The elusive and capricious Christmas spirit finally kicked me in the teeth. I celebrate a secular version of the holiday. This is an amalgam of European mythology, Norse revelry and Pagan ritual -- redefined by Madison Avenue and sanctified by Hollywood. Commercialism is unavoidable. In fact, it's fundamental.
All are welcome. None are excluded.
Anyway, this year's dose finally hit me while I was watching SNL. You never know where it will come from. The Christmas issue of Playboy used to do it, but my subscription lapsed sometime during the Carter administration.
So Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan. We should all have a better new year.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
THE GHOST OF LIVERPOOL
He was an enormous Brit in a soiled white suit. His face was unshaven. Strings of black hair brushed the splayed collar of his pink shirt. He entered the bar with an air of proprietorship and great thirst. I had never seen him before and I never laid eyes on him again.
He knew what he wanted. "Jameson.”
"No spirits, mate. Beer and wine," the bartender replied.
"In that event, " the man said, extracting an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled pack, "I will have a pint of Guinness." He spoke with a Liverpudlian lilt – the unmistakable nasal drone that seems to resonate from an undiscovered region of the human face.
A few minutes later, the bartender placed a glistening pint before the stranger's sad and resolute smile. "Cheers," the barman said. "First one’s on the house tonight."
The big man drained the glass and slammed his palms on the bar.
"Right. Let’s do it," he said.
He pushed himself backward and pivoted. With no hesitation, he walked to the piano which had always looked out of place in the corner of the bar. He sat down and began playing "Imagine."
All conversation ceased as the stranger sang the first verse. Hesitantly, a few others joined in. He followed with "Yesterday." Then, “Eleanor Rigby.” By the end of the third song, everyone in the bar was singing. Pints of Guinness found their way to the piano. The man never spent a penny.
We sat there for hours, singing the songs that had shaped my life and the words that had once altered the landscape of my brain.
The bartender threw everyone out at 2:45. The stranger walked away, disappearing into the warm December morning. I went home and turned on my television. The overnight news repeated a single, heartbreaking story until dawn.
He knew what he wanted. "Jameson.”
"No spirits, mate. Beer and wine," the bartender replied.
"In that event, " the man said, extracting an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled pack, "I will have a pint of Guinness." He spoke with a Liverpudlian lilt – the unmistakable nasal drone that seems to resonate from an undiscovered region of the human face.
A few minutes later, the bartender placed a glistening pint before the stranger's sad and resolute smile. "Cheers," the barman said. "First one’s on the house tonight."
The big man drained the glass and slammed his palms on the bar.
"Right. Let’s do it," he said.
He pushed himself backward and pivoted. With no hesitation, he walked to the piano which had always looked out of place in the corner of the bar. He sat down and began playing "Imagine."
All conversation ceased as the stranger sang the first verse. Hesitantly, a few others joined in. He followed with "Yesterday." Then, “Eleanor Rigby.” By the end of the third song, everyone in the bar was singing. Pints of Guinness found their way to the piano. The man never spent a penny.
We sat there for hours, singing the songs that had shaped my life and the words that had once altered the landscape of my brain.
The bartender threw everyone out at 2:45. The stranger walked away, disappearing into the warm December morning. I went home and turned on my television. The overnight news repeated a single, heartbreaking story until dawn.
Friday, December 3, 2010
DELUSIONAL IN AUSTIN
Several hours ago I was standing on a street corner a few blocks from the infamous UT tower, waiting for a bus. I knew I had at least twenty minutes to kill, but I was perfectly content. The evening was alive with magic and minutiae.
Behind me, just outside an apartment door, two very young women were engaged in an energetic conversation. We’ve all done this, although perhaps not lately. The day is done, the door is open, you say goodnight -- and three hours later you’re still discussing the difference between love, lust and drunken capitulation – perhaps with someone you’ve just met. Or, it might have been some other drastically significant topic. I couldn’t really hear the details of this particular discussion, but I recognized the exuberance and the energy. These young women are still discovering the wonderment of the journey. They are about as far from jaded as I am from human flight. And this evening, they were chatting incessantly and laughing with no restraint. For me, it was a tonic.
In addition to the conversation, I was also under the influence of a steady, seductive breeze, ripe with evening spices and rife with tobacco and other combustibles.
It was intoxicating.
Add to this -- harsh, yellow streetlamps floating iridescent shadows beneath the wheels of passing cyclists and under the feet of pedestrians. It was nothing more than illumination blocked. Light interrupted. But it looked like magic. These shadows were bottomless, film noir pools. And the breeze was suddenly cooler. I leaned into a metal pole and breathed. For the duration of that breath, I was convinced I would live forever.
Then, a door slammed. I turned from my reverie to see the girls were no longer there. I didn’t know if both were gone, both had stayed, or if one had departed with reluctance while the other stayed behind with unspoken regret. In fact, I juggled several scenarios. I was projecting -- romanticizing a simple conversation. The aforementioned streetlights seeped into a space behind my eyes and ignited a headache. The bus was late. I was ready to go. I was ready to move on down the road. I found myself staring at the tower, calculating the striking distance between the observation deck and my forehead.
Finally the bus arrived and took me home.
There was another quick moment, as I was writing this down, when I felt foolishly immortal. My hope is that I retain this delusion, until the day it becomes untenable.
Behind me, just outside an apartment door, two very young women were engaged in an energetic conversation. We’ve all done this, although perhaps not lately. The day is done, the door is open, you say goodnight -- and three hours later you’re still discussing the difference between love, lust and drunken capitulation – perhaps with someone you’ve just met. Or, it might have been some other drastically significant topic. I couldn’t really hear the details of this particular discussion, but I recognized the exuberance and the energy. These young women are still discovering the wonderment of the journey. They are about as far from jaded as I am from human flight. And this evening, they were chatting incessantly and laughing with no restraint. For me, it was a tonic.
In addition to the conversation, I was also under the influence of a steady, seductive breeze, ripe with evening spices and rife with tobacco and other combustibles.
It was intoxicating.
Add to this -- harsh, yellow streetlamps floating iridescent shadows beneath the wheels of passing cyclists and under the feet of pedestrians. It was nothing more than illumination blocked. Light interrupted. But it looked like magic. These shadows were bottomless, film noir pools. And the breeze was suddenly cooler. I leaned into a metal pole and breathed. For the duration of that breath, I was convinced I would live forever.
Then, a door slammed. I turned from my reverie to see the girls were no longer there. I didn’t know if both were gone, both had stayed, or if one had departed with reluctance while the other stayed behind with unspoken regret. In fact, I juggled several scenarios. I was projecting -- romanticizing a simple conversation. The aforementioned streetlights seeped into a space behind my eyes and ignited a headache. The bus was late. I was ready to go. I was ready to move on down the road. I found myself staring at the tower, calculating the striking distance between the observation deck and my forehead.
Finally the bus arrived and took me home.
There was another quick moment, as I was writing this down, when I felt foolishly immortal. My hope is that I retain this delusion, until the day it becomes untenable.
Monday, October 4, 2010
AND, ANOTHER THING...
I had reached page 17 of Mockingbird, A Portrait of Harper Lee by Charles J. Shields, when I noticed something I immediately identified as a typo. It came at the end of this sentence: “If Nelle thought she could get a book written, accepted and published in a finger snap – well, she had another thing coming.”
Another thing? Are you kidding me? As it turned out, the person in the next room was a tutor, so I showed the sentence to her, and waited for a reaction. She shrugged. I gestured and pointed vigorously at the book.
“Another thing coming?”
No reaction.
“It should be another think coming.”
She seemed to doubt this. I continued. “Thing is too generic. If we reject “another think coming” because it might be clumsy or grammatically incorrect, then the expression would be "another thought coming"… but not thing. Not another thing. Thing? Really?”
This discussion continued for a few minutes without resolution (which would come eventually, thanks to Google).
Hours later I was having another discussion with another friend at another location (this one had beer) and I suddenly remembered the typo. I insinuated my earlier incredulity into our conversation and received the same blank look.
“They sound alike,” I said. “Another think coming. Another thing coming. That’s the problem.”
“Yes,” my friend said impassively, “But it’s “another thing.”
I screamed inside, but said, “No. It can’t be. I won’t have it. I will not have it.” (Did I mention the beer?)
Did you ever hear the wrong lyrics? The girl with colitis goes by? ‘Scuse me while I kiss this guy? Charlene don’t like it, rock the cash bar? It happens. I recently discovered a line from You Never Give Me Your Money I misheard for forty years.
But, my whole life, it has always been another think coming. It’s only logical. The word in question always follows the word think or the word thought. So, according to the tenor of this particular sentiment, there would be another one coming.
My tutor friend has mentioned that people don’t generally use think as a noun, and she's correct. But doing so in this context is logical -- and there is clarity in this version that bypasses the other.
Another thing deflates the meaning. It makes the expression hopelessly flaccid. In this context, thing might as well be dohickey… or doodad.
And, I will not have it.
I Googled around and found a source that (while not definitive) validates my position, and is good enough for me. What continues to boggle my mind is the popularity of another thing coming – and the fact that I had never encountered this interpretation until yesterday.
http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/another-think-coming.html
According to this link (which has convinced at least one of the aforementioned friends) most people simply say the wrong thing.
I think.
Another thing? Are you kidding me? As it turned out, the person in the next room was a tutor, so I showed the sentence to her, and waited for a reaction. She shrugged. I gestured and pointed vigorously at the book.
“Another thing coming?”
No reaction.
“It should be another think coming.”
She seemed to doubt this. I continued. “Thing is too generic. If we reject “another think coming” because it might be clumsy or grammatically incorrect, then the expression would be "another thought coming"… but not thing. Not another thing. Thing? Really?”
This discussion continued for a few minutes without resolution (which would come eventually, thanks to Google).
Hours later I was having another discussion with another friend at another location (this one had beer) and I suddenly remembered the typo. I insinuated my earlier incredulity into our conversation and received the same blank look.
“They sound alike,” I said. “Another think coming. Another thing coming. That’s the problem.”
“Yes,” my friend said impassively, “But it’s “another thing.”
I screamed inside, but said, “No. It can’t be. I won’t have it. I will not have it.” (Did I mention the beer?)
Did you ever hear the wrong lyrics? The girl with colitis goes by? ‘Scuse me while I kiss this guy? Charlene don’t like it, rock the cash bar? It happens. I recently discovered a line from You Never Give Me Your Money I misheard for forty years.
But, my whole life, it has always been another think coming. It’s only logical. The word in question always follows the word think or the word thought. So, according to the tenor of this particular sentiment, there would be another one coming.
My tutor friend has mentioned that people don’t generally use think as a noun, and she's correct. But doing so in this context is logical -- and there is clarity in this version that bypasses the other.
Another thing deflates the meaning. It makes the expression hopelessly flaccid. In this context, thing might as well be dohickey… or doodad.
And, I will not have it.
I Googled around and found a source that (while not definitive) validates my position, and is good enough for me. What continues to boggle my mind is the popularity of another thing coming – and the fact that I had never encountered this interpretation until yesterday.
http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/another-think-coming.html
According to this link (which has convinced at least one of the aforementioned friends) most people simply say the wrong thing.
I think.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
MISUNDERSTANDING ON AISLE FOUR
This happened ten years ago, and it still bugs me.
I was shopping at the original Central Market in Austin, pushing a sparsely loaded cart toward what was then the condiment aisle. Abruptly, a young and anxious Central Market employee darted blindly from another aisle, directly in front of me, forcing me to jerk the cart backward to avoid collision.
This kid never stopped. He never looked at me. He did not even notice the collision he nearly caused.
And, this was mostly amusing. His actions were a bit irritating, but certainly nothing to get upset about. I laughed and shook my head and resumed my quest for consumables. But, not before another Central Market employee approached and spoke to me. This was a woman in her forties with short, spiky hair and a sympathetic gleam in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir. That should not have happened.”
I was still a bit off-kilter, but I appreciated her unsolicited comment.
