Las Vegas: April 2008 Trip Report


Summary & Ratings:
  • Hotel: Wynn - Resort Room 35th Floor (10)
  • Restaurants: The Country Club (Wynn) (8); Okada (Wynn) (9); Prime (Bellagio) (9)
  • Casinos: Wynn (10); Palazzo (4.5); Bellagio (6)
  • Games: Blackjack; Let it Ride; Video Poker; Slots
Note: Ratings are made on a 1-10 scale, 10 being best. If you have any comments or questions about the ratings or the trip report in general, please feel free to post in the comments section. I'll do my best to respond.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

No, this was not a good start . . .

Hurtling down the runway at 135 mph, I had the distinct feeling that our pilot had lost control of his airplane. The only other time in my life I can remember feeling this particular sickening pull of G’s was when I attempted to navigate my red wagon down a 45 degree incline around cones . . . blindfolded. I felt pretty confident that our pilot was NOT attempting to take off with his eyes closed . . . but I had a gnawing feeling in my gut telling me that if Mr. Pilot didn’t get the plane off the ground immediately, there was no way this bird was going to stay on the runway. I just wanted to get to Las Vegas . . . please . . . please . . . please . . .

Whoa Nellie . . . . we made it . . . the plane was airborne and immediately thrust into heavy turbulence. Prior to getting on the plane in Phoenix, I consciously sought out a flag to see if the wind was heavy. . . it was not. Maybe our pilot was just having a laugh.

But fifteen minutes into the flight, the constant thuds of the plane flying through the rough air was far from humorous. Nor was the announcement from the steward that no hot liquids would be served on this flight due to the turbulence.

Great, no coffee, guess I’ll just have beer.

I tried not to focus on whether or not turbulence can weaken the structural integrity of a plane, or whether or not my sweatshirt would work as a parachute if I needed to ditch out of the plane at 35,000 feet . . . no, instead I tried to figure out why there were two male stewards on this plane . . . both had full beards, glasses, and looked to be about 48 years old. I never could come up with a good backstory on these blokes . . .

Finally I just settled on shutting my eyes and counting backwards from 10,000.

4,599 . . . 4,598 . . .

And touchdown. I was alive.

And I was in Las Vegas.

First order of business was getting out of the airport as quick as I could. I flew in on US Airways, a first, and was pleasantly surprised to find that I had landed at a gate that did not require riding that stupid train. I engaged my speed walk gait and made record time to the limo stand. No line, nobody there and two seconds later I was speeding towards the Wynn in a nice black Crown Victoria. I told the driver she smelled really nice and our speed picked up quite a bit.

My phone rang.

Whale Jo.

The night before I had received a text message from him saying he was up $14k . . . . first question was whether he still had it.

Yes, and some.

Awesome, he had gotten the trip started off nicely and I only hoped that his luck would rub off.

The sedan pulled into the Wynn’s main entrance and there, looking quite ragged, was ole Whale Jo.

“Welcome to the Wynn Mr. Jaco!”

The driver and bell hop had never heard of me. Shocking!

I overpaid the driver and dragged my own bag into the Wynn. Ahhhh . . . . I love this place. We walked quickly over to check in – I could really feel the money burning a hole in my pocket.

“Sorry sir, our computers are down, we will manually take your information and call you when we have a room.”

What?

Oh well, fine. I could just drop my stuff off at Whale Jo’s room and we could be on our way.

Up at Whale Jo’s room, he brought out the cash he had won . . . a couple stacks of banded $10k bundles, some bumblebees ($1k chips at Wynn are yellow and I heard one pit boss call it this), and various other chips.

Nice.

I grabbed a few bills out of my money envelope and we hit the floor. First stop was going to be the $5 VP machines. I had no doubt my special machine would remember me.

Getting off the elevators, I knew that I could find that magic bank of 9/6 JOB machines with my eyes closed. Take a left, walk along the corridor closest to the wall, take a right at the main thoroughfare, then a left when you hear the Top Gun Machines, continue straight until you hear Wheel of Fortune games singing their song, proceed twelve more paces and take a seat . . . .

We decided to pool our money together and split any profits. $400 went in.

Nothing came out.

Oh, sure, I get it, the machines wanted to play hard to get. I was cool with that.

$200 in.

Nothing out.

Um, is that anyway to treat your favorite button pusher?

We switched machines.

$200 in.

Nothing out.

Come on. This is ridiculous.

$200 in.

Zero.

Ouch. Fifteen minutes in and I was getting bled like a Christmas hog.

No amount of rubbing, stroking, or licking would get these machines to warm up. For some reason, I was being shunned. Wow. That really hurt my heart. Fine, if the flippin’ machine didn’t love me anymore, I sure didn’t love it. Sniff.

So we moved onto Jackpot Party . . . there’s a nice little bank of four machines not too far from the $5 VP games . . . two Jackpot Party machines; one Wizard sort of machine; and one machine that has something to do with the Jones.

I was a little wary of playing the Jackpot Party game because of the luck I had had last month . . . but, I put that concern away and stuck some bills in, fully expecting to get paid.

Sure enough, it ate my money.

And ate my money.

And ate my money.

I was already in full money flush mode.

It was time to take a freaking break. Thank goodness it was lunch time . . . and I got a call from the front desk, my room was ready.

I thought it would be a good idea if I got an adjoining room next to Whale Jo . . . . unfortunately, it was taken. So I asked for a room on an upper floor . . . . none of those really left either. So I got put on the 35th floor, but with a very nice strip view.

Gosh, I really do love the Wynn. From the moment you enter the room, you are ensconced in a tiny little oasis from the madness of the strip. Classical music gently wafts from the TV, the room is immaculate, smells wonderful, and the bed . . .

But, no time to delay, I quickly unpacked and took some more money out of my envelope. There would be no budgeting of gambling funds on this trip. That could be costly . . . .but I was feeling stupid.

