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.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
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.
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