And, I said, “Well, I just can’t believe I didn’t hit him.”
To clarify: I was expressing surprise that the shopping cart I was pushing had not hit the young man who wasn’t looking where he was going…
…is what I meant.
But, she looked puzzled, and appeared to choose her next few words carefully. “Oh. Well. Thankfully there would have been a non-confrontational female present to defuse the situation.” A tight, cursory smile squelched the gleam and ended our conversation.
At that point, I’m sure I looked puzzled, as I pondered this peculiar non sequitur. Not completely understanding the reference, I nodded, and wheeled my cart toward the bulk section.
Ten minutes later I was scooping chili powder into a small plastic bag when I finally understood her meaning. Oh. She thought I was saying something completely different -- that I was actually talking about self-control. She believed the surprise I was expressing came as the result of my failure to raise a fist and strike someone.
She thought I was lamenting inaction when I said, “I just can’t believe I didn’t hit him.”
You know, hit him. Because I’m a man, and that’s what men do.
Suddenly, I was very angry. The recklessness of the callow youth had not elicited this response. But, the misinterpretation that followed certainly did. Not surprisingly, I’m frustrated when my words are misinterpreted. This is generally a one-way street with no exit. And most people stop listening once they start talking.
And, I resent gender-based clichés and all those easy t-shirt-ready stereotypes that burn no intellectual calories when perpetuated. Race and gender are the first and second refuge of the mediocre mind, and I despise the ease with which people simply go there.
But, mostly, I hate the assumption. I really hate the assumption. How much? I hate the assumption more than I hate that insipid “never assume…” cliché that was almost amusing between 1985 and about three days later in 1985.
That’s how much.
I considered retracing my steps, locating this woman, and offering a full explanation. But, I was just too angry and too disgusted. So, I checked out and fumed all the way home.
And now, ten years later, it all comes back to me when I walk past that spot in Central Market. I remember the assumption, and the assumption still makes me angry – even though I’m now assuming as much as I assume she was assuming.
I can’t help it. I just get mad.
You know. The way men do.
I was shopping at the original Central Market in Austin, pushing a sparsely loaded cart toward what was then the condiment aisle. Abruptly, a young and anxious Central Market employee darted blindly from another aisle, directly in front of me, forcing me to jerk the cart backward to avoid collision.
This kid never stopped. He never looked at me. He did not even notice the collision he nearly caused.
And, this was mostly amusing. His actions were a bit irritating, but certainly nothing to get upset about. I laughed and shook my head and resumed my quest for consumables. But, not before another Central Market employee approached and spoke to me. This was a woman in her forties with short, spiky hair and a sympathetic gleam in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir. That should not have happened.”
I was still a bit off-kilter, but I appreciated her unsolicited comment.
And, I said, “Well, I just can’t believe I didn’t hit him.”
To clarify: I was expressing surprise that the shopping cart I was pushing had not hit the young man who wasn’t looking where he was going…
…is what I meant.
But, she looked puzzled, and appeared to choose her next few words carefully. “Oh. Well. Thankfully there would have been a non-confrontational female present to defuse the situation.” A tight, cursory smile squelched the gleam and ended our conversation.
At that point, I’m sure I looked puzzled, as I pondered this peculiar non sequitur. Not completely understanding the reference, I nodded, and wheeled my cart toward the bulk section.
Ten minutes later I was scooping chili powder into a small plastic bag when I finally understood her meaning. Oh. She thought I was saying something completely different -- that I was actually talking about self-control. She believed the surprise I was expressing came as the result of my failure to raise a fist and strike someone.
She thought I was lamenting inaction when I said, “I just can’t believe I didn’t hit him.”
You know, hit him. Because I’m a man, and that’s what men do.
Suddenly, I was very angry. The recklessness of the callow youth had not elicited this response. But, the misinterpretation that followed certainly did. Not surprisingly, I’m frustrated when my words are misinterpreted. This is generally a one-way street with no exit. And most people stop listening once they start talking.
And, I resent gender-based clichés and all those easy t-shirt-ready stereotypes that burn no intellectual calories when perpetuated. Race and gender are the first and second refuge of the mediocre mind, and I despise the ease with which people simply go there.
But, mostly, I hate the assumption. I really hate the assumption. How much? I hate the assumption more than I hate that insipid “never assume…” cliché that was almost amusing between 1985 and about three days later in 1985.
That’s how much.
I considered retracing my steps, locating this woman, and offering a full explanation. But, I was just too angry and too disgusted. So, I checked out and fumed all the way home.
And now, ten years later, it all comes back to me when I walk past that spot in Central Market. I remember the assumption, and the assumption still makes me angry – even though I’m now assuming as much as I assume she was assuming.
I can’t help it. I just get mad.
You know. The way men do.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
FRANKIE GOES TO PLANET HOLLYWOOD.
PART TWO.
I don’t think I’ve ever taken this long to finish a trip report before. At this point, my hastily scribbled and often inebriated notes are somewhat difficult to decipher. I will do my best to keep it real.
THE MORNING OF THE FOURTH DAY arrived with stomach cramps and a mild fever. I would rather not accuse P.F. Chang’s of burdening me with food poisoning, so I will blame this on some bug I picked up in one of the casinos. (You want germs? Look no further than a slot machine.)
In spite of my malaise, it was time to relocate to Bellagio. Of course, this wasn’t technically relocation -- it was the beginning of a dual residency. I would keep my Planet Hollywood room – but also check into a Salone Suite directly across the street. There was really no reason to keep the room at Planet Hollywood, except that everything was free (so, why not?), and the idea of crashing on either side of Las Vegas Boulevard (whenever the urge dictated) was a luxury I simply could not discard. (This was all Blanche’s doing. The Bellagio room was booked in her name, but she would remain happily ensconced in her Paris penthouse suite, while I lounged in the Bellagio Salone Suite whirlpool, and pillaged the minibar like some rampaging Hessian.)
I divided my Vegas wardrobe, packed my spare shaving kit (Does twenty-first century terminology exist for this accessory?) and headed for Bellagio.
The Salone Suite at Bellagio could very well be the nicest room I have occupied in Vegas. I was prepared to take issue with the word “suite”, as one must do in some LV Sands rooms and at The Rio, where “suite” is redefined as “one really big room”. But, since the Salone Suite bathroom consists of two rooms (and one of those features actual furniture) I’m prepared to call this a legitimate suite. I will take issue with the extraneous vowel, however. The correct pronunciation of salone is “seh-lone-eh” – but no one I’ve spoken with is prepared to adhere to this indisputable linguistic fact. So, if we refuse to say it properly (like amore) and we refuse to say it improperly (like calzone) and simply choose to ignore the vowel – I say drop it. Salon Suite. Done. (You’re welcome, MGM. No charge.)
The views were spectacular. From one window I could see directly across to where my Planet Hollywood room would have been if I could have seen it. In fact, if I had packed binoculars, I could have waved to myself. The fountains were visible – but only just, and the other window offered a sexy view of the nearly finished Cosmopolitan. Years from now, I’m sure visitors will assume this property is part of CityCenter, since the infrastructure and architectural flamboyance seem to overlap. And The Jockey Club, now hunkered-down and wholly inappropriate in the shadows, has never been more aptly named.
Blanche called. We met downstairs at Noodles, where I enjoyed what I will call the best Pad Thai outside of Seattle. Our discussion turned to gambling. Blanche’s luck (rock solid on her two previous visits) had melted like an ice cream hat. Mine wasn’t holding up much better, although my bankroll and my trip were both at the halfway mark. We discussed tentative plans for the remainder of the trip before going our separate ways. I think Blanche had some Bellagio freeplay waiting (the original reason for booking the suite) and I wanted to play some old-fashioned Double Double Bonus with no bells and no whistles. As it turned out, there would also be no quads and no straight flushes, either. I returned to my room (inadvertently abandoning a half-order of Pad Thai in a brown paper bag beside the machine).
Whenever I’m sick in Vegas, I try my best to ignore it, and usually pay for that denial at some point. My plan was to recline on the sofa and watch the local news. I immediately fell asleep. I slept like a dead man. I slept like a headless zombie. I don’t think I even moved. I slept through three text messages and hours of quietly mumbling television. I traveled feverishly through a dream world that was not of my making. I encountered dozens of souls, all strangers, engaged in situations I have since forgotten in locations I had never seen before. All details have faded, but there were enough plot twists and backstories to give Quentin Tarantino whiplash and a permanent nosebleed. And, when I returned to my slumbering body, at three in the morning, I required a few extra seconds to determine my species -- before I could remember how to instruct my eyes to open.
So, here was that late night I had been looking for. In a state somewhere between refreshed and stuporous, I wandered into the casino, looking for trouble. (Has anyone else encountered these lazy hookers who sit at slot machines near an aisle and vie for attention like sultry carnival barkers? No? Never mind.)
Anyway, that wasn’t the kind of trouble I was looking for. I was looking for a game I had never played. Any game. I found Airplane! (their punctuation, not mine), took a seat and started playing. Ton o’ fun, this one. The autopilot bonus rewarded me several times, and Leslie Nielsen wished me luck, at least twice, and assured me that everyone was counting on me.
I was winning enough to keep the game entertaining (and this is a particularly entertaining game) when an insane person sat down at the Monkees machine to my left. She was a button slapper and a mumbler. And she sang along with all the Monkees song snippets emanating from the machine. She slapped, squirmed, mumbled and “acked” like a Cathy Guisewhite cartoon until I was forced to leave the area – even though Leslie Nielsen was still counting on me.
I wasn’t used to spending this much time at Bellagio, and the experience was making me deliriously happy. Also, it was getting very close to Magic Time in the casino. Magic Time is when the early morning hours become short and slippery and the immutable laws of probability kidnap and kill your inhibitions and better judgment.
I found another game I had never seen before, from a manufacturer I had never heard of. Giant Panda from a company called Aruze. Japanese. Aggressively Japanese. Beautiful, quirky graphics and hijinks. Mesmerizing. Compelling. Japanese. I couldn’t stop. I moved to another Aruze game (The Last Emperor) and another (Showgirl). All basically the same bonus-driven format with different themes, graphics and sound effects. These goddamn machines could read my mind. Every time I decided I had had enough, something exciting would happen – like a big win or the increasingly rare bonus round – and my interest would spark and my inhibitions would wither. I moved back to the Giant Panda, convinced my time had come -- and I sat there for hours, betting low, chasing bonuses and giving away the farm one dollar at a time.
Eventually I threw in the towel and returned to my room, towel-less and farm-less. I slept until noon.
I WOKE UP ON DAY FIVE, bloodied but unbowed. My meager bankroll had taken a beating, so I decided to avoid the casinos until the sun went down. I returned to Planet Hollywood, to discover my laundry had been delivered. I had sent a few things downstairs the day before to be laundered and ironed, a rare luxury brought on by the urge to charge things to the room that would be comped. The charges were quite reasonable, even if I had been paying, and at that precise moment I had a laundry epiphany. On future trips, I will factor in $50 - $100 for laundry service halfway through the trip, allowing me to pack less clothing. Half as much. BRILLIANT! And worth every penny – even if I actually have to pay.
I ordered lettuce wraps from P.F. Chang’s (my only room service indulgence this trip) and watched Get Him to The Greek on PPV, sitting in one of the oversized, comfy Planet Hollywood chairs. Not a bad film, if you like wall-to-wall Russell Brand with his enormous wall-to-wall Russell Brand face. I laughed out loud, so I guess that qualifies as funny. And, it was nice to see the hallway and carpet right outside my room making a cameo appearance in the film.
Blanche and I had plans to go downtown. I still felt lousy, but since I had canceled the Border Grill plans the day before, dinner at Firefly was even more important to me. Plus, I had some freeplay waiting at El Cortez.
After a quick nap (just to catch up) I met Blanche at Paris and we grabbed a cab to Fremont Street.
I had a total of $65 freeplay waiting for me at ElCo, which I augmented with a $10 LVA Free Slot Play coupon. I turned this into $40 cash at an ancient Double Pay multi-line and moved down a few seats to a Spin Poker machine, which greedily swallowed my winnings with no hesitation. Time for dinner.
