rio and Gold Coast. Caesars, the Mirage and Bally’s are all visible, and the perennially unimpressive Trump Tower peers over the Treasure Island rooftop, looking appropriately gaudy and irrelevant. I also spotted two more properties in the distance, which I may try to identify using Google Earth – if I absolutely run out of anything else to do.
Speaking of Blanche … while avoiding the embarrassment of an accounting, I should point out that without her help, this trip would not have happened at all, as I still reside in that gray area between unemployed, self-employed and egregiously underemployed. So, this was all a very special birthday gift – right down to the two bottles of Bulleit waiting in my room.
It was also Blanche’s birthday. I bought her a pony, but the sonofabitch bit me and ran away. And the Carvel ice cream cake melted on my way to the airport. That’s my story, anyway.
Blanche returned to Paris, which is where I was treated to an excellent birthday dinner at Le Provencal, several hours later -- courtesy of two old friends from Los Angeles. I had salmon and fingerling potatoes tasting suspiciously of duck fat. Dinner conversation was most enjoyable. I appreciate discussing classic Hollywood with people who not only know who Andre de Toth was, but also once met him at a party. (That was an earlier discussion. This one involved Jane Withers.) After dinner and about thirty minutes of unremarkable video poker, I abandoned my friends much too early. This was inexcusable, but the day was catching up with me lengthwise, and I returned to Planet Hollywood where I immediately dropped dead.
Tuesday.
I was resurrected the next morning and eventually continued churning my meager funds through the machines downstairs. I searched high and low and in-between for the solitary Cherry Bomb machine that had paid off like an ATM on my previous trip, but that entire bank of WMS games (including, as I recall, Goldfish and Funhouse) was gone.
On my way to breakfast (Spice Market Buffet) one of three attractive young women shoved a camera in my hand and directed me, with a British accent, to take a photo. They posed, I snapped, but the resultant image was unsatisfactory. My hand jerked while navigating the unfamiliar camera. Before I could take another, the camera was snatched away, and one of three young men (who had materialized behind me) said, “Well done, my man. Excellent work. That’s a fine photograph you took there.” I looked at him and replied, “Thank you. That’s very sarcastic of you.” I suppose it wouldn’t be a proper Vegas trip without at least one douchebag encounter. One of the young women repeated “sarcastic,” and laughed. At least one of them got it.
They were posing in front of an interactive buffet sign. I am constantly astounded by what I consider painfully obvious and pointless photographs taken in Las Vegas. On the other hand, I always pack a camera, and almost never use it. That seems equally foolish. So, here’s a picture of the carpet in room 2853. Pretty.
After a late breakfast of tepid egg whites and hashbrowns, I received a text from Blanche asking if I would like to meet at Mon Ami Gabi for an early lunch. (Insert appropriate sound effect.)
After more gambling (all machines, all the time) I returned to my room and fell asleep watching the Asian channel. As I slipped into blissful repose, I told myself that a nap would grant me the luxury a late night.
I was to meet Blanche at Joe Louis in front of Mesa Grill around 5:00. We had celebratory plans … dinner at Mesa Grill and a show. Absinthe. Walking from Planet Hollywood to Caesars is not much of a stretch for me, but the 112 degree heat forced me into Paris to cool down – and I live in Central Texas and walk almost everywhere, even in August. But, this heat was soul crushing.
Dinner at Mesa Grill was as impressive as it almost always is. I had a part of a large dead bird with tamarind BBQ sauce, corn soup and collard greens with smoked chilies. All I remember about Blanche’s cioppino is the pair enormous decapod crustaceans that clung to their shells as if keeping them on would delay the inevitable. And, I suppose it did. We split a bottle of house red, which infused me with sufficient bravery to sit front and center at Absinthe, where the Gazillionaire called me a Republican. I knew this show was funny, but nothing is that funny.
I have nothing insightful to add to the plethora of rave reviews this show has garnered. Absinthe is as funny, bawdy, and awe-inspiring as you may have heard. I fell in love with Penny Pibbets. Google the show. I’m done here.
My plans for a late night and for winning money were both crushed beneath the thumb of fate and a few too many birthday cocktails. I was asleep by midnight.
Wednesday.
The next morning I began charging stuff to the room, because that was part of the deal. This practice does not come naturally to me, and I’m not really a room service kind of guy. My first ten years as a Vegas visitor involved getting in and out as cheaply as possible, putting all the real money into a bankroll. But, the morning after my birthday I ordered a pot of coffee and a Bloody Mary for breakfast and sent out laundry. It was actually a Bloody Mary kit. Some assembly was required. The menu specified Finlandia, but it turned out to be SKYY. That was fine with me, as I prefer to buy American (Actually, there are several excellent Texas Vodkas that would have made me even happier.) Either way, it was a fine beverage – although a pinch of salt wouldn’t have killed them. Once I finished, I resuscitated the coagulated ice and Bloody Mary schmutz at the bottom of the glass with some Absolut Citron I had acquired somewhere. After that, I switched to coffee. Even in Vegas, I wouldn’t care to be hammered before 8:00 A.M.
Tentative plans to visit Fremont Street and the Cosmopolitan were scrapped once I read Blanche’s series of text messages ending at 2:18 A.M. Apparently, the Paris leg of the birthday tour had lasted a bit longer than anticipated. Blanche was down for the count, and I was on my own. This was not a problem. We both consider gambling a solitary endeavor, and neither wants to be beholden to someone else’s schedule or temperament.