Whale Jo and I decided to try lunch at the Country Club – and what an amazing choice. It was about 2 p.m. and the main lunch crowd was starting to disperse. We were shown to an outside table overlooking the 18th hole. Amazing view and hard to believe you are in the middle of Vegas – which, I guess, was Mr. Wynn’s intent. Well done Steve.

I had a Cobb Salad and a bunch of beers. Fantastic. Everything in the salad was extremely fresh, flavorful and savory. I couldn’t eat fast enough. Whoever is making salads over at SW Steakhouse (and committing saladcide) could use a lesson or two from the Country Club. Just the perfect balance of dressing, greens, and the usual Cobb adornments. I swear I saw little salad ferries hiding amidst the crumbled blue cheese and bacon. Or, that could have been the start of heat stroke – take your pick.

Lunch was soon over and my battery was recharged. Whale Jo and I decided it was time to head to new environs, so we picked Palazzo. It’s not too bad of a walk through the Esplanade and over the walkway to the Venetian property – just a hop, skip, jump, and about five minutes to get there.

My first impression of the Palazzo was this . . . “Yawn”. The casino had no real vibe, was very cavernous, had too much light, and all the dealers appeared to be pouting.

We started off randomly playing various slot and video poker machines. The nowin virus I had contracted over at the Wynn apparently had followed me to Palazzo. $100 bills were disappearing at an alarming rate.

Easy enough problem to fix – just sit down at a BJ game.

We found an open table – actually, there were a lot of these – and sat down and started playing. I noticed ole Whale Jo was betting big . . . wow. I started betting big. Next thing you know, we’ve reeled in a Palazzo casino host – sort of – her card said she was a Latin Marketing Executive . . . odd. Anyway, all of a sudden we were being given the hard sell on Palazzo and the VIP treatment.

“Oh, you gentlemen need drinks? Bam, cocktail waitress appears out of thin air.

“Cigarettes?” Bam, Cigarette Lady emerges from underneath the table. Free smokes. I wish I had grabbed multiple packs.

Offers of suites and restaurants . . . . but we told the nice lady we were at the Wynn and very happy. She relented and told us to call on our next trip to see what she could do for us. We’ll see.

As the game progressed, I actually did OK. I won about $800 and walked.

Right over to another BJ table that is.

And got run over by a truck.

HARD.

I left the Palazzo with a $5 bill in my pocket and now I was very mad and entering a very dangerous zone.

Thankfully, I had a little time to cool off before having to head out to dinner. I changed my threads, took more money out of the safe, and waited for Whale Jo down in the main pit. I stuck some money in a random slot machine . . . $50 win. OK, that was something.

Dinner reservations were at Prime. I was looking forward to eating here – I’d been there before in 1999, but couldn’t remember much. We got to Bellagio with no time to spare and were immediately seated.

Sort of.

First we were led to a table in a dark corner of the restaurant, but there was some ancient looking fellow sipping soup at the table. For some reason, this frightened our poor host, and she immediately led us back out to the front. She whispered something to another host and we were quickly led to another table, far away from the darkness.

Dinner was an A+. Here’s a summary.

Drinks: Grey Goose Martini – I really wondered what it would have been like if I could have miniaturized myself and taken a swim in this drink. Ignoring the fact that I would likely be overcome by the alcohol’s fumes, I do suppose it would have been quite divine. I probably could have lived for quite a while in one of those olives. Mmmmm.

Bread. There was some sort of pretzel/roll hybrid that I loved and would have loved better if it had been heated just a tad. The combo of the hard exterior, soft interior reminded me of some fair maiden from overseas. I don’t know why, it just did.

Appetizer: Steak Tartar. Wow. I love my steak tartar and Prime hit the mark with this dish . . . well, almost. The meat and various mixtures were extraordinarily delicious – but it was served with some sort of stale piece of bread. I kinda like toast points or crackers . . . thankfully the tartar was good enough that I could just scoop it off the plate and into my mouth – I love feeding my inner caveman.

Wine: The only real miss of the night. We decided to ask the wine dude to pick something French out – something from Bordeaux – so he did and it was a little shallow. I wish I had retained the cork so I could tell you what it was – about $185. Anyway, I had to cane the bottle so we could get a new one. I picked the second one out – a 2005 Stags Leap Petite Syrah. Now that’s a bottle – not terribly expensive as far as good wine goes - $85 – worth every penny.

Dinner: Perfection. If I had been a little more drunk, I would have stood up and given the steak a standing ovation. This is what I had been looking for – this is was the steak of my dreams. A nice little filet, perfectly cooked, expertly seasoned, and nirvana for my mouth. It was dark enough that I was able to give it a little French kiss . . . thankfully it did not kiss back. Of all the recent steak joints I’ve been to – this steak kicks all of their combined bovine you know whats. KICKS IT.

There were some sides that we ordered, but the steak was so overwhelmingly good that I don’t remember what they were – table decoration as far as I’m concerned.

Oh, and we had a great table too – looked right out at the fountains, which just added to the excitement of eating a perfect steak.

Whale Jo graciously picked up the tab – hell of a dude for doing so if you ask me.

Now it was time to game. I felt that Bellagio would be where I made my comeback.

First a little slot machine action.

Ouch.

Maybe a little VP.

Ouch Ouch.

OK, how about the tables.

Ouch. Ouch. OUCH.

I got destroyed. This trip was starting to blow.

With my pockets empty, I decided it was time to call it a night. However, Whale Jo still had a little gaming left in him, so I accompanied him to the high limit room.

“Can you raise the minimum up to $500?” He sat down, lit a cigarette, and bought in for a lot of money.

I sat down, told the dealer that I was his personal security guard/lawyer and to make sure she dealt him the right cards.

She must have listened. Between her and another dealer, Mr. Whale Jo was starting to build a nice empire of $1k and $5k chips. Soon the big bets were flowing.

“How many hands should I play Jaco?”

I flash three fingers.

“How much?”

I flash a thumbs up sign. He puts $2k on each.

He wins.

It went like this for quite a while . . . .

Until some dude tapped in to deal – a professional cooler.

In the span of about six minutes, he cleaned Whale Jo out.

O-U-C-H.

That made MY stomach hurt.

We stumbled out of there and the last thing I really remember that night is getting back to the Wynn, taking some more money out of my stash and also taking money out of an ATM and losing it all.

My sleep was very troubled.

But, as we all know . . . . there’s always tomorrow.

What the heck is Aquaman doing dealing blackjack. Why am I using grapes as chips? Is there any reason why Sally Field is sitting next to me and hugging me? Why is Wolf Blitzer bringing me martinis with olives that look like Anderson Cooper. Oh crud, the olives have little tine mouths and though they are moving and obviously swearing at me, the only sound coming out of those mouths is that of a phone ringing.

A phone ringing.

Ring.

Ring.

Huh?

Then I wake up. And reality hits me hard. I’m in Vegas, I’ve lost a lot of money, and my head feels like a piece of licorice getting squeezed between some fat slobbering chubby boy’s cheeks while he watches a rerun of Goonies for the six hundredth time. And the phone is ringing. Loud.

I pick up the cordless right next to the bed. Usually an easy task to answer a cordless, unfortunately I had a slight case of early morning Vegas hangover-tardation. I couldn’t get the frickin’ thing to work.

Argh. I did my best sea lion impression and flopped out of bed, onto the floor, and wormed myself over to the desk where the old fashioned cord phone lay.

“Hello” I am amazed at how many octaves my voice dropped. I make Barry White sound like a soprano.

It’s Whale Jo and seems he’s ready to start the day. I look at the clock. Just a hair before 9:30 a.m. OK, why not. Turns out that Whale Jo stayed out a little later and made back everything he had lost at the Bellagio – all of it. This kind of action at the Wynn had put him on their radar and he was ready to take advantage of it. First order of business, he’d gone ahead and gotten his host to secure a cabana for the day.

Of course, before hitting the pool area, I needed some coffee . . . and I wanted to try a little taste of gaming.

I hit the floor and went to the little café in the drugstore at Wynn. The dude in front of me ordered some breakfast bagel – I almost threw up looking at it. I guess I wasn’t quite ready for food. Just a good ole cup of black coffee. I think it cost $4, and I gave a $4 tip. I wanted to start the day off with a little generosity – hoping that Wynn’s machine army would respond in kind.

I tracked Whale Jo down at the $5 VP machines – actually he was on the multi-line machines sitting just to the right of my former favorite machines. I looked at his credits – 400-something. Not bad. I should give it a try. I stuck a bill in and it disappeared in ten seconds.

Those machines are crack.

Whale Jo got his creds up to around 1,000 and cashed out. It was time to go visit the Jackpot Party machines.

I mean, why not – I’d already been humiliated by these devils, it was about time to feel a little love.

Nope. Not this morning. I got female dog-slapped. Sure, there were a couple times where I could get our credits up over $800 (Whale Jo and I were pooling money again) – actually, at one time we had $1,200 sitting in the machine. But . . . greed showed its ugly face and bit my head off. Soon I was laughing, almost crying, at the fact that I had fifty-five cents left in the machine. Ha. Ha. Ha. Well, perhaps it was a good time to check out the pool. Gambling could take a seat for a while.

Whale Jo and I headed to the pool area, checked in with the cabana host and had some little scrawny dude lead us to #111. Here’s what I like about a cabana – it gives you a little privacy, has shade and sun, has a TV, and has free stuff. Also, you get noticed by the babies. Of course, were I a better looking Mog, those looks would be one of awe and not shock.

Here’s what I don’t like – and I know this will sound small, petty, and sexist – why do they have scrawny little twenty something dudes covering the cabanas? Seriously – I think they must type-case these dudes straight from some of those stupid poker shows on Bravo or Fuel . . . . I mean, come on, first off, these fockers where glasses that are way too big for their face, second, they’ve got enough petroleum products in their hair that they could probably get a free membership to OPEC, and they’ve got attitude.

Oh well, I had my space, so who really cares.

We ordered a little lunch and I proceeded to try and catch a quick nap. Whale Jo went to the pool casino area for some action. Eventually the food came, I ate it, then went to the pool casino as well.

Sigh. Same old story. I lost.

After a couple hours more of lying around, it was time to try and get back on the horse. I went back to the casino, got some more money and sat back down at the Jackpot Party machine.

OK, in writing this, I can see now what an idiot I was – I should have played with more money.

Kidding – I know I should have left the machine alone – but I couldn’t – there was some invisible machine coded siren song luring me back. I knew I could win it back.

And what do you know. I started hitting it. Boom, $600 credit payoff. OK! Boom, $120 payoff. Back and forth I went, until finally I cashed out a ticket for $800 – a nice $600 profit.

I walked around and looked for Whale Jo – but I couldn’t find him. So I went back to the machine. My luck had turned – right?

Wrong. Bye bye $800.

I figured that was an anomaly – I had to be hot. I stuck more money in. And . . . .heidi-ho! I got my credits back up to $800. I cash out and go look for Whale Jo.

Hmm, he must be taking a break. I head back to the machine.

I’m hitting my head on my computer right now – I LOST IT ALL AGAIN.

And pumped more money in. And lost.

Now it was serious nap time – I was in the midst of a true meltdown.

So I slinkered back up to my room, got under my covers, and immediately zonked out.

Until the phone rang.

It was Whale Jo – his wonderful lady had just arrived in town and they were ready to have some fun. I did a mental check of my systems – I didn’t feel too bad, pretty rested, and, though beat up financially, I held out a glimmer of hope of a miracle come back.

I splashed some mouthwash under my arms and headed back down to the casino to meet Whale Jo and his fair maiden. First order of business was to have some cocktails and conversation.