This was my fourth visit to Firefly at the Plaza, which occupies a free-floating position in my top five favorite Vegas eateries. There were a couple of missteps this time, but nothing that changed my opinion. The gazpacho was as delicious as ever, and the tuna-stuffed peppers on taro chips were very good. This time, however, my warm spinach salad was not so warm, and featured an overabundance of stems. Saving the day, lamb skewers with lentils, as ancient a culinary combination as one could hope to find in a trendy tapas restaurant. Really good. The herbaceous Blood Orange Mojito ordered on a whim was downright medicinal, and helped chase away the remains of my inopportune infirmity. Service faltered toward the end of the meal.
Like many things about the Plaza, the down escalator near Firely is broken. In order to exit the building, one must ascend one more flight of stairs and locate the elevators on the opposite end of a cavernous area that resembles the gorgeous, idyllic mezzanine at Planet Hollywood. Except instead of gorgeous, it's shabby, and instead of idyllic, it's malodorous.
After going up one and down two levels, Blanche and I walked to Four Queens to claim our $10 LVA freeplay. We were both given an extra $20 each for having August birthdays, and I got an additional $20 for being so goddamn old. We sat at the VP bar, drinking their amber ale and churning free money. I did well enough and then badly enough to (I would predict) get back on the Four Queens mailing list. Not sure how I fell off the 4Q radar. Perhaps it was all that time I’ve spent ignoring them in favor of El Cortez.
Back on the Strip I took another nap in preparation for another late night session, which resulted in the loss of another farm and the tossing in of another towel.
SATURDAY. Last full day. I took no notes. I didn’t do much gambling. I stayed in my room (at Bellagio) delighted by the fact that the minibar had been restocked. With absolutely free access to these consumables included in the RFB, I had assumed that there would be no restocking. Not so. By Saturday afternoon, I was starting in on the tiny bottles of Ketel One and Bombay, mixing it with Sprite Zero. I would have killed for a few limes.
The “hand-crafted” potato chips were a personal favorite. I’ve had two heart attacks, and rarely eat real potato chips – so this was a major treat. And, inexplicably, these crunchy little devils contained no saturated fat. Either that, or they’re just lying. I really don’t care. It’s Vegas, where people do things that require them to go home and turn the mirrors to the wall. I can eat a bag of chips.
I didn’t touch the M&Ms or the Pringles. Or the Captain Morgan. In fact, I easily resisted the temptation to back up a Jed Clampett truck and remove everything from the tiny refrigerator except the golf balls.
But I did go back to the HET corridor (no, I won’t stop saying that) to charge a few bottles of bourbon from various gift shops to the Planet Hollywood room. These were wrapped in bubble wrap and packed away in my luggage for a safe and legal trip back to Austin (where I’m expected to pay for identical bottles of booze).
That brings us to Barry Manilow – the part of the story where I throw myself on a grenade and obliterate forever any semblance of street cred I may once possessed.
Thanks to her charming Paris host, Blanche was in possession of third row center seats and backstage access for Barry Manilow. All I wanted was a large Vegas experience. And I was willing to immerse myself in a sea of giddy Manilow fans and suffer the likes of Mandy to accomplish this on my final night in the desert.
Perhaps I was a bit cynical going in.
These women love Barry. Make no mistake about that. And I got what I wanted. I got a smart, choreographed Vegas production with all the pros, cons and implications. In fact, this was one of the best concerts I’ve seen – and not just in Vegas.
The man still has the pipes, and is backed up by the kind of musicians one would expect from this particular cat in this particular town. He also possesses enough shrugging self-deprecation to make it clear he also finds certain aspects of his career worthy of derision. Like the famously hideous Copacabana shirt. (And, he apologized for ruining everyone’s elevator ride.)
Four remarkable backup singers/dancers, archival footage and a recording of a very young Barry Pincus singing Nature Boy all contribute to the story. Even Mandy, a song he apparently never wanted to record, was rendered almost intriguing as a tricky duet with footage of himself from 1974.
I know precious little about Barry Manilow. I basically know what anyone who listened to the radio in the seventies and eighties knows. I know the hits, the jokes, and the knee-jerk derision. I know he was once Bette Midler’s musical director and he wrote some very famous jingles. I also know that I Write the Songs was written by one of the Beach Boys.
In spite of my initia
l detachment, I loved this show. Particularly (and astonishingly) his torchy cover of a song I never really cared for, the rather sticky theme from Love Story. Yeah. That one. No. Really. Barry Manilow tears that song up. Barry Manilow breathes new life into that old chestnut. Barry Manilow owns that bitch, yo. This song brought out the cell phones. Apparently, these shows spawn hundreds of YouTube videos, as almost everyone was breaking the rules by recording their favorite songs. Even Blanche snapped a few pictures. I’ll share one with you.
Backstage, about twenty of us were ushered into a tiny room by a well-coordinated team of highly professional people-wranglers. Faster than one can say “contractual obligation” we were led into an even smaller room where the man himself shook our hands, spoke our names, posed with us for a photo and pushed us gently toward the exit with a firm but genial “That’s all. Thank you”. We were summarily led out of the backstage area to gather and wait for our complimentary photos (framed in nifty black albums). During this waiting period I fell into a conversation with a woman who had seen Barry Manilow ten times, and spoke of him and his body of work with the sincere reverence I would reserve for Tom Waits, Bob Dylan or Elvis Costello. I was a little jealous.
That backstage photo has been shared with friends, and a copy will probably hang in a certain Austin bar – but I have no intention of uploading it. For one thing, who really cares? For another, I despise posed pictures.
After the show I returned to Planet Ho and enjoyed a late dinner at Planet Dailies. Then, I played a game called Cherry Bomb. This game starts with what look like a bonus feature and -- not surprisingly – reveals a bonus that is a multi-line slot game. Sort of a reversal of fortune. It moves fast and features the hyperbolic animated flame character from other WMS re-spin games that sounds like June Foray. Anyway, I was betting low and slow, and winning money. I made a mental note to spend my last few hours in Vegas on that very machine.
SUNDAY MORNING I checked out of Bellagio using the remote. There was no charge for the stay, except a $20 gratuity at Noodles. Back at Planet Hollywood, I packed everything, including the bottles of whiskey and a handful of Bellagio bathroom products (because I use soap and shampoo every day, even at home) and that made for a tight fit, and a heavy bag. I made a cup of in-room coffee and sent a text to Blanche.
We met at Diamond checkout where Blanche and the accommodating woman at the desk used magic and math to erase my entire bill (about $1500) except for a tip charged at Planet Dailies. The magic was delayed, at first, by the still tenuous digital interface between Planet Hollywood and the other Harrah’s properties. I encountered this same delay the day before when I charged a bottle of Bulleit at the Paris gift shop.
I schlepped my bags to Blanche’s room and returned to Planet Hollywood to play Cherry Bomb. But I couldn’t play Cherry Bomb, because someone else was sitting there winning hundreds of dollars (really) – and there was not another one to be found. Not one more Cherry Bomb machine. I looked at Paris and at Bally’s. (Please, bring on the server-based machines.) And, every other game I tried only stole my money, so I quit. Game over, man. I can never find any luck during those final hours.
I loitered near the Paris elevators, communicating with Blanche with my magical texting device, when a strange, doughy and (as it turned out) European man entered my peripheral vision. He was staring at me. I frowned at my phone, trying to look busy and mean, but I saw him approaching. He stared a hole in my face, bobbed his head like a cartoon chicken and asked a question that sounded like:
“You are vadesh?”
You are vadesh? That’s what it sounded like. I have no idea what he actually said. But I said, “What?”
“You are vadesh?”
“I don’t… “
“You are not vadesh?”
“No. I’m not.”
He walked away, shaking his doughy chicken head. Blanche wasn’t answering. I didn’t want to barge in on her if she was in full-on packing frenzy. I was getting hungry, so I bought a small bag of Pop Chips and continued loitering. The creepy European returned. He stared. He frowned. He bobbed his head.
“You can see me, no?”
Aha! He’s a ghost! He’s a ghost, and only I can see him. Now I understand wha…
“YOU CAN SEE ME, NO?”
Wondering if they sold pepper spray in gift shop, I replied, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
He left again. Eventually Blanche and I hit the Paris buffet (where a group of genuine French tourists were behaving in such a stereotypically rude manner, I was convinced they had been hired to make the place more authentic). Service was spotty. The food was marginal. I was not impressed by the Paris buffet. Nothing I had was very good, except the sushi. Maybe it was just an off day.
At the airport, it was determined that my bag was overweight. In all my years of flying, I have never encountered this problem. Of course, I’ve never packed so much extra liquid before, either. While contemplating the irony of paying $50 to take home a bunch of free booze, I finally deigned to listen to the helpful and courteous Southwest employee who was trying to explain that all I had to do was relocate a couple of items of clothing to my carry-on, and the problem would be solved.
Oh. Okay. Thanks.
At the gate, I watched a small group of passengers trying to figure out the method Southwest now uses to line people up in a timely and orderly fashion and get them on the plane. It couldn’t be simpler, but it continues to perplex the dimwitted. Three of them were hanging out – way too early – in exactly the spot where Blanche and I should be standing once the boarding process was underway. I knew we were in for a confrontation when the largest of the three began clinging to the pole like a sleepy baboon.
The plane hadn’t even landed yet and these lunkheads were already in the wrong spot. Finding the correct spot would have required reading and counting, so I really didn’t expect them to move anytime soon.
Eventually the plane pulled up to the gate, expelled its cargo of happy, optimistic passengers, and we were instructed to line up. Sequentially. The clueless squatters did not move. Blanche walked over and deftly sorted them out using rudimentary math and small words. Some of this had to be repeated, but they finally complied, squinting their little pig-eyes as the light seeped in through the cracks in their heads. They walked to their designated spot, at the opposite end of the queue, still confused -- but out of our hair.
It was a full flight, but I lucked into another empty middle seat. After two cocktails, I removed my head and slept all the way to Austin.
I don’t think I’ve ever taken this long to finish a trip report before. At this point, my hastily scribbled and often inebriated notes are somewhat difficult to decipher. I will do my best to keep it real.
THE MORNING OF THE FOURTH DAY arrived with stomach cramps and a mild fever. I would rather not accuse P.F. Chang’s of burdening me with food poisoning, so I will blame this on some bug I picked up in one of the casinos. (You want germs? Look no further than a slot machine.)
In spite of my malaise, it was time to relocate to Bellagio. Of course, this wasn’t technically relocation -- it was the beginning of a dual residency. I would keep my Planet Hollywood room – but also check into a Salone Suite directly across the street. There was really no reason to keep the room at Planet Hollywood, except that everything was free (so, why not?), and the idea of crashing on either side of Las Vegas Boulevard (whenever the urge dictated) was a luxury I simply could not discard. (This was all Blanche’s doing. The Bellagio room was booked in her name, but she would remain happily ensconced in her Paris penthouse suite, while I lounged in the Bellagio Salone Suite whirlpool, and pillaged the minibar like some rampaging Hessian.)
I divided my Vegas wardrobe, packed my spare shaving kit (Does twenty-first century terminology exist for this accessory?) and headed for Bellagio.
The Salone Suite at Bellagio could very well be the nicest room I have occupied in Vegas. I was prepared to take issue with the word “suite”, as one must do in some LV Sands rooms and at The Rio, where “suite” is redefined as “one really big room”. But, since the Salone Suite bathroom consists of two rooms (and one of those features actual furniture) I’m prepared to call this a legitimate suite. I will take issue with the extraneous vowel, however. The correct pronunciation of salone is “seh-lone-eh” – but no one I’ve spoken with is prepared to adhere to this indisputable linguistic fact. So, if we refuse to say it properly (like amore) and we refuse to say it improperly (like calzone) and simply choose to ignore the vowel – I say drop it. Salon Suite. Done. (You’re welcome, MGM. No charge.)