I made no notes Wednesday afternoon, I remember playing Lord of the Rings (first time) and winning $150. I don’t know why I’ve avoided this game. Winning or losing, it’s just too much fun to ignore. I wandered from one machine to the next, looking for new experiences and playing almost no video poker. I also remember breaking even for the session, eating lunch at Planet Dailies (more salmon) and returning to my room. Checking my bill on the television, I noticed that my calls to room service and the bell desk (there was a bit of a laundry mix-up) were charged to the room. One dollar per call. They charge you to talk to them. Seriously, if they’re going to pull stuff like this, it sort of deflates the whole “no resort fees” campaign. Either way, you’re going to pay for service and incidentals (unless it’s all comped, which it was … but I’m talking about principle here, not money).
I met Blanche for dinner at Les Artistes because her waning hangover demanded a beef sacrifice. She also slipped me a few Paris freeplay vouchers (she had so many). I ordered the pork shank because it came with truffle mashed potatoes, and because I keep hearing gourmands complain about the fact that modern pork is lean. After a truly incredible salad (hearts of palm, fennel, red and gold beets and mesclun) my entrée arrived and I was officially in over my head. I don’t always agree with my cardiologist – especially when he tells me I should occasionally indulge in a high fat meal. (After all, I have four stents. He has none.) I have interpreted “occasionally” to mean “annually” and even with this adjustment, I realized I was looking down at day’s worth of food and a year’s worth of butter. And, in a related story, the pork was absolutely tasteless. The truffle mashed potatoes were excellent as was the baked apple. Blanche had to walk with a portion of her ribeye, but the remainder of my meal stayed on the table. I hate wasting food, but not as much as I hate myocardial infarction. I hereby apologize to all parties involved, living and slaughtered, for my miscalculation.
After playing the vouchers into cash, I was asleep -- once again -- by midnight. I was continuing to slumber through my favorite part of the Las Vegas night.
Thursday.
The next morning, after a cup of bad in-room coffee, I gave the casino a pittance of the money churned from the Paris vouchers. I met Blanche a little after noon, and we headed for Mandalay Bay (my first casino) and Border Grill (my favorite Vegas restaurant I can actually afford). The cab driver inquired about our city of origin, and I told him, bracing for an uncomfortable conversation about a prominent Texas official who recently took the national stage. I was relieved to discover the driver actually wanted to talk about Austin’s population of Mexican free-tailed bats. I can do that all day.
At Border Grill, I had fish tacos and a delicious Jalisco Mule. I’m drawing a blank on Blanche’s lunch order, but her drink order involved several glasses, a wooden tray and Correlejo Reposado. This is more than a drink. This is several drinks and a science project.
After lunch, Blanche hit the high limit room, and I wandered the Mandalay Bay casino, trying to locate the exact location I became hopelessly enamored of this outrageous pursuit. It was over a decade ago, during my first night in Las Vegas -- at a one-dollar Big Bang Piggy Bankin' machine with a primitive LED bonus feature. These machines are long gone, of course, but when I get near the location, I react like Patton approaching a Carthaginian battlefield. An appropriate analogy, considering the number of times I’ve been massacred since that first session.
We didn’t stay long, and I returned to my room at the Ho. This was my final evening in Vegas, so a late night was practically guaranteed. But, a nap couldn’t hurt.
I woke up in the dark and looked out the window. The Cosmopolitan looked particularly appealing against the night sky, with its strategic smattering of blue lights and ultra-hip use of typography. Enchanted and sleep-addled, I changed into nighttime apparel, descended to the street and navigated the walkway over Las Vegas Boulevard.
Cosmopolitan. You can Google that, as well.
I stood in line for a player’s card (or “Identity”) before making a modest profit playing several IGT server based games (none of which I can remember). Then, I spotted the very large screen of a retro/tiki/devil/lounge-themed game. (Again, I failed to take notes.) The graphics appealed to me and I hit a generous bonus almost immediately. I played this game for at least an hour and left the casino a tiny bit richer. I didn’t churn enough money to anticipate any offers, but I will definitely be back. It’s difficult to dislike the place.
Back at Planet Hollywood, I was strolling through the casino on my way to the gift shop to procure some free stuff to take home, when I spotted someone playing my Cherry Bomb machine. The entire bank of machines had simply been relocated, and I had spent the past few days walking right past it. I suddenly knew how I would be spending my last night in Vegas – seated at a fun but idiotic slot machine, drinking free cocktails and catching the occasional wisp of second-hand smoke. My little slice of heaven.
Checking my text messages, I see that I sat down a little after 10:00, and played until a little after 1:00, which is when I texted the message: “When will I learn to just stay in my room?” Of course, that would make for a pretty boring trip.
So, for three hours I played Cherry Bomb, and for most of that time, my luck from the previous trip held up. And then, it just didn’t. But, I continued chasing the money while the lovely cocktail waitress continued furnishing the Maker’s Mark. This is as dangerous a combination as it sounds. At one point a large women in a bowling shirt sat down at the Funhouse game to my right and proceeded to hit one high-decibel bonus after another. At one point, I glanced over (because, like me, she enjoyed letting the noise and hoopla play itself out, rather than pushing the button that stops it) and she was up over $800. I smiled and offered a sincere thumbs-up. My luck never returned.
Friday.
I had an early flight, so I turned in around 2:30. My phone woke me at 8:00 and I showered and packed. Blanche had to check me out. That was a good thing. It meant I didn’t have to wait in line, and my $260 room charge was dropped to about $18 (all tips, the currency of karma).
Blanche was supposed to go to New York a few hours later, but all flights were canceled. She had to give up her Book of Mormon tickets, but she got to stay in Vegas a little longer. She may still be there.
