To start everything off, that fuckhead-in-chief G.W. Bush was flying out of O'Hare Thursday night. Which means all sorts of shit was fucked-up and late. Shana and Rob and I waited in the airport for five hours for a three-and-a-half hour flight, and then when we got on the plane it was too late for them to show the movie, although they were able to play like eight episodes of "Everybody Loves Raymond." Christ in a fucking wheelchair.
So we get to the Venetian around 1:30am and check in. Then we're hungry again since it's been nine hours since we ate dinner, so we hit some cafe in the hotel that's owned by the Cheesecake Factory. Now, I like the food at the Cheesecake Factory. It's usually flavored pretty well, whatever you say about their decor. But this place bit it. $15 for fish and chips, and the chips were fucking shite. Even the fried calamari and zucchini Rob ordered was bland. I mean, how do you fuck up fried calamari?
If you've never been to Vegas, you can probably guess from the preceding that my tale will portray several examples of over-priced underwhelming bullshit.
We were staying at the Venetian, which bills itself as a replica of the real Venice. The truth is, the whole thing is so fucking plastic it's annoying. Having been to Venice, I'd much rather go back, even though I was bored when I was there. At least it was a real city, even if it was full of tourists, too. Just because you have a fake-ass grand canal and your security guards dress like carabinieri doesn't mean you've replicated Venice. Your plastic facade and stench of simulation belie the truth.
Las Vegas is a plastic-and-neon monument to artifice and superficial monolithic greed. Everything is overpriced. There isn't a drinking fountain in the entire fucking city, but every casino has huge fucking fountains out in the desert sun. Me being a frugal bastard, I found myself getting dehydrated throughout the day rather than spend $3 for a bottle of fucking water. And if you read my last post, you've probably figured out that I didn't gamble, although I did watch Shana flush $40 down a roulette table on a whim before we left.
I don't think there's anything authentic in the entire city. It's a chilling vision of the future of Republican America, with everything owned by giant corporations; crowds of people interested in superficial baubles and attention grabbing amusements, like pigeons to the sparkle of broken glass; and flushing their money down their toilet because they can't find the gall to violate cultural mores without permission from some fucking marketing campaign. The whole fucking city is an exercise in branding.
And shit, it was sickly humorous that almost all the people on the Strip who were schilling for the strip clubs and escort services were obvious immigrants. Women and foreigners making money off each other to serve the puerile interests of moderately more well-off Americans.
Everywhere I tried to walk was filled with slow-ass people that were looking at everything but where they were going, oblivious to everything around them but the shiny flashing shit.
On Friday, we went to the GAC party at Madamme Tussaud's Wax Museum. I was standing next to the Andre Agassi statue and some woman said we looked alike. Great. The food was bland - surprise! - and the beer was all weak shit - like the whole damn city! - but the hard liquor was free. I tied a big one on, and managed to fit my fist in my mouth for the first time ever - it left big teeth marks on my knuckles for a while. That last free drink kept me pretty fucked up for the rest of the night. Too fucked up, really.
After the late arrival Thursday night, I just wanted to sleep on Friday. Then that girl Amber that I met at GORP two months ago texted me at 8:45 in the morning. Fuckin' A! Anyway, I called her later in the day and she said was going to the Wax Museum Party and so I said I'd see her later, not really too excited to see her again but not willing to just discard someone who was being friendly.
At the museum that night, Anoki asked where my "girlfriend" was; after I said I hadn't seen her, Shana took my phone and texted her:
Shana, on my phone: Where r u?
Amber: Eating at the palm at ceasers
Shana, on my phone: I miss u!
Amber: [no response]
Shana, on my phone: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!
Amber: [no response]
Needless to say, we were all laughing over this, me included, because, really, who gives a shit about some girl that lukewarm with her friendship? When I saw her as I was walking out on a lecture the next day she kind of acknowledged my wave of hello. Hah.
Note to self: Shana may never touch my phone regarding any girl I'm seriously interested in.
I did have some relaxing times sitting out by the pool, enjoying the sunlight, and/or reading Gilligan's Wake. My dad called to warn me not to give into temptation since Las Vegas is a very tempting city. Don't worry, Dad, the place disgusted me.
The highlight of the weekend was seeing the Pogues and Against Me!, even though the show was overpriced and at the House of Blues. I ended up meeting some skins from Chicago, and making fast friends with some punk kids from L.A. and some Vegas skins as well. But a ton of dancing, not a real heavy crowd, awesome music with group singalongs; just a very classic show. I was asking the Vegas guys if there was any good place to get a beer in town, and they said it sucked, it was all touristy shit. Wow, even the locals can't recommend a good bar.
After the show I was so thirsty I ended up drinking out of the sink at the Mandalay Bay, which houses the House of Blues, and walking the two-and-a-half miles up the strip back to my hotel and collapsing. Sunday was all-you-can-eat buffet brunch at the Bellagio, then a hellacious wait at the fucktarded Vegas airport security only to find another delayed flight. I got home late and spent today yawning and wishing for a nap.