The views were spectacular. From one window I could see directly across to where my Planet Hollywood room would have been if I could have seen it. In fact, if I had packed binoculars, I could have waved to myself. The fountains were visible – but only just, and the other window offered a sexy view of the nearly finished Cosmopolitan. Years from now, I’m sure visitors will assume this property is part of CityCenter, since the infrastructure and architectural flamboyance seem to overlap. And The Jockey Club, now hunkered-down and wholly inappropriate in the shadows, has never been more aptly named.
Blanche called. We met downstairs at Noodles, where I enjoyed what I will call the best Pad Thai outside of Seattle. Our discussion turned to gambling. Blanche’s luck (rock solid on her two previous visits) had melted like an ice cream hat. Mine wasn’t holding up much better, although my bankroll and my trip were both at the halfway mark. We discussed tentative plans for the remainder of the trip before going our separate ways. I think Blanche had some Bellagio freeplay waiting (the original reason for booking the suite) and I wanted to play some old-fashioned Double Double Bonus with no bells and no whistles. As it turned out, there would also be no quads and no straight flushes, either. I returned to my room (inadvertently abandoning a half-order of Pad Thai in a brown paper bag beside the machine).
Whenever I’m sick in Vegas, I try my best to ignore it, and usually pay for that denial at some point. My plan was to recline on the sofa and watch the local news. I immediately fell asleep. I slept like a dead man. I slept like a headless zombie. I don’t think I even moved. I slept through three text messages and hours of quietly mumbling television. I traveled feverishly through a dream world that was not of my making. I encountered dozens of souls, all strangers, engaged in situations I have since forgotten in locations I had never seen before. All details have faded, but there were enough plot twists and backstories to give Quentin Tarantino whiplash and a permanent nosebleed. And, when I returned to my slumbering body, at three in the morning, I required a few extra seconds to determine my species -- before I could remember how to instruct my eyes to open.
So, here was that late night I had been looking for. In a state somewhere between refreshed and stuporous, I wandered into the casino, looking for trouble. (Has anyone else encountered these lazy hookers who sit at slot machines near an aisle and vie for attention like sultry carnival barkers? No? Never mind.)
Anyway, that wasn’t the kind of trouble I was looking for. I was looking for a game I had never played. Any game. I found Airplane! (their punctuation, not mine), took a seat and started playing. Ton o’ fun, this one. The autopilot bonus rewarded me several times, and Leslie Nielsen wished me luck, at least twice, and assured me that everyone was counting on me.
I was winning enough to keep the game entertaining (and this is a particularly entertaining game) when an insane person sat down at the Monkees machine to my left. She was a button slapper and a mumbler. And she sang along with all the Monkees song snippets emanating from the machine. She slapped, squirmed, mumbled and “acked” like a Cathy Guisewhite cartoon until I was forced to leave the area – even though Leslie Nielsen was still counting on me.
I wasn’t used to spending this much time at Bellagio, and the experience was making me deliriously happy. Also, it was getting very close to Magic Time in the casino. Magic Time is when the early morning hours become short and slippery and the immutable laws of probability kidnap and kill your inhibitions and better judgment.
I found another game I had never seen before, from a manufacturer I had never heard of. Giant Panda from a company called Aruze. Japanese. Aggressively Japanese. Beautiful, quirky graphics and hijinks. Mesmerizing. Compelling. Japanese. I couldn’t stop. I moved to another Aruze game (The Last Emperor) and another (Showgirl). All basically the same bonus-driven format with different themes, graphics and sound effects. These goddamn machines could read my mind. Every time I decided I had had enough, something exciting would happen – like a big win or the increasingly rare bonus round – and my interest would spark and my inhibitions would wither. I moved back to the Giant Panda, convinced my time had come -- and I sat there for hours, betting low, chasing bonuses and giving away the farm one dollar at a time.
Eventually I threw in the towel and returned to my room, towel-less and farm-less. I slept until noon.
I WOKE UP ON DAY FIVE, bloodied but unbowed. My meager bankroll had taken a beating, so I decided to avoid the casinos until the sun went down. I returned to Planet Hollywood, to discover my laundry had been delivered. I had sent a few things downstairs the day before to be laundered and ironed, a rare luxury brought on by the urge to charge things to the room that would be comped. The charges were quite reasonable, even if I had been paying, and at that precise moment I had a laundry epiphany. On future trips, I will factor in $50 - $100 for laundry service halfway through the trip, allowing me to pack less clothing. Half as much. BRILLIANT! And worth every penny – even if I actually have to pay.
I ordered lettuce wraps from P.F. Chang’s (my only room service indulgence this trip) and watched Get Him to The Greek on PPV, sitting in one of the oversized, comfy Planet Hollywood chairs. Not a bad film, if you like wall-to-wall Russell Brand with his enormous wall-to-wall Russell Brand face. I laughed out loud, so I guess that qualifies as funny. And, it was nice to see the hallway and carpet right outside my room making a cameo appearance in the film.
Blanche and I had plans to go downtown. I still felt lousy, but since I had canceled the Border Grill plans the day before, dinner at Firefly was even more important to me. Plus, I had some freeplay waiting at El Cortez.
After a quick nap (just to catch up) I met Blanche at Paris and we grabbed a cab to Fremont Street.
I had a total of $65 freeplay waiting for me at ElCo, which I augmented with a $10 LVA Free Slot Play coupon. I turned this into $40 cash at an ancient Double Pay multi-line and moved down a few seats to a Spin Poker machine, which greedily swallowed my winnings with no hesitation. Time for dinner.
This was my fourth visit to Firefly at the Plaza, which occupies a free-floating position in my top five favorite Vegas eateries. There were a couple of missteps this time, but nothing that changed my opinion. The gazpacho was as delicious as ever, and the tuna-stuffed peppers on taro chips were very good. This time, however, my warm spinach salad was not so warm, and featured an overabundance of stems. Saving the day, lamb skewers with lentils, as ancient a culinary combination as one could hope to find in a trendy tapas restaurant. Really good. The herbaceous Blood Orange Mojito ordered on a whim was downright medicinal, and helped chase away the remains of my inopportune infirmity. Service faltered toward the end of the meal.
Like many things about the Plaza, the down escalator near Firely is broken. In order to exit the building, one must ascend one more flight of stairs and locate the elevators on the opposite end of a cavernous area that resembles the gorgeous, idyllic mezzanine at Planet Hollywood. Except instead of gorgeous, it's shabby, and instead of idyllic, it's malodorous.
After going up one and down two levels, Blanche and I walked to Four Queens to claim our $10 LVA freeplay. We were both given an extra $20 each for having August birthdays, and I got an additional $20 for being so goddamn old. We sat at the VP bar, drinking their amber ale and churning free money. I did well enough and then badly enough to (I would predict) get back on the Four Queens mailing list. Not sure how I fell off the 4Q radar. Perhaps it was all that time I’ve spent ignoring them in favor of El Cortez.
Back on the Strip I took another nap in preparation for another late night session, which resulted in the loss of another farm and the tossing in of another towel.
SATURDAY. Last full day. I took no notes. I didn’t do much gambling. I stayed in my room (at Bellagio) delighted by the fact that the minibar had been restocked. With absolutely free access to these consumables included in the RFB, I had assumed that there would be no restocking. Not so. By Saturday afternoon, I was starting in on the tiny bottles of Ketel One and Bombay, mixing it with Sprite Zero. I would have killed for a few limes.
The “hand-crafted” potato chips were a personal favorite. I’ve had two heart attacks, and rarely eat real potato chips – so this was a major treat. And, inexplicably, these crunchy little devils contained no saturated fat. Either that, or they’re just lying. I really don’t care. It’s Vegas, where people do things that require them to go home and turn the mirrors to the wall. I can eat a bag of chips.
I didn’t touch the M&Ms or the Pringles. Or the Captain Morgan. In fact, I easily resisted the temptation to back up a Jed Clampett truck and remove everything from the tiny refrigerator except the golf balls.
But I did go back to the HET corridor (no, I won’t stop saying that) to charge a few bottles of bourbon from various gift shops to the Planet Hollywood room. These were wrapped in bubble wrap and packed away in my luggage for a safe and legal trip back to Austin (where I’m expected to pay for identical bottles of booze).
That brings us to Barry Manilow – the part of the story where I throw myself on a grenade and obliterate forever any semblance of street cred I may once possessed.
Thanks to her charming Paris host, Blanche was in possession of third row center seats and backstage access for Barry Manilow. All I wanted was a large Vegas experience. And I was willing to immerse myself in a sea of giddy Manilow fans and suffer the likes of Mandy to accomplish this on my final night in the desert.
Perhaps I was a bit cynical going in.
These women love Barry. Make no mistake about that. And I got what I wanted. I got a smart, choreographed Vegas production with all the pros, cons and implications. In fact, this was one of the best concerts I’ve seen – and not just in Vegas.
The man still has the pipes, and is backed up by the kind of musicians one would expect from this particular cat in this particular town. He also possesses enough shrugging self-deprecation to make it clear he also finds certain aspects of his career worthy of derision. Like the famously hideous Copacabana shirt. (And, he apologized for ruining everyone’s elevator ride.)
Four remarkable backup singers/dancers, archival footage and a recording of a very young Barry Pincus singing Nature Boy all contribute to the story. Even Mandy, a song he apparently never wanted to record, was rendered almost intriguing as a tricky duet with footage of himself from 1974.
I know precious little about Barry Manilow. I basically know what anyone who listened to the radio in the seventies and eighties knows. I know the hits, the jokes, and the knee-jerk derision. I know he was once Bette Midler’s musical director and he wrote some very famous jingles. I also know that I Write the Songs was written by one of the Beach Boys.
In spite of my initia
l detachment, I loved this show. Particularly (and astonishingly) his torchy cover of a song I never really cared for, the rather sticky theme from Love Story. Yeah. That one. No. Really. Barry Manilow tears that song up. Barry Manilow breathes new life into that old chestnut. Barry Manilow owns that bitch, yo. This song brought out the cell phones. Apparently, these shows spawn hundreds of YouTube videos, as almost everyone was breaking the rules by recording their favorite songs. Even Blanche snapped a few pictures. I’ll share one with you.Backstage, about twenty of us were ushered into a tiny room by a well-coordinated team of highly professional people-wranglers. Faster than one can say “contractual obligation” we were led into an even smaller room where the man himself shook our hands, spoke our names, posed with us for a photo and pushed us gently toward the exit with a firm but genial “That’s all. Thank you”. We were summarily led out of the backstage area to gather and wait for our complimentary photos (framed in nifty black albums). During this waiting period I fell into a conversation with a woman who had seen Barry Manilow ten times, and spoke of him and his body of work with the sincere reverence I would reserve for Tom Waits, Bob Dylan or Elvis Costello. I was a little jealous.
That backstage photo has been shared with friends, and a copy will probably hang in a certain Austin bar – but I have no intention of uploading it. For one thing, who really cares? For another, I despise posed pictures.
After the show I returned to Planet Ho and enjoyed a late dinner at Planet Dailies. Then, I played a game called Cherry Bomb. This game starts with what look like a bonus feature and -- not surprisingly – reveals a bonus that is a multi-line slot game. Sort of a reversal of fortune. It moves fast and features the hyperbolic animated flame character from other WMS re-spin games that sounds like June Foray. Anyway, I was betting low and slow, and winning money. I made a mental note to spend my last few hours in Vegas on that very machine.
SUNDAY MORNING I checked out of Bellagio using the remote. There was no charge for the stay, except a $20 gratuity at Noodles. Back at Planet Hollywood, I packed everything, including the bottles of whiskey and a handful of Bellagio bathroom products (because I use soap and shampoo every day, even at home) and that made for a tight fit, and a heavy bag. I made a cup of in-room coffee and sent a text to Blanche.