I kinda liked this plan as it meant I wouldn’t be sitting in front of the Jackpot Party demon machine. We chose the bar that’s close to the front of the resort (its name escapes me) and I order myself a nice Malibu and Coke. Refreshing. After downing a few of these, it’s time for a little gaming . . . before hitting Okada for dinner.

At this point, I have about $800 left to gamble. I play a few cautious hands of BJ, lose a few $100, and finally give up and just wait for dinner time to arrive. I would have to make my last stand later in the night.

It was now time to return to Okada. For those of you who read my TR from last June, you may remember my love of this place – especially the food. Have you ever had food so good that you want to bring it home with you to meet Ma? OK, maybe not like that. But seriously, one of the ways I judge whether or not a joint has good food is whether or not it stimulates the creative part of my brain. It doesn’t have to be expensive or exotic – just good. All I’m looking for is food good enough to put my imagination to work.

Our table wasn’t quite ready, so we had a few obligatory cocktails. Whale Jo and I opted for the Macha Tini. It’s a greenish concoction that was a perfect salve for my wounded gaming soul. Whale Jo-ette had some pomegranate dealio that tasted like it had no booze – the waiter called it a sniper drink. Uh oh.

Eventually we were ushered to our seats – a very nice table with a perfect view of the Wynn water feature. I know I’m drinking the Wynn Kool-Aid, but how can you not like the Zen feel of Okada? As chaotic, claustrophobic and clusterfukled (I’m trying to invent a new word) as SW Steakhouse was, Okada exudes the exact opposite. There is space, there is perfect lighting, there is architecture that makes SENSE . . . I wish, I really wish, Stevie had opted to put Murphy Beds in Okada . . . I’d pay big bucks to be able to cuddle up in a soft bed after a meal here . . . not for the night mind you – just a little me time to allow my stomach, liver, and brain to take a breather from the punishment.

Allow me to summarize our dining experience:

Appetizers:

We ordered basically the same thing as last year. The blue ribbon prize winner of the bunch clearly was the popcorn rock shrimp – multiple orders – ‘nuf said. We also went back to the lobster with uni – it was good – but something was slightly askew with the doneness of the lobster. No biggy – our fault for dipping into the well again. Whale Jo also opted for some sort of goose liver dish – he wanted something decadent. I did not take a bite of this, so I can’t report.

Sushi:

An A+ with one little transgression. I ordered for the table and opted for a selection of maguro, chu-toro, toro-oh, kampachi, albacore, and salmon. Every piece, save one, was perfect temperature, perfect consistency, perfect size, and perfectly perfect. I dare say that each fish that gave up its life, so that a matchbox size of its flesh could make sweet love to my mouth, is proudly smiling in fish heaven. That, or I have an overactive imagination regarding good food. Either way – this sushi rocks.

But . . . there was one piece of toro that should have been sent back to the chef. I could see from looking at it that the chef likely cut this one a little to close to the bone or tail or fin – or whatever fishy body part that allows a gigantic piece of sinew to ingratiate itself into the meat. Ugh, I shudder recounting this. But here I go . . .

I reached down with my chopsticks, fully aware that I might encounter something that was completely unchewable. I put the fish in my mouth and commenced masticating. First chew – nice. Second chew – nicer. Hey, maybe my eyes had deceived me! Third chew . . . .

Sound the alarms! Sound the alarms!

It felt like I was biting into the webbed foot of a duck . . . my teeth quickly retracted and I tried a tentative bit. Smooth. OK, maybe that tough piece of whatever had dissolved. I threw some sake in my mouth just in case. I bit again.

Holy sh . . .

My teeth stuck to whatever it was . . . stuck! Abandon ship! Abandon ship! My eyes started to water . . . if I could just manage to quickly unhook my teeth . . . I tried . . . no luck. I began to get worried . . . it would only be another second before . . . too late.

My gag reflux had been initiated.

I smiled politely at Whale Jo and Joette, pretending that I had the hiccups.

“Anything wrong Jaco?”
I shook my head and dumped some more sake in my mouth. Ahhh. That loosened my teeth and I was able to chew again.

But I could not break down the gristle . . . I was left with two choices – either I could discreetly spit it out into my napkin and then worry the rest of the night that it might fall out at some inopportune moment, or I could try swallowing and risk throwing up, or worse, choking. The thought of feeling the jagged edges of sinew rub against my neck made me gag some more.

I had to choose now, or things would get real bad.

I swallowed. I chased it with sake and beer and wasabi and ginger and . . .

I survived. No barf, no choking . . . thank goodness.

I noted with some horror that one piece of the toro remained.

“Uh, you guys might want to skip that piece.”

But, as I said above – small transgression – I’d endure far worse to have the best that Okada has to offer.

For me, the best it has to offer is the uni. And it was time to order up my closing piece of the night.

Oh sweet joy, sweet uni, sweet little gift of the sea . . . if done right. If done wrong, well, imagine eating rotten banana ice cream from Ben & Jerry’s and finding half a rat’s head frozen at the bottom of the pint . . . that bad.

But tonight, despite the bad luck I had endured at the tables, was my night. The uni was glorious. I should have sung to my uni, I should have bowed to my uni, I should have done something special for that uni because it sure did something good for me. (Ok that makes no sense).

True to his generous form, Whale Jo again picked up the tab – he was confident that this meal would be on Mr. Wynn.

I looked at my watch – it was starting to get late – I had changed my flight to get out of town in the early morning and knew I had to cash in within the next few hours. Time for Jaco’s last stand.

I believe the three of us wandered around just a little bit, gambled some (I lost), and then spied a table completely open. We wandered over and found Daniel, a fine Swiss gentlemen, standing at a $50 min. table . . . single deck . . . 6/5 . . . this certainly looked like a bad idea . . . but, no other tables were open, I didn’t really have that much money left, and it’d be kind of fun to be at a table with Whale Jo and Joette . . . . we sat.

I put my remaining funds on the table . . . and I promptly lost. What to do? I looked over at Whale Jo with his fortress of chips.

“You want a loaner Jaco?”

