Vegas Review

Vegas. Sin City. We were charged with getting pictures around the city, but was foiled by the wife taking the camera for her clubbing experiences. Once again, Rule #1 comes into play: “Women ruin everything.” Even though she had the camera, did she get a picture of AC Slater celebrating his birthday at the club Pure in Caesar’s Palace? No. Not even a picture of Screech.

Upon driving in, only less than 4 hours of driving time – including a quick pit stop at Del Taco (the Southwest’s Taco Bell rival – different name, same D grade meat) – I made a quick call to Goose for a Blackjack 101 recap: Split on Ace’s and 8’s… be aggressive or passive according to the dealer’s face card… don’t be afraid to get up for a minute if you don’t feel comfortable or the dealer is a closer… you know, the basics.

My brother-in-law, Robbie DeLong, and I walked around Vegas, taking in the “splendor” of basically human greed all around us. From the clicking of the porn cards being passed out by Mexicans on the sidewalks to the enormous sports books in the larger Bellagio and Bally’s casinos, the senses are overloaded in Vegas. So it wasn’t a surprise when we met up with Jimbo, Dude and the Kennish, that the Kennish was getting aspirin for a sensory overload headache.

[Crazy side story: Robbie and I were walking by the Flamingo Casino, which has a building size picture of Toni Braxton on the side on their casino (Vegas: where entertainers go to die!), there was a dancing cage with… no joke… a retarded girl dancing inside. We tried not to look. But how can you not. She even had some dollars in her hiked up jeans. It was so wrong, it wasn’t even right. Just wrong. I feel bad even passing on the story. Of course, we still were angry that Jenny had the camera at the club she was at. Don’t judge.]

Later on, our newly former posse went out to test our Blackjack skills. With a helpful hint from Goose, we decided to hit the cheaper tables on the North end of town, not coincidently in the older casinos. If my memory serves me right, Jimbo, Dude and myself were down after the first night… with Robbie alone making a profit and going up around 40 bucks. Not bad for a first-time 21 year old drummer playing on a 3 dollar table.

The following day we hit some sports books, walked around (I must have walked 10 miles each day… until we found the monorail behind the east side of the strip that you can hop when no ones looking.), and drank. I’m pretty sure Robbie and I had at least one drink every 2 hours for the entire 48 hours we were in Vegas.

Saturday night rolls around and we decide to hit up the Sahara like old times. The A-Team stayed at the Sahara 6 years ago when we went to Vegas, and it’s still there. Hasn’t changed a bit. Jimbo and Dude found a room with 70’s themed tables and Jimbo was firmly planted at the Bob Dylan table. The Kennish was one table over, it looked like she was doing well. Dude was getting killed, and I’m pretty sure he was drinking more because of it. He’d disappear for what seemed hours at a time, then sit down, lose 20 more bucks and disappear again.

The night turned at one point and we all started winning (except Dude, of course), the cocktail waitress started showing up more frequently, and Dylan was good to us. We had become comfortable with the game of Blackjack. Hitting and staying became second nature, and the whiskey was flowing in our veins. Whiskey was probably in ours veins until Tuesday morning. Of course, Rule #1 had come into play again, as Jenny refused to drive home. It was Sunday Morning Coming Down, with a Vegas twist.