We met at Diamond checkout where Blanche and the accommodating woman at the desk used magic and math to erase my entire bill (about $1500) except for a tip charged at Planet Dailies. The magic was delayed, at first, by the still tenuous digital interface between Planet Hollywood and the other Harrah’s properties. I encountered this same delay the day before when I charged a bottle of Bulleit at the Paris gift shop.
I schlepped my bags to Blanche’s room and returned to Planet Hollywood to play Cherry Bomb. But I couldn’t play Cherry Bomb, because someone else was sitting there winning hundreds of dollars (really) – and there was not another one to be found. Not one more Cherry Bomb machine. I looked at Paris and at Bally’s. (Please, bring on the server-based machines.) And, every other game I tried only stole my money, so I quit. Game over, man. I can never find any luck during those final hours.
I loitered near the Paris elevators, communicating with Blanche with my magical texting device, when a strange, doughy and (as it turned out) European man entered my peripheral vision. He was staring at me. I frowned at my phone, trying to look busy and mean, but I saw him approaching. He stared a hole in my face, bobbed his head like a cartoon chicken and asked a question that sounded like:
“You are vadesh?”
You are vadesh? That’s what it sounded like. I have no idea what he actually said. But I said, “What?”
“You are vadesh?”
“I don’t… “
“You are not vadesh?”
“No. I’m not.”
He walked away, shaking his doughy chicken head. Blanche wasn’t answering. I didn’t want to barge in on her if she was in full-on packing frenzy. I was getting hungry, so I bought a small bag of Pop Chips and continued loitering. The creepy European returned. He stared. He frowned. He bobbed his head.
“You can see me, no?”
Aha! He’s a ghost! He’s a ghost, and only I can see him. Now I understand wha…
“YOU CAN SEE ME, NO?”
Wondering if they sold pepper spray in gift shop, I replied, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
He left again. Eventually Blanche and I hit the Paris buffet (where a group of genuine French tourists were behaving in such a stereotypically rude manner, I was convinced they had been hired to make the place more authentic). Service was spotty. The food was marginal. I was not impressed by the Paris buffet. Nothing I had was very good, except the sushi. Maybe it was just an off day.
At the airport, it was determined that my bag was overweight. In all my years of flying, I have never encountered this problem. Of course, I’ve never packed so much extra liquid before, either. While contemplating the irony of paying $50 to take home a bunch of free booze, I finally deigned to listen to the helpful and courteous Southwest employee who was trying to explain that all I had to do was relocate a couple of items of clothing to my carry-on, and the problem would be solved.
Oh. Okay. Thanks.
At the gate, I watched a small group of passengers trying to figure out the method Southwest now uses to line people up in a timely and orderly fashion and get them on the plane. It couldn’t be simpler, but it continues to perplex the dimwitted. Three of them were hanging out – way too early – in exactly the spot where Blanche and I should be standing once the boarding process was underway. I knew we were in for a confrontation when the largest of the three began clinging to the pole like a sleepy baboon.
The plane hadn’t even landed yet and these lunkheads were already in the wrong spot. Finding the correct spot would have required reading and counting, so I really didn’t expect them to move anytime soon.
Eventually the plane pulled up to the gate, expelled its cargo of happy, optimistic passengers, and we were instructed to line up. Sequentially. The clueless squatters did not move. Blanche walked over and deftly sorted them out using rudimentary math and small words. Some of this had to be repeated, but they finally complied, squinting their little pig-eyes as the light seeped in through the cracks in their heads. They walked to their designated spot, at the opposite end of the queue, still confused -- but out of our hair.
It was a full flight, but I lucked into another empty middle seat. After two cocktails, I removed my head and slept all the way to Austin.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
FRANKIE GOES TO PLANET HOLLYWOOD.
PART ONE.
A few weeks PRIOR TO DEPARTURE I was in a bar with my friend Blanche, making plans. We share a birthday and often travel to Vegas at the same time. In fact, we do this every year, and have done so since before Blanche became a highroller. On this occasion, she was filling me in on show ticket options available for our impending trip. Apparently, her host was offering Donnie and Marie tickets. Barry Manilow was mentioned, as well. My musical taste runs (quite rapidly) in other directions (to say the least), so she wasn’t sure I would be interested.
A few weeks PRIOR TO DEPARTURE I was in a bar with my friend Blanche, making plans. We share a birthday and often travel to Vegas at the same time. In fact, we do this every year, and have done so since before Blanche became a highroller. On this occasion, she was filling me in on show ticket options available for our impending trip. Apparently, her host was offering Donnie and Marie tickets. Barry Manilow was mentioned, as well. My musical taste runs (quite rapidly) in other directions (to say the least), so she wasn’t sure I would be interested.
A FEW WEEKS LATER I was flying high in the sky, test-driving an iPad belonging to an accommodating fellow traveler. (This was my first hands-on experience with an iPad and my suspicions were confirmed. It is that thing I’ve always wanted.) Eventually, I placed the device in the empty seat to my right (a luxury I always enjoy), and glanced out the window. Fat clouds drifted above a giant Shar-Pei’s back. Or, maybe it was Arizona.
Two gin and tonics and one nap later I was in Las Vegas, where my checked bag appeared on the first circuit and the Bell Trans shuttle headed directly to my hotel, completing the hat trick triggered by the aforementioned empty seat.
Blanche, who had a suite at Paris, had used her current standing to upgrade my Planet Hollywood room to Premium Fountain View. This was a great room. Judy Garland’s dress from Easter Parade hung inside a display case on the wall. A signed contract from Harvey Girls and several framed photos completed the theme. In the bathroom, a round tub overlooked a stunning pano
ramic view of the Bellagio fountains, as well as a half-dozen neighboring properties (all this through the glare-killing moiré of the massive Holly Madison banner that covers a portion of the building).
I was pursuing my standard ritual – unpacking and enjoying a cocktail (and postponing the inevitable first session in the casino) when Blanche called to ask if I would like to be upgraded to Seven Stars Companion status. Not really an upgrade, this does allow me to breeze past restaurant and buffet lines, and grants access to Diamond Lounges. There are a few other benefits, none of which have anything to do with me. It’s all privilege by association. And, I’ll take it. Sign me up. Blanche is a very good friend. This trip wouldn’t have happened without her. But, the magic plastic card was an unexpected bonus. I couldn’t say no.
While on the phone, I took a really good look at the Bellagio fountains. I never give them much thought, unless some tourist with a camera is impeding my progress on the sidewalk (I like to think of the Las Vegas Strip as a thoroughfare). But the sound of the water jets boomed louder than the accompanying music, and the cascading display was reaching the height of the building. It was all very impressive. Suddenly, it hit me. This is why the terrorists hate us. We can make art in the desert with borrowed water.
Seven Stars Companion card in hand, I ventured into the Planet Hollywood casino, giddy with anticipation and drunk with possibility.
I had been dreaming of 50 Lions for weeks, and my first excursion into the casino was in pursuit of that particular game. I gave up when I found Pelican Pete, which is similar, but features a more promising bonus feature. I put in $40 and, after less than thirty minutes, walked with $400. This would be the most successful session of the trip. By far. I hit a few more machines, alternating VP with slots, but my luck ran dry. I returned to the room and fell asleep watching local news and listening to the water across the street.
BREAKFAST AT PLANET DAILIES was an egg white, spinach, mushroom and turkey-sausage omelet. The accompanying potatoes and sourdough toast represented about a week’s worth of carbohydrates for me, however, and while I was thoroughly enjoying it, I realized that – in spite of the many comped food opportunities available on this trip – I couldn’t possibly eat three meals of this magnitude each day, or I would be miserable. There would have to be strategic preemptive snackage.
I wandered down the Strip to what looks like the set of Logan’s Run -- the entrance to Bally’s. I tried my hand at two games that almost always give me something back – Spin Poker and Li’l Lucy. I churned for a long time, until I started losing steadily. I returned to my room to regroup before heading across the street to ARIA.
Walking across the pedestrian bridge, I found myself staring at the unzipped slouch boots walking in front of me. The combination of those boots and a black fringe mini-shirt made this woman look as if she were late for a Hobbit rodeo. Classy! But this trip's most egregious fashion trend had to be the misplaced fedora. Fedoras were everywhere, and always on the wrong head. I suppose Justin Timberlake is responsible for the return of this particular hat. And, he can probably still get away with it. Don Draper looks good in a fedora, but Don Draper isn't real. Frank Sinatra looks good in a fedora, but Frank Sinatra is dead. You know who looks like an idiot in a fedora? Some skinny hip-hop Lothario in a soiled wifebeater with gaudy boxers blooming out of his waistband. This is a clear fashion statement. And that statement is, "Hey! The douchebag is here!"
This was my second visit to ARIA, and remarkably like my first, back in August. I descended upon the casino like the Angel of Death, selecting only those machines that turned twenties into C-notes. I moved effortlessly from one game to the next. Griffin’s Gate, Wild Cats, and finally, 50 Lions. The lions paid me handsomely with multiple bonus rounds (a luxury that would soon taunt me by omission) featuring guttural roaring and the spinning of translucent diamonds, jaunty circus music and the image of tumbling coins. Goddamn, I love this game.
I took the tram to Bellagio and found a Spin Poker Dream Card machine in a denomination I could manage. Or, so I thought. Initially, it was like feeding money into a paper shredder. Then I hit quad eights, recouped my losses and walked away before the price of the gimmick ate my lunch. I found an Ultimate X machine nearby that treated me right and I churned forty or fifty bucks for almost two hours. A bottle of water and two cocktails made this session quite enjoyable, until my fortune turned and the numbers wilted. Eventually, Bellagio happily accepted the majority of my ARIA winnings (all in the family) and I skulked back to the HET corridor to find some more free food.
My magic card granted me instant seating at The Spice Market Buffet, where the sushi underwhelmed, and the Middle Eastern trinity, tabouli, hummus and baba ganoush, definitely impressed. After dinner, I chased the leering monkey-man on a Lion Dance machine for more time than I care to admit. No luck. No bonus rounds. Just a leering monkey-man. Who designed this game? David Lynch?
I GREETED DAY THREE by logging on and catching up on Cul de Sac – the only comic strip I read with any regularity. This would be my final day of in-room internet service. My phone was simply faster. I could check three email accounts and Facebook while waiting for two pages to load on my ancient iBook (although I 
choose to blame the sluggish wireless at Planet Ho).
Out on the strip, I headed to Casino Royale to claim $20 free slot play, which I turned into $120 on my favorite Spin Poker Deluxe machine. Late afternoon found me back at Planet Hollywood, chasing elusive bonuses with help of the Lucky Penny penguins. That third trigger continued to elude me, and the antics of the animated aquatic fowl – while occasionally profitable -- began to irritate. Back in my room, I napped, in preparation for the evening’s entertainment -- Donnie and Marie. That somehow seemed appropriate.
A few hours later I met Blanche at the Flamingo Showroom – which made me very happy with its Rat Pack charm and old-school panache. Tables down front, surrounding a catwalk. Very cool. It could have been 1968, and I could have been waiting for Steve and Edie to take the stage.
We were joined at our table by a woman from Lake Charles, Louisiana, and a family from Great Britain consisting of a married couple, and their daughter, whose tender age (I’m guessing 25) belied her knowledge of the Donny Osmond catalog.
The show was loud, flashy – brutally Vegas -- and entertaining. The two Osmonds have exceptional voices and more than forty years of material and baggage to exploit. They also look about 25 years younger than their respective ages. The stage banter, often cheerfully pugnacious, felt fresh and spontaneous, even though I’m certain it is as well rehearsed as the dancing. I was amused and I was diverted, but I was certainly not as overwhelmed as the Brits with whom I shared the table. (A table they pounded incessantly during the more obvious material.)
I left fifteen minutes before the show ended because I had reservations at P.F. Chang’s and plans to meet friends from California. It only took ten minutes to walk from The Flamingo back to Planet Hollywood. That may represent my first tangible evidence that tourism is down in Vegas -- fewer people in my way.
I loitered in front of the casino entrance to P.F. Chang's (or, ANG'S, as the defective neon insisted on calling the place) until my friends arrived. At one point, I thought reservations might have been superfluous on a Wednesday night, but the place was packed -- top and bottom. Because of this, service was slow, but we didn't mind. And, the ginger salmon was perfect.
After a pleasant meal and a long chat, I briefly resumed to my losing streak before repairing to my room appallingly early. It was my third night in Vegas, and so far there had been no late night excursions. I fell asleep wondering if I was getting too old to emulate Stagger Lee... or even Billy. (Two men who gambled late.)
NEXT: Bellagio, Manilow and Firefly.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
FLAGS OF ALL NATIONS.
A convenience store in my neighborhood sells "flags of all nations." And they have chosen to decorate their storefront with vertically displayed 3x5 ft. flags. They run the length of the facade, and flap like a free form awning. It is, at the very least, an attention-getter. A few months ago, the Israeli flag was torn down. I assumed this was the act of a vandal, and not a political statement by the owners, who are Arab American.
Today, I was gratified to see the flag had been replaced. I find this significant. I think peace has been achieved. In Central Texas, anyway.
Today, I was gratified to see the flag had been replaced. I find this significant. I think peace has been achieved. In Central Texas, anyway.
Monday, July 5, 2010
WHY DON'T WE DO IT IN THE ROAD?
You’re standing near the corner of 45th and Avenue C, or the intersection of your choice. You would like to cross. There is no light or stop sign, and the cars just keep on coming. On your side of the street, they stream in from the west, passing what may very well be an equal number of westbound vehicles. 45th Street isn’t particularly wide at this point, and this is a lot of traffic for a Sunday morning. A cynic might suggest this is because we are a gaggle of lazy crapholders who can’t schlep our burgeoning assets more than a couple of blocks without the assistance of an internal combustion engine and a tankful of Amoco Premier. Others might even suggest that, behind the wheel, we are selfish and impatient and downright evil -- oblivious to the welfare of fellow travelers. Especially those on foot.
But, I would never say this. I’m not that cynical. I’m a regular Pollyanna. For example, I honestly believe that most people are basically good. And by “most” I mean at least 51%, and by “basically” I mean... they wouldn’t shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die.
At least one more reason would be required.
I also believe that, on a good day, at least of some of the good people you meet might even be smart. This is a bonus I always appreciate. But, like the cynics mentioned in the first paragraph, I am acutely aware of the dangerous liaison that exists between good, smart people and three to four thousand pounds cold, dumb steel.
Most drivers I have observed assume instantaneous proprietorship of the road. They own the thoroughfare, and everyone else is simply in the way. And for these drivers, such vehicular interlopers are deserving targets of scorn and derision – and the occasional projectile. Even the hapless citizen whose only crime is obeying the speed limit is cursed and threatened by the combined wrath of the four-wheeled beast and the anointed soul controlling its destiny.
I am not assuming the role of judge. It’s true -- I haven’t owned or driven a car since the mid 90s, but that doesn’t render me superior. A claim of that magnitude would suggest I achieved this status as the result of a plan, or in the pursuit of an ideological goal. Not the case. I simply quit driving for a short period of time and found the experience so liberating I lost all interest in regaining the status of unhappy motorist. I wake up happy every day, giddy with the knowledge that I will never purchase auto insurance or steel-belted radials again. Ever. The fact that I’m not supporting the Saudi Royal Family or the vast, international oil industry as aggressively as most – well, that’s just another one of those bonuses.
This is not a recommendation. Most people are not cut out for a car-less existence (although the island of Manhattan seems to be teeming with them). But, I am. Even living in Austin – a town with substandard public transportation – I can make it work. It just takes a little planning and a lot of patience. I must also fight the urge to ask friends for a ride. I accept any and all offers, but almost never make the request. The reason for this should be obvious. A literal translation of “can I get a ride?” is “I really, really need a car.”
And, I really, really don’t.
But, getting back to the corner of 45th and Avenue C, it has become obvious that crossing the road will require a bit of stealth and timing. And, you can do it. You have done it before. You simply gauge the progress of oncoming traffic, first on the opposite side of the road, and then on yours. Next, you calculate the velocity of the brisk walk or sprint required to transport you safely to the other side – just after one car passes from the east and a second passes from the west. The window is narrow. Two more cars are coming. Fast. You must hit the center of the street, pause for the westbound car without being hit by the next eastbound car, and complete your journey before the second westbound car arrives in your airspace. Concentration is critical and execution must be precise. You must weave a single vertical thread while avoiding all others.
The eastbound car zips by. Your foot hits the street and propels you forward. As you approach the single yellow line, you slow your trajectory slightly, just enough to allow the westbound car to pass.
AND THE CAR SLOWS DOWN, transforming your calculations into a panic of misfiring synapses and deadly hesitation. You now resemble a deranged traffic cop, waving the car forward while shaking your head and shouting incoherent syllables. You actually step back. You look behind you, and consider the option of simply throwing yourself back to your side of the street, as you would in the dream you are beginning to hope this is.
The driver begins his own series of gestures. He shrugs. He shows you his palms. His head bobs slightly. A frown appears and sags like the silent wail of an unpainted mime. He is aghast. He doesn’t understand. HE WAS TRYING TO HELP, but all he accomplished was chaos and confusion.
This all takes about one second. Finally, ignoring your instincts, you lurch sheepishly in front of the decelerating car, even though this action would have killed you in the perfectly congealed plan you have just abandoned – the plan rendered moot by a good Samaritan guilty of tragically misplaced courtesy.
You fly over the curb to the sidewalk, still shaking your head and clutching at the morning air. After a half-block or so, you stop muttering. In a few minutes it’s all over, and you are once again composed. No one would ever mistake you for the impaired marionette who just crossed the road.
You really want to be able to count on evil bastards, hell-bent on maximum velocity and oblivious to anything else, when you’re trying to cross a busy intersection. You need that predictability, because on these mean streets, courtesy can kill you.
But, I would never say this. I’m not that cynical. I’m a regular Pollyanna. For example, I honestly believe that most people are basically good. And by “most” I mean at least 51%, and by “basically” I mean... they wouldn’t shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die.
At least one more reason would be required.
I also believe that, on a good day, at least of some of the good people you meet might even be smart. This is a bonus I always appreciate. But, like the cynics mentioned in the first paragraph, I am acutely aware of the dangerous liaison that exists between good, smart people and three to four thousand pounds cold, dumb steel.
Most drivers I have observed assume instantaneous proprietorship of the road. They own the thoroughfare, and everyone else is simply in the way. And for these drivers, such vehicular interlopers are deserving targets of scorn and derision – and the occasional projectile. Even the hapless citizen whose only crime is obeying the speed limit is cursed and threatened by the combined wrath of the four-wheeled beast and the anointed soul controlling its destiny.
I am not assuming the role of judge. It’s true -- I haven’t owned or driven a car since the mid 90s, but that doesn’t render me superior. A claim of that magnitude would suggest I achieved this status as the result of a plan, or in the pursuit of an ideological goal. Not the case. I simply quit driving for a short period of time and found the experience so liberating I lost all interest in regaining the status of unhappy motorist. I wake up happy every day, giddy with the knowledge that I will never purchase auto insurance or steel-belted radials again. Ever. The fact that I’m not supporting the Saudi Royal Family or the vast, international oil industry as aggressively as most – well, that’s just another one of those bonuses.
This is not a recommendation. Most people are not cut out for a car-less existence (although the island of Manhattan seems to be teeming with them). But, I am. Even living in Austin – a town with substandard public transportation – I can make it work. It just takes a little planning and a lot of patience. I must also fight the urge to ask friends for a ride. I accept any and all offers, but almost never make the request. The reason for this should be obvious. A literal translation of “can I get a ride?” is “I really, really need a car.”
And, I really, really don’t.
But, getting back to the corner of 45th and Avenue C, it has become obvious that crossing the road will require a bit of stealth and timing. And, you can do it. You have done it before. You simply gauge the progress of oncoming traffic, first on the opposite side of the road, and then on yours. Next, you calculate the velocity of the brisk walk or sprint required to transport you safely to the other side – just after one car passes from the east and a second passes from the west. The window is narrow. Two more cars are coming. Fast. You must hit the center of the street, pause for the westbound car without being hit by the next eastbound car, and complete your journey before the second westbound car arrives in your airspace. Concentration is critical and execution must be precise. You must weave a single vertical thread while avoiding all others.
The eastbound car zips by. Your foot hits the street and propels you forward. As you approach the single yellow line, you slow your trajectory slightly, just enough to allow the westbound car to pass.
AND THE CAR SLOWS DOWN, transforming your calculations into a panic of misfiring synapses and deadly hesitation. You now resemble a deranged traffic cop, waving the car forward while shaking your head and shouting incoherent syllables. You actually step back. You look behind you, and consider the option of simply throwing yourself back to your side of the street, as you would in the dream you are beginning to hope this is.
The driver begins his own series of gestures. He shrugs. He shows you his palms. His head bobs slightly. A frown appears and sags like the silent wail of an unpainted mime. He is aghast. He doesn’t understand. HE WAS TRYING TO HELP, but all he accomplished was chaos and confusion.
This all takes about one second. Finally, ignoring your instincts, you lurch sheepishly in front of the decelerating car, even though this action would have killed you in the perfectly congealed plan you have just abandoned – the plan rendered moot by a good Samaritan guilty of tragically misplaced courtesy.
You fly over the curb to the sidewalk, still shaking your head and clutching at the morning air. After a half-block or so, you stop muttering. In a few minutes it’s all over, and you are once again composed. No one would ever mistake you for the impaired marionette who just crossed the road.
You really want to be able to count on evil bastards, hell-bent on maximum velocity and oblivious to anything else, when you’re trying to cross a busy intersection. You need that predictability, because on these mean streets, courtesy can kill you.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Tales From Hyde Park: A Hatful of Henry.
It’s difficult to accurately describe Henry’s voice. Imagine a bellowing goose with laryngitis, or an east Texas moonshiner shouting from inside his own still. Henry’s voice can suck all the ambient noise from a city bus, and fill every square inch of airspace with exuberant prattle. Every syllable is expelled forcefully from somewhere within a rigid frame which always appears to be tipping, as if cautiously sneaking up on this whole gravity thing.
Henry is one-half of a sibling phenomenon known all over Hyde Park as The Sombrero Brothers. The brothers once traveled the neighborhoods together, generally wearing matching straw hats. Big hats. Sometimes, actual sombreros. Before being asked to leave and never come back, they could almost always be seen or heard at the Walgreens at Guadalupe and 45th, filling a shopping cart with Gatorade and dispensing free advice to customers and staff. They would stay for hours. On his own, Henry could spend an entire day at Walgreen’s or Hyde Park Grocery, attaching himself to anyone who might be stocking shelves or running a register. And he says the damnedest things. Like:
“Yore about as purty as Cameron Diaz. And that feller over there is as good lookin’ a man as you are a woman. Y’all should be a couple if you ain’t already. Huh? Huh?”
These days, I see Henry more often than his brother, and on the rare occasion that both are present, they always seem to be angry, and bickering like an old married couple.
The Sombrero Brothers are probably harmless, they are certainly entertaining, and the neighborhood would be much less interesting without them.
Henry is always at a store, on his way to a store, or just returning from a store. I’m pretty sure he has been banned from Walgreens, but I still see him at Hyde Park Grocery, or riding the bus to HEB. His never-ending monologues are fearlessly awkward freeform expressions of unkempt tangential thinking. Once, on a bus, I heard him ask a driver if he had ever heard of Sammy Davis, Jr. The driver had, and was rewarded with the following:
“Man, you ever see him dance? Did ya? He was like them kids at the Apollo. Ya ever been to the Apollo?”
The driver stared at Henry in the mirror. “You mean the Apollo Theater in Harlem? No.”
Henry kept going, “Them kids are somethin’. Once they get goin’, it’s all cartwheels and backflips. You expect them to just go through the roof. What about you? You like to dance? You a dancer? What about sangin’? You like to sang?”
The driver just shook his head.
“Well, I like to sang.” Henry said. “But ever’body gets mad.”
Under that big hat, Henry usually has a towel or a t-shirt draped over his head and shoulders. A long-sleeved white shirt is generally buttoned at the wrists, and his hands are covered with white cotton gloves. He walks slowly, almost teetering, with his arms slightly bent and his fingers splayed. He was towing a cart full of groceries a few weeks ago when our paths crossed in the middle of a church parking lot a few blocks from my house. He started waving when he saw me coming.
“Howdy howdy. How ya doin?”
Except for an occasional nod or salutation, I had never conversed with Henry before. But, he greeted me like his long lost pal, and as he passed, he asked, “Which one of these churches is goin’ out of business?”
I shrugged. “I don’t...”
“Well. One of these churches is shuttin’ down. I heard it was a Baptist or a Methodist, or one of ‘em.”
That was it, until the next morning when I saw him again, slowly walking toward a bus stop. He crept cautiously down the sidewalk, pausing after every tenth step or so. He would then stand with his fists balled at shoulder level, and look around, as if waiting for the Mothership. Then, he would take a few more steps. Perhaps he has issues with his feet, but the snail’s pace of his trajectory could also indicate chest pain or breathing problems. I hope that isn’t the case. I hope he really is looking for the Mothership.
As he approached the bus stop, I fully expected another enthusiastic greeting. Instead, he looked at me like I was sprouting a second head. For a moment, I though he was going to tip over. Then, he spoke.
“Excuse me, sir. Excuse me. Can you tell me what time it is?”
I looked at my watch, and managed a few syllables before he started talking again.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. Can I ask ya about them shoe strangs?”
“I’m sorry?”
He pointed at my shoes. “Them shoe strangs. Do you find that them fat shoe strangs cut off the circulation less than these skinny shoe strangs, like I got.” He pointed at his own shoes – uber-modern athletic monstrosities that look like they should be docking with a Romulan Warbird.
“I never really thought about it. These are the laces that came with the shoes.”
I almost got that sentence out before he said, “It’s like this belt. I hate wearin’ a belt. Cuts off the circulation. But when yer pants fall off, ever’body gets mad.”
At that point, the bus arrived. We both got on. I was going downtown, Henry was going one block.
Once, at Hyde Park Grocery, Henry attached himself to a hapless employee who was stocking beer. When I arrived, Henry was pontificating with much enthusiasm. In the time it took me to pick up three items, stand in line and pay for them, the verbal slipstream of Henry’s consciousness moved from the subject of beer, to imported beer, to marijuana, to “the kinds of drugs they make fer people who like to freak out.”
“You wanna freak out?” Henry shouted. I couldn’t see him or his victim, but I imagined the poor bastard cowering as Henry rose up before him like deranged blue djinn, screaming.
“YOU WANNA FREAK OUT? HUH? HERE! THINK ABOUT THIS…”
The cashier froze, holding a jar of pasta sauce in mid air, and waited. Blink. I stopped counting currency, and waited. Blink. A customer who had just entered from Duval Street stopped walking, and waited.
Blink.
“AGHHHHH! YOU’RE ME AND I’M YOU! YOU’RE ME AND I’M YOU! HEY! COME BACK! YOU’RE ME AND I’M YOU! AGHHHHH!”
I heard someone running.
That was the day I started looking for the Mothership.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Lunch is kind of crazy with a sushi little girl like you.
Ordinarily, I have no problem with raw fish. Raw fish makes me happy. I fear it not. In fact, I have eaten sashimi in the Mojave Desert every August for at least five years. I am particularly fond of raw salmon. A little wasabi, a splash of tamari. The sweet, buttery flesh of the fish. What could be better?
But today, I walked past a sushi cart on the street, and it just struck me as all kinds of wrong. This was one of those entrepreneurial operations one might expect to find selling hot dogs or falafel or fajitas or, in the right location, gator-on-a-stick. A small, silver trailer decorated with cheerful cartoon food and a clever name. And I have forgotten the name. Sushi something. Sushi Stop. Sushi Wushi. Sushi Creamcheese. I can't remember.
Doesn't matter. It was a hot metal box, baking in the Texas noonday sun, and they were selling a product known primarily for the (admittedly) optional inclusion of raw protein. This may require a bit of salesmanship. I hope they are up to the task.
Today, I didn't see any takers. I wish them luck, but I took the coward's way out. I went home and opened a can of tuna.
But today, I walked past a sushi cart on the street, and it just struck me as all kinds of wrong. This was one of those entrepreneurial operations one might expect to find selling hot dogs or falafel or fajitas or, in the right location, gator-on-a-stick. A small, silver trailer decorated with cheerful cartoon food and a clever name. And I have forgotten the name. Sushi something. Sushi Stop. Sushi Wushi. Sushi Creamcheese. I can't remember.
Doesn't matter. It was a hot metal box, baking in the Texas noonday sun, and they were selling a product known primarily for the (admittedly) optional inclusion of raw protein. This may require a bit of salesmanship. I hope they are up to the task.
Today, I didn't see any takers. I wish them luck, but I took the coward's way out. I went home and opened a can of tuna.
Monday, May 31, 2010
A short observation too long for Facebook
Every four or five years, I encounter someone who cannot pronounce Popeye. Inexplicably, they all say Pie-Pie. They say it like it's real. Like it means something. And many become belligerent when challenged.
Just because I encounter this phenomenon only on rare occasions, I don't assume it's not pervasive. I think it is. I think the fact that the subject comes up infrequently is all that keeps these mutations from alarming the general population on a regular basis.
Just because I encounter this phenomenon only on rare occasions, I don't assume it's not pervasive. I think it is. I think the fact that the subject comes up infrequently is all that keeps these mutations from alarming the general population on a regular basis.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Breaking and Entering.
The Eastwood Theater opened in 1936 in the neighborhood of the same name. The property was designed by W. Scott Dunne, the architect responsible for many theaters of that era and area, including Houston’s Tower and Alabama theaters, the Martini in Galveston and the Texas in Palestine, which functions today as a live theater.
A boxy convergence of art deco geometry, the most prominent portion of the façade initially loomed, devoid of extraneous signage, above a discreet, horizontal marquee. A set of matching two-dimensional tower–shaped contrivances lay flat against this expanse, as if someone had twice rubberstamped the wall with a silhouette of the Empire State Building. Attached to the side of the theater was a monolith of a sign, which pierced the sky like a radio tower – or the mooring mast for a dirigible. This was all scaled down a bit, of course, to fit neatly in a modest Houston neighborhood.
In the forties, the tower adornments were painted over. This may have been an attempt to modernize the look of the building, and eschew any outdated notions of pre-war frivolity. I’m only guessing, of course.
In the fifties, sometime between The Outcasts of Poker Flats and The Boy From Oklahoma, a larger, more dominant marquee replaced the original, sleek model. The name of the establishment, simply Eastwood, perched in duplicate above this new sign in uninspired sans-serif metal and neon. This utilitarian addition consumed the lower two-thirds of the façade and further squelched the glorious aesthetic arrogance of the original design. What was once an art deco movie palace became a rather nondescript cement box with too many corners and a huge phallic sign.
A decade later I showed up with a quarter in my hand to see The Flesh Eaters.
This was my neighborhood for most of the sixties and seventies. And the Eastwood was my neighborhood theater, until it closed in the mid-sixties and I was forced to take my business downtown. In addition to The Flesh Eaters, I remember seeing Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, Mr. Hobbes Takes a Vacation, Hell is for Heroes, Zotz!, 13 Ghosts and Gypsy at the Eastwood. In fact, I went most Saturdays, no matter what was playing.
Once the doors were permanently closed, this prominent landmark quickly became a crumbling eyesore awaiting inevitable demolition. Before that happened, however, I visited the place two more times.
Between 1965 and 1969, I hung around with a bad egg we’ll just call Sean. Sean and I shared three interests. We both liked Marvel Comics (a habit never discussed publicly in those days) we both loved the world of James Bond and we both had a healthy and burgeoning fondness for girls. Beyond that, we had nothing in common. Unlike my introverted, bespectacled young self, Sean already claimed empirical knowledge of the female anatomy, and could discuss that landscape for hours. He also possessed an unapologetically criminal mind. In fact, his primary goal in life was the pursuit of crime. Luckily for me, I was a philosophical invertebrate who feared all forms of punishment and retribution. So, I mostly avoided trouble. And, because one or more of my parents was an alcoholic, I felt guilty about everything, all the time. Sean only had one parent, and feared nothing.
Clearly, I was no one’s partner in crime, so during the time we were friends most of Sean’s plans went unrealized. But, there was this one day in the 10th or 11th grade…
School had been out for about an hour. For some reason, we were standing behind the shuttered Eastwood Theater, looking up at fresh graffiti. Someone had spray-painted the words SLUMS RULE on the building. A bit farther down, much closer to the ground, a window beckoned.
An open window.
The next thing I knew, we were inside what appeared to be a utility annex, and were surrounded by dusty boxes, fluorescent bulbs and stacks of yellowed press kits and newspapers. Old-fashioned fuse boxes lined the walls and wires hung like vines. Musty, acrid air invaded my nose and throat. More importantly, an iron ladder and a square hatch led to the floor above us. Up there, we discovered more of the same, plus twin metal doors that led to ducts into which one could simply walk. We didn’t venture too far into that darkness, however, as the ladder continued upward. More boxes, more wiring, and identical metal doors waited above. The ladder stopped at the ceiling, beneath a trapdoor we did not hesitate to force open.
And this took us right back outside – up on the roof, but not to the summit. We could see that by clambering up another wall one could reach yet another ladder and climb to the very top of the building. And because we were both at the age of clambering, we soon found ourselves on the massive tar-covered roof of the Eastwood Theater.
It did not occur to me at the time, or for some time to come, that I was pursuing the commission of a felony. But I knew I was a badass. That much was certain. This was an unfamiliar intoxicant, and one I found most compelling. And I would have been perfectly happy to just hang out on that roof, which we obviously now owned, but this was not our destiny – and it only took a few moments to locate the trapdoor that lead down into the projection booth.
And just like that, we were inside a place where dust disguised itself as air, and the proliferation of mildew overwhelmed four of the five senses. The projection booth was a cluttered wonderland of film snippets, film cans and workplace minutia. The projector was still in place. A life-sized cutout of Jerry Lewis stood by an exit, leading us to the mezzanine, where a dizzying expanse of spoiled, geometric carpeting led to the foot of the stairs that climbed to the balcony.
We headed downstairs, instead.
We were perfectly respectful guests, stealing nothing, destroying nothing, disturbing nothing. I think we were in awe of the place, and spoke in whispers, even though we were completely alone. We sat in the seats, explored the mysterious world behind the screen, opened doors and peered around corners. We spent hours just looking. We headed off in different directions and lost all track of time.
Eventually, I found myself back on the second floor, where I spent a very long time looking at the stairs that led to the balcony. I gazed a bit too long at the blackness of the landing, and slowly came to the chilling realization that I was incapable of going up there. I ascended three carpeted steps, and froze. I don’t really know what I was afraid of, but I knew I couldn’t continue. It was the only part of the building that frightened me. And I still can’t say why. Occasionally, in dreams, I have the opportunity to finish the climb, but I always wake up before reaching the top.
We left the building after dark, and went our separate ways – dusty and delirious and giddy with misconduct. All I could think about was going back.
So, the next day we went back. Something very unusual and completely unrelated occurred as we loitered behind the theater, waiting for the perfect, unseen moment to climb through the window. Perhaps it was an omen.
An old, dark sedan full of young punks squealed around the corner, and a pockmarked gunman leaned out the window and fired several shots at us, laughing manically. In retrospect, I realize he was either firing blanks or brandishing a cap pistol (or he was just a terrible shot) because once the car was gone, it was like nothing had happened. Sean and I both blinked, patted our chests, and shrugged. Then we climbed through the window.
Just like the previous afternoon, we ascended both ladders to the roof and opened the trapdoor to the projection booth. Sean lowered himself into the square hole and froze. His eyes took full possession of his now colorless face, and he gasped like a beached grouper.
“Run! Someone’s got me!” He was jerked into the blackness.
I ran. I cleared the parapet, sailing over the ladder and hitting the roof of the annex with a resounding thud. I slid down the ladder to the second floor before I heard the ominous noises above my head. Someone was right behind me, and coming fast. I knew it wasn’t Sean. I calculated the difficulty of continued ladder navigation and the awkwardness of scrambling through the window on the ground floor. I considered the improbability of outrunning someone if I actually made it outside – and out of sheer desperation, I ducked into a duct. This ploy seemed like a preamble to failure, but I had little choice. As I cowered in the darkness, my future was pretty clear. I was going to jail. I was going straight to jail. And even if I wasn’t going to jail, I knew my father had a leather belt that could remove flesh from bone. Either way, I was doomed.
Heavy boots descended the ladder, and continued to the ground floor. A second pair arrived a few moments later, and paused, scrabbling just outside my tenuous hiding place. After a breathless eternity, the first pair of boots returned, and two muffled voices bemoaned my brilliant escape. All four boots returned to the roof, and I was alone – breathing rapidly through my nose.
I refused to believe I had gotten away with this. I stayed in that duct for at least a half-hour before quietly exiting the building and heading home. I really wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do about my fallen comrade, so I filled the evening with my usual pursuits. I watched network television, read comic books, lied about my homework, and went to bed.
The following morning, at school, Sean was atypically aloof. He stoically shrugged off the incident as mere fortunes of war. After a bit of coaxing he finally explained that the men inside the theater were quite amused by our flagrant and clumsy interloping. Rather than calling Sean’s parents or HPD, they simply put him to work. After a few hours of sweeping and hauling trash, he was released with the threat of severe consequences should he ever decide to return to the scene of our crime.
And that was it.
Not long after this dubious adventure, Sean moved away. We immediately lost touch. Many years later, I was informed by a mutual acquaintance that Sean had perished in an explosion on a Galveston shrimp boat. I have no way of knowing if this is true. The theater was eventually torn down. I don’t really know when this occurred, but I had probably moved to another neighborhood by then. I certainly don’t recall feeling any remorse or sense of loss for the old place -- although the Google image of the parking lot that replaced it makes me a little wistful.
That pretty much ended my life of crime. Unless you count all that partying I did in the eighties.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Some time in a bar.
The Urban Dictionary defines bar time as a clock set ahead fifteen minutes. Because of this practice, I have always assumed that bars actually exist fifteen minutes in the future. After a few drinks, this may constitute time travel.
I walked into a familiar bar last night, and immediately spotted the first guy. I had not seen that guy lately, although I used to see him all the time. While we were talking, the other guy walked up followed closely by the girl. The two guys and the girl and I had a grand time, exchanging pleasantries and observing the fact that our paths once crossed regularly, and that we rarely see each other now at all. Although, to clarify, I run into the girl frequently, and the other guy occasionally -- but the first guy, not so much.
We enjoyed our adult beverages, caught peripheral snippets of State of Grace (which, as the first guy reminded me, was one of several films I had recommended back in the days when we encountered each other more frequently). Everyone enjoyed Robert Mitchum's tale of Thunder Road when it came up on the jukebox. Talk continued. Recently deceased rock stars were mourned. The dating habits of the first guy were called into question by the second, bad jokes were butchered, and everyone paused to exchange pleasantries with the bar owner and his lovely wife as they walked outside to smoke cigarettes.
Someone had a baby in the bar. That is to say, a woman in the bar was in possession of a baby. And now that bars are smoke-free, I can't even scare up an objection. You could barely hear the little magpie over the jukebox.
Said jukebox continued playing music from every decade of my life, while we continued reminiscing about the recent past, fifteen minutes in the future. I suspect this combination of time-trickery may have curative powers, but I have no way of proving it.
Eventually the guy and the other guy left, and I continued the conversation with the girl. We discussed attending high school overseas, which only one of us had done, and stealing a stuffed animal from a police car, which neither of us had done. I introduced the term "hail fellow, well met" to her vocabulary (for at least the length of time it took her to repeat it) and she employed a famous Woody Allen quote concerning what the heart wants, to help me justify one of my more expensive habits. (Premium cable.) Like most people in bars, we talked about the past and the future. Under these circumstances, one could easily claim that the present doesn't even exist, except as a chronological borderline.
I went home and watched an episode of Breaking Bad my DVR had dutifully saved since Sunday night. This allowed me to flagrantly cheat time -- one more time.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Pointless Celebrity Encounters. Part Three.
Saturday, November 15, 1980. Houston, Texas. One day later, Gerald Hines' Galleria, modeled after the one in Milan, would be ten years old. There was much hoopla and festive adornment to mark this occasion. For example, there was a tenor, standing on a small stage that resembled the top of a wedding cake, singing opera. I paused, briefly, to watch. I had recently emerged, in much the same way hamburger emerges from a grinder, from a relationship with a woman who tried to help me appreciate opera. She failed. It was still boring, and I was still a heathen who preferred less cadaverous forms of artistic expression. I was impressed by the virtuosity of the singer, however, and found myself lingering. The small crowd continued to grow, and the tenor continued to sing. Abruptly, the man standing directly in front of me turned and we almost collided. He had obviously had enough opera, and was making his escape. I was blocking his way. It was Bruce Springsteen.
I didn't recognize him at first. He was shorter than I imagined. But the facial recognition software in my brain went haywire. For a fraction of a second, I thought I recognized him from high school, or art school or work. That face, which gives one the impression that Robert DeNiro once mated with an Easter Island statue, was clearly imprinted on my brain, but I simply could not place the name. Seriously. I was only a fan for the two years between The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle and Born to Run. By 1980, I was more interested in the rude, noisy boys and girls from England and New York and Akron. Even if had been a fan of someone as mainstream as Springsteen, it would have been my secret to conceal.
Anyway, back at the Galleria, the tenor was still singing and Bruce Springsteen was still standing in front of me, not moving. He was staring right back at me, waiting patiently for me to say something. I realized later, when I saw him talking to a group of very excited young women, that he was completely accessible, absurdly approachable, and seemed to enjoy talking to his fans.
A fraction of a second later, I recognized him, and realized he was waiting for me to say his name. I find this significant, and quite admirable. He would have granted me that moment of rare, unencumbered fandom. But, since he already knew who he was, and didn't really need my validation, I just nodded and stepped aside. He hooked up with a small entourage, and spent the next few hours doing exactly what I was doing. Hanging out at the Galleria.
He had performed at the Summit the night before, and would do it again in a few hours. I know people who still talk about those shows. When I saw him again, an hour or so later, he was watching dozens of Dorothy Hamill wannabes, and other assorted Exxon brats, skate loopy figure eights to AC/DC's Highway to Hell. That was a moment of pure American bliss. And I saw him shortly after that, talking to the aforementioned female fans. They had gathered at the base of an escalator, near the very popular Magic Pan Creperie. (Magic Pan Creperie. What the hell were we thinking?)
I continued strolling through the festivities and seductive retail overkill. Just when I thought Bruce had left the building, I ran into him one more time. He was standing in a massive, chain record store holding a copy of Give 'Em Enough Rope. I walked in looking for John Lennon's Double Fantasy, which was scheduled to drop any day. I wasn't sure if I would buy it or not, but since it marked Lennon's return to recorded pop music, I was curious -- and about two days early.
But, there was Bruce, holding that Clash album. I toyed with the idea of buying a copy of Greetings From Asbury Park and asking for his autograph, but I didn't do it. I'm glad I didn't. And I'm really glad there wasn't a phone in anyone's pocket that also took photos. The image of Bruce Springsteen holding a Clash album in 1980, when we were both young and full of nicotine, is much too cool to sully with such documentation. In about a month, Sandinista would be released and The Clash would, for a short time, be the only band that mattered. In twenty-three days, John Lennon would be gone. And thirty years later, record stores would be irrelevant.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Batman and Bacon
After weeks of non-particpation, I was reminded of my deep, abiding love of taverns, so I set out last night to make up for lost time. I suppose I over-indulged. I began the evening with (512) IPA, and switched to Sierra Nevada Pale Ale when I switched bars. There may have also been a bit of Bulleit involved. We will now avoid the temptation to dwell on the fact that I'm too old to start acting my age, because there may be a chronometric conundrum lurking in the sentiment, and I wouldn't want to tempt a headache. This was all on 6th Street, near Neches in downtown Austin. I tried to spread my meager funds around several bars, and stayed too long at the fair. At one point I felt a bit hoppy, so I swiched from Sierra Nevada to Guinness. I recall, also, crushing two cockroaches with the bottom of an empty pint glass at a bar that shall remain nameless. And, at a different bar, I may have eaten an artisanal cupcake with crumbled bacon on top. Okay, I did. It was heavenly, and because it comprised my entire evening meal, I will save the guilt for more egregious transgressions. I'm sure they will come.
I found myself at Casino el Camino ensconced in a conversation with someone I do not know about the differences between Christopher Nolan's two Batman films. Because I love film, and because I spent the best part of the 60s and 70s a full-fledged comic book fanatic (long before it was acceptable) this all seemed very, very important.
I maintained (and still do) that Batman Begins is vastly superior to The Dark Knight, which I consider overrated and extremely messy. A good half-hour too long, there are simply too many storylines, too many villains, and stylistically, too many contradictions. I mean, you can't have Heath Ledger's exquisitely deconstructed Joker 2.0 in the same film with a scar-for-scar recreation of the Bob Kane Two-Face. (Okay, apparently, you can. But I still cry foul.)
I also prefer the look of the city in Batman Begins. More art direction, less Chicago. Nothing wrong with Chicago, I just prefer my Gotham City to be located at the intersection of Art and Deco -- uptown Saturday night in the land of Oz.
Not that any of this matters. I doubt if I expressed myself coherently at the time. I was still pretty hoppy. But I do recall telling the gentleman that he looked like Sam Raimi. Which he did. I just hope that's not an insult.
Monday, May 3, 2010
The Triumphant Return of Vaudeville Smith
In 1982, Bret Mixon was a student working on a short film eventually titled The Triumphant Return of Vaudeville Smith. For this project, he enlisted the aid of his brother, Bart J. Mixon (at the time, a fledgling makeup artist) to create an effective wristcutting gag. For another scene, Bret contrived a plexiglass tennis ball pinwheel that could be attached to the torso and spun -- creating the cartoon illusion of juggling. All of this served the story, which may or may not have been inspired by a short story I may or may not have written. I was asked to create several props, including phony newspaper clippings, which I aged with overlapping creases and a long soak in English Breakfast Tea. When dried, the snippets looked appropriately old and worn. I would love to see them now, nearly thirty years later. I was also asked to create the invitation you see above. That's John Rouse with the bloody wrist. John portrayed the title character.
The "second feature" was 16 MM print of A Hard Day's Night, projected on a naked apartment wall at earsplitting volume, to the delight of all in attendance and several down the block.
The Triumphant Return of Vaudeville Smith was primarily shot at Houston's first and foremost punk venue, The Island. During daylight hours, Bret had the run of the place. This was a strange and remarkable undertaking at a location which becomes mythical in hindsight. This unprecedented access also gave me the opportunity to write my name on the ladies room wall.
Filming at The Island was a rare experience, but it was not a particularly comfortable shoot. I'm pretty sure we arrived one Sunday morning to find the owner, Phil Hicks, asleep on a pool table. Fresh air did not always move through the building, and the club had a pervasive aroma -- an amalgam of stale beer, disinfectant (or the memory of disinfectant) and sweaty young punks. Often, when walking on Sixth Street, I will experience a sensory flashback, as intermingling blasts of air from several bars combine to create that particular perfume. That's right. It takes the funk of several modern bars to compete with that of this venerable and lamented nightclub.
Bret is in the process of restoring his film, and promises to upload it one day for all mankind. This may require some additional badgering.
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