I nodded.

“500?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“An even K?”

I held out my hand.

OK, reloaded.

Daniel kept dealing . . . and I kept losing. I noticed that both Whale Jo and his lady were winning. I was happy for them.

Until I lost my loaner.

I looked at Whale Jo.

He passed over another K.

I lost a few more hands.

And then, it happened.

The magic shoe . . . or should I say shoes.

I can’t tell you with any specificity what hands I got, or how much I was betting, only that I could feel the tide turn. And it wasn’t just me – Whale Jo and Joette were making hay as well.

First order of business, I got my stack up to $2k. I peeled off $1k and sent it packing back to Whale Jo. Now only one more Whale Jo marker to go.

And the hits kept coming. It took about 10 minutes and I was able to ship back the other loaner marker to my buddy. Now I was on Jaco-cash. All I really wanted was a couple hundred to help pay for taxi, food, and drink in the morning.

Daniel the Swiss dealer was probably the best dealer I’ve ever had the pleasure of facing in Vegas. It truly seemed as if he wanted us to win. Sure, a lot of dealers give off that vibe – but how many of them do it with a Swiss accent? That’s what made it so special.

I think when he dealt out A-K; A-Q; K-J to the three of us (remember, single deck) we all knew this guy was special. So, I kept betting, and I kept winning. Though I wasn’t making giant leaps – I was betting only about $100 or $200 per hand, I was making enough back to dull the pain from earlier losses.

Then, my final hand.

I didn’t know it at the time that I was playing my final hand – in fact, based on Danny-boy’s dealings, I fully expected to stay at the table for quite a while. But, as it turns out, I probably ended up leaving at the peak of my luck.

For some reason, I got a little antsy and decided to up my bet to $500. Boom, out comes 7-7. Dealer had something like a five or a six – all I know is it wasn’t a face or ten. OK, why not, I had enough to cover a double, so I pushed out another $500.

3

No problem – I’d been flushed this entire trip, why be scared now? I put out another $500 and signaled for Danny to deal my card down. On the other seven I was dealt a face card, so I stood pat, only $1,500 sitting out on the line.

I nervously watched Whale Joette play her hand – I think she got 20, at this point, things go quite foggy.

All I know is that Danny turned a card over . . . must have been a face . . and then hit . . . and BUSTED.

Git er’ done Danny boy!!!!

I just about wet myself and broke my wrist giving out high-fives at the same time. Yessss.

Right after that hand ended, Whale Joette told Danny she was coloring up.

What?

But then I looked at my stacks – an even $4k.

Why the heck push it. It wasn’t going to get any better than this tonight. I pushed my stacks of black in. I think I heard Whale Jo say something like, “We just hit this table for $13k” . . . everyone had a good run.

So, that was it. We meandered through the slot machines – I watched Whale Jo try and make a quick hit on some Wolf slot . . . I think he just wanted to howl and impress his lady.

I took my four bumblebees to the cage and cashed out. This trip had turned out OK after all.

I headed back up to my room – posted quickly on TA – then did a little jig for the gambling gods as the masses below ebbed and flowed into the dens of iniquity. Life was good.

In the a.m. I tried to call a casino host, but found out that they don’t show up until 7 a.m. So I went downstairs to check with the Red Card people about comps – they don’t open until 7 a.m. either. So, tempted to play, I just sat at a machine and waited until 7.

Once 7 rolled around, I took my little Red Card out and asked the nice lady if there was anything she could do for me. I have no idea what table rating I had, but I do know I had over 10,000 points accumulated from slot and VP pay. For whatever reason, she couldn’t figure things out, so she summoned her boss to come over and look at my play. He had the power to do something and zeroed out my room. I smiled – I just stayed for free at the Wynn.

The only thing I ended up paying for was a bottle of water and the stupid movie I ordered (and watched for only two minutes). But, paying for my stay at the Wynn with a $20 bill kinda was OK with me.

And, that was that. I left for the airport, flew home in first class . . . and now here I am, almost a week later writing down my memories . . pining for when I’ll return again.

So, the story ends. When will I be back? Probably not until March or April 2009 . . . but that’s OK, I’ve got some fun places to go between now and then . . . . maybe I should write some TRs about those . . . I do think Whale Jo and I might be heading with our ladies to Napa . . . no gambling, but plenty of wine . . .

Thanks for reading and to those who are heading out to Vegas soon . . good luck.

The Mirage Penthouse Suite . . . oh yeah.

Here's a video of the 2BR Mirage Penthouse Suite from the March 2008 trip (Trip Report is just below this post).

There is audio on this clip (turn your volume down if you are at work).

Cheers.


Las Vegas: March 2008 Trip Report


Summary & Ratings:


  • Hotel: The Mirage - Two Bedroom Penthouse Suite (8)

  • Restaurants: Carnegie Deli (6); SW Steakhouse (3); Piero's (8.5)

  • Casinos: Mirage (8); Wynn (10); Casino Royale (3); Imperial Palace (6); Harrahs (5); Flamingo (6.5); Bills (5.5); Orleans (1.7)

  • Games: Blackjack; Let it Ride; Video Poker; Slots; Casino War; Mirage Race Book

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Where to begin.

Oh yes, for those of you familiar with this story, I believe I had previously mentioned that prior to heading to Vegas, I had discovered that my bank had mistakenly given me an extra $1,000 on top of what I had meant to withdraw. This was a no-brainer – I immediately called the bank and had a manager sprint to my office and take the cash back. 1000 karma bonus points. It was a tad bit strange peeling off 100s to this strange woman in my office . . . I asked if I could have her shirt. That was awkward.

«click to read the rest of the Trip Report»


Fast forward: March 5, 2008, 7:00 a.m., on an interstate somewhere near you.

There we were, Whale Jo and I speeding along at 75 mph in his luxury sedan, trying to make record time to the airport. I think we just both wanted to be able to time warp from that particular moment directly to arrival in Vegas. Flight to Vegas was at 9:00 a.m. and we were planning on meeting the crew for some early morning binging. As I watched the poor sods around us drive their cars to work, I couldn’t have been happier.

Fast forward: 9:00 a.m, in an airplane, first class, on the tarmac somewhere near you.

Ahhhhh. The entire crew settled into the first class cabin. Let the giddiness begin. To my left, Whale Jo. Directly behind, Chaz. Across the aisle, Double D, Buzzy, and Frankie Styles. Whale Jo immediately started in trying to get a game of rock scissors paper going, but nobody would play. So we settled into our typical air ride routine of making up various card games and using our wads of 100 $1 bills as ammunition. Gambling with Whale Jo certainly made the flight go faster, but did take a little bit of my juice pile away.

By the time we entered Las Vegas airspace, I was down $50. Infused with bloody-mary courage and ready to hit the ground running. The boyz and I grabbed the first limo we saw outside of baggage claim – I can’t remember what the cost was, at this point I would have paid $100s of dollars to get to the strip.

But, per our usual routine, first stop was some degenerate dirt covered liquor store. The one we really wanted to go to is near the Double Down Saloon – but none of us could give accurate directions, so we just told the driver to take us to the fist store between the airport and the Mirage that he could think of. We ended up at a store across from the Hard Rock. With probably multiple years’ worth of salaries in our pockets for the people standing outside this shop, I felt a slight pang of guilt. Fortunately, that was quickly quenched by a large gulp from my big can of Bud. Yum.

With adequate rations of liquor and various other goods, we made our way to the Mirage.

No sooner did I blink than I was stepping out of the limo at the Mirage’s front portico. I could hear a whisper on the wind, “Welcome back Jaco”

I smiled, clicked my heels and headed in to check in.
Whale Jo and I were booked for a penthouse suite. I had done a little research beforehand and had determined that we needed to be on the E floor, strip view. Whale Jo did the negotiating with the front clerk.

“Um, hi, yes, we are booked for a penthouse suite, E floor?”

“Thank you sir, just a minute.”

“Do you know who this is?” Whale Jo pointed to me.

The desk clerk shrugged.

“Have you ever heard of Tripadvisor?”

She shrugged again.

“This is one of the founders.”

WHAT?

The clerk looked vaguely interested – but she could have also had gas.

“We won $75,000 here last year, but didn’t have a player’s card”

Whale Jo had let loose his inner-Pinocchio.

But, I’m guessing the clerk had heard this before, she continued tapping on her computer.

Whale Jo handed her his ID and I noticed something green folded under it. He winked.

“Here ya’ go hon. Like I said, we’d like E floor, oh, and strip view”

“Um, sorry sir, but all we have is mountain view, it is on E floor, but no strip views available.”

Whale Jo made doe eyes at her, “Oh, wow, that’s not good, I requested a strip view and an E floor suite three months ago and this does not make me happy.”

I was waiting for him to bust out laughing . . . I actually had to step away and feign a hiccup attack.

After going back and forth with her for a few seconds, Whale Jo changed his tact.

“Ok, if no strip view, then please just send us something up.”

“How about some nice flowers?”
“We’re not gay, how about a nice fruit basket and some candy.”

I didn’t hear the clerk’s answer, I had grabbed a room key and was on my way to the room. A penthouse suite . . . .

I needed to get up there, drop my stuff off and start gaming!

The Mirage penthouse suites are all housed on floors D & E, why those floors have letters and the rest numbers is beyond me, but E is the top floor. Walking out of the elevator on to this top floor, you find yourself in a very different world than what you just left. Complete silence. No machines, no dealers, no grown men crying that they’ve lost their house. Just you and the penthouse floor. Color tones are maronnish, cream, and I believe gold, maybe some black, and birch. Immediately in front of the elevator bay is some sort of lounge area where guests must be able to host parties. During our tenure at the Mirage, I never saw anyone in this place.

In any event, we got to our room and opened the door.

Oh you can’t believe it.

(note, if you search on youtube for a video on a Mirage Penthouse Suite, you’ll get that line).

Very nice, if not a little dated. All of the furniture and fixtures were appropriately expensive looking, but not completely over the top. The room itself was very spacious. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the sprawling desert. If one were to ignore the circa-1975 TVs that are housed in the armoires and the 1982 Sony stereo system, you could almost see where the Mirage gets off charging $600 - $800 per night.

I immediately disrobed by luggage and hung everything up in proper alphabetic order. I then . . ha . . . had you going there . . . I took my stuff out and threw it in the first drawer I could find. I then went through the important step of counting my money, putting it in the safe, taking it out, counting it again, putting it in the safe, forgetting the combo, swearing, figuring out I didn’t lock the safe, writing the combo down on my underwear, then taking enough money with me to last the afternoon.

I was hungry, armed with cash, and losing my buzz. It was time to hit it.

I wish there had been some sort of wonderful magical laundry shoot that I could have jumped in to get to the casino floor faster, but Whale Jo and I had to make do with the commoner’s way of traveling – the elevator.

As soon as the doors opened, the sounds and sights of the Mirage casino put me in a very happy place. The plan was to meet the boyz in the sports book and have some grub from the Carnegie Deli. However, we needed some quick action. As we walked around, something blue and flashy caught my eye.

“Ooooooh. Top Gun Slots”

I’m a sucker for anything with lights, loud sounds and promise of action. Throw in a seat that vibrates . . . .

Whale Jo and I sat down and stuck some 100s in the two side by side machines. We agreed to split any winnings.

I’ll admit it here and now, I’m a Top Gun addict. Thank goodness this was only a $.05 machine, or I would have lost everything in the first ten minutes of play. But, with a couple hundy sitting in the machine, there was enough of a buffer to withstand the first run of no luck. But, then it happened. A bonus round.

*Cue Music*

Buh buh buh buh buh buh buh buh buuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh

Revvin' up your engineListen to her howlin' roarMetal under tensionBeggin' you to touch and goHighway to the Danger ZoneRide into the Danger Zone

ROAR JET ENGINES
YAY FAKE JET PILOT TALKING TO ME LIKE I’M REAL
MISSLES!
3x BONUS
2x BONUS
500 CREDITS
200 CREDITS
AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And we kept on hitting bonuses . . . well at least one or two more.

It was lovely . . . . Better than my first time with a Monopoly Main Event . . . . By the time the madness stopped, I think we had managed to squeeze $300 each in profit out of the machines . . . .

Seriously? $300 profit on a nickel machine? I had high hopes for this trip. I wanted to keep gaming, but it was time to eat and bet on some ponies.

I had never eaten at the Carnegie Deli before, and looking at the menu, I could see why. $35 sandwiches? WTF? Then I caught a glimpse of one . . . holy cow. The last time I saw a meal that big, it had a tail on it and was being boiled in a pot in a remote Peruvian village.

Zoinks.

I settled on a grilled ham and cheese and a side of fries and then sauntered over to an open booth in the Mirage race book. The sandwich was appropriately goopy, but full of nice salty flavor and just the thing my stomach needed. I figure something like that has to put a good varnish coat on the stomach lining for at least six hours. Add a few handfuls of French fries and I was sufficiently fed and ready to bet on some future glue factory inductees.

I think I’ve given up trying to pose as some sort of pony guru. To be honest, I’ve had my best luck when just picking random numbers. Plus, that’s what Whale Jo does and it seems to work out for him.

Unfortunately, this time, I pressed my luck a little too much. Sure, 50-1 shots do hit on occasion. But note to self: NOT ON EVERY RACE. AND THEY CERTAINLY DO NOT COME IN 1-2 WITH THE 75-1 HORSE ON EVERY RACE. THERE IS A REASON THE HORSE IS AT 50-1 – IT LOOKS LIKE IT WAS JUST PULLED OFF A 24-SHIFT ON THE FREAKIN’ DONKEY RIDE AT THE BOOMSTIX COUNTY FAIR.

Oh well, you only live once right? Needless to say, the $2.35 I won on one ticket did not cover the losses I sustained. In between races, I did manage to drop some cash on college basketball – Arizona minus the points. I gave a bunch of other sure-fire bets to Whale Jo and he turned them into a lot of heavy money parlays. I, on the other hand, failed to bet my own picks. We’ll see later on in this story how that turns out.

With lunch and ponies completed, it was high time for a taste of the tables. The group dispersed throughout the casino – not because we were hell-bent on any particular strategy – rather, I think we were all drunk and couldn’t remember what each other looked like so we got lost . . .

I dimly remember stumbling around trying to decide between the Big Money Wheel and Let it Ride. During trips back and forth between the two, I caught glimpses of Whale Jo slipping into the high limit longue, thankfully he had a wry smile on his face. Good, I thought, he must be hitting it. Pretty soon, after a bet here, bet there, I had lost my profits from earlier and decided to seek out a kind black jack table on which to lay my weary wallet.

I saw a few of the boyz hunched at a $25 table in a corner near the poker room and video poker bar. Some really spent, tired, gentle old giant of a woman was dealing. I think her name was Zora . . . . yes, it was Zora. She had some funny accent and I imagine in her day she could rip an unsuspecting lad in two. However, now her lot is to spend her time dealing to obnoxious, unappreciative half-cocked gents like me. Funny enough, ole Whale Jo happened upon the table around the same time. He tried sweet talking Zora, but she took quite an affront to this. I swear I could see tiny silver sparks shooting in her eyeballs as she dealt out the cards . . . .

Ouch. Zora was in no mood to play. I hemorrhaged money and felt dirty too. A bad combo. I believe the other boys were not fairing as well either. I suppose you could draw a direct link between starting on the booze at 6 a.m. to the predicament many of us found ourselves in . . . but that would be too much self-honesty now, wouldn’t it. Thankfully, memories of past black jack chip genocides remain locked firmly in my brain and I was able to force myself up from the table and head up to the PH suite. It was time to clean myself up and get ready for the evening.

I’m not a bath dude, so as long as a place has a rippin’ shower, I’m happy. The Mirage PH shower did not disappoint. Full on max psi, just enough to scrape off the early grime and dirt of the afternoon gaming session, not enough to dislodge any skin from muscle.. Bath products? I dunno – a bunch of stuff in triangle shaped boxes that I couldn’t open easily so I threw them against the wall . . . several times.

After cleaning up, I put on some fresh new duds, including some lucky silk pants, and headed back out the door. We had a little time before we needed to head over to the Wynn and SW Steakhouse – something I was really looking forward to. Not only was I anxious to try some of the highest priced dead cow in town, but I also remembered a torrid love affair I had had with a $5 VP machine at the Wynn on my trip last June. I hoped she remembered me . . . I sure couldn’t get her out of my mind.

I skipped around various machines at the Mirage – all the while wishing I was strapped into Top Gun – but I didn’t want to overindulge the machine and give it the wrong idea. Plus, I had to give a couple of old friends at the VP bar a spin. They wanted nothing to do with me. Fine, take my money biatch. Slap.

The boys all finally congregated in the Mirage casino and we were good to go to the Wynn. A short cab ride later and I was striding into the Wynn like I frickin’ owned it. In hindsight, perhaps that was a mistake.

As we walked into the casino, we realized that, unfortunately, we had not left enough time before our reservation to allow for gaming, so we needed to proceed directly to SW.

We ushered ourselves up to the checkin desk and were told our seats would be ready immediately.

Fifteen minutes later we were still waiting . . .

WTF? If it’s going to be a wait, someone needs to let me freakin’ know! My time is precious in Vegas and I need to gamble with every spare moment available. If I wanted to spend my extra time sipping on a $15 cocktail, eating nuts coated in flavored mud crust, I could have stayed flippin’ home.

But . . . I relaxed, I was in Vegas after all, so who really cares about time. I tried to let this pass. In the end, it would all be good.

But then we walked into the restaurant.

Um, Mr. Wynn, what drug-induced over-priced Madison Avenue design firm did you hire for this place? Krap and Ass-ociates? Dude, it was like walking into a cross between some stupid buffet and a government cafeteria. OK, I get that places can be crowded – I really do. But when you are a freakin’ high end, supposed top of the food chain restaurant, cramming the peeps into a space that’s no bigger than some super-mall DMV office is just wrong. One should be able to walk with some serenity between tables. Uh-uh, not at SW. Look, I’ll admit I’m certainly not the smallest tree in the forest, but this place made me feel like a freaking super sized redwood. A regular sized male should, in an upscale restaurant, heck, even in a regular scale restaurant, be able to fit nicely between tables with little to no effort . . . but not here. Maybe that’s supposed to be part of the experience – getting head-cocked by strangers, literally. Ooops, excuse me ma’am, didn’t mean to put the package in your face . . .

Anyway, I hadn’t tasted the food yet, so, again, I let the design and décor issues wash away.

We sat down and waited. Soon, I believe three or four or five different servers came to our table – I’m not sure who was in charge. I think eventually they just left us with some cute girl who didn’t quite belong as a waiter in that place.

First up, appetizers. We ordered some sort of seafood platter. This was good – very fresh.

I should have stopped right there.

Up next was salad. For me, nothing says steakhouse than a perfect Caesar. I did not get that at SW. Whoever made my Caesar there should be brought up on charges of first degree saladcide. Since when did it become OK to make a salad with more parts dressing than salad? Really? This is supposed to be good? I swear I could hear the anchovies crying. Sorry little guys.

I definitely should have stopped right there.

Instead, I had the great pleasure of being served one of the most disappointing cuts of meat EVER. Forget the piece of dog shank I got at Golden Steer last year – this thing they served me was a joke. I will admit I had set up expectations quite high – really – I mean I wanted this steak to be so good that I could cut open a slit on the side and French kiss the juices out of it. I wanted to LOVE the steak. I wished it would be so good that I would have to right then and there declare my undying love and book a honeymoon suite . . . .

Nope.

I got burned.

Internally, I wept. How could SW have turned into such a turd? It was not fair. I took about four bites of my steak before deciding I had had enough and did not want to risk barfing on the restaurant floor. I noted that some of the other crew did enjoy their steaks a little more – but nobody was floored.

Tale of the tape? Six dudes, appetizers, salads, steaks, and I believe four sides, plus three or four bottles of wine . . . . $140 bucks a piece.

Final judgment – If you are looking for a steak joint that has the following qualities, then by all means, go right ahead and book a table at SW:

(a) Elitist front desk personnel who make no effort to seat patrons in a timely manner;
(b) Elitist front bar waiters who display attitude when you cannot think of what you want to drink within .025 seconds;
(c) A dining room so overcrowded with people that it requires Mission Impossible-like stealth to maneuver between tables and chairs;
(d) Décor that is reminiscent of the very best that your local Wal-Mart deli or Circle K hot dog bar has to offer.
(e) Waiters who don’t get jokes and certainly don’t understand tongue in cheek sarcasm;
(f) Saladcide in the first degree.
(g) Steak that tastes like it was cooked under the hood of an old Buick.

Can I find anything good to say about this place? Yes. The seafood appetizer was good. And, I did like the men’s bathroom. I swear the stall doors hermitically sealed themselves.

In any event, with good ole din din done, I couldn’t wait to get to the casino floor. Sweet momma here I come.

I should make an aside at this point and note that one of our crew had already booked a one way ticket on the inebriation boat to nowhere. Have you ever noticed that there is a point when someone has so much to drink that their eyes switch from voluntary control to involuntary? Seriously, neither orb can focus properly and both rotate 360 degrees independent of each other? Poor Frankie Styles had misjudged his alcohol intake ability and abruptly had to call it a night. As for the rest of us – well, we probably should have followed Styles home.

But, I was at the Wynn baby. I felt a pang of remorse that I wasn’t staying in a Wynn room, but the feeling dissipated when I recalled the expansive penthouse suite back at the Mirage . . . ahhhhhh.

So, first order of business for me was to find out if the magic bank of $5 VP machines were still at the Wynn. I felt like a weasel on a snake hunt . . . . I could have closed my eyes and probably have made it to the far back right hand corner of the Wynn on pure memory . . .

The bank was still there! Internally I wept like a little baby. Thank you Video Poker Bunny! If the boyz hadn’t been around me, I definitely would have spent more time stroking the machine, just to make sure she remembered ole Jaco. But, I also thought that shoving a few $100s in the bill slot would also liven the ole gal up a bit.

Ooooh daddy. She did remember. It only took a few hits and boom, I had turned a nice profit. The boyz became restless and quickly moved on to the tables. I stuck with my machine. However, something strange happened.

I stopped winning.

It was disturbing. Soon my initial investment in the machine was gone. Which was too bad as that was actually pooled money from Whale Jo. Now I had to stick in my own funds and see what could happen.

I took out four crisp $100 bills and fed each of them in the machine – careful not to appear too anxious, but forceful enough to let the machine I meant business. With $400 credits at my disposal, I prepared to see if I could get the machine hummin’ again.

My first couple of attempts were thwarted. But, I could sense the machine was teasing me. She kept throwing out flush and straight possibilities . . . . I felt I had a chance. I slowed down my button-pushing. With almost a feather-like touch, I tenderly depressed the max credits button. Oh ho! Three kings! She likey! I licked my pinkie and, with the most delicate of movements, touched the hold buttons under each king. I closed my eyes, popped a breath mint, then slid the heel of my palm across the draw button.

King.

I melted. She remembered. And not only did she remember, but the machines around her remembered as I swear they broke out in a simultaneous chorus of “Auld Lang Syne” . . . I kept playing, trying to ride the crest of momentum, trying to keep pace with my metallic lover, my machine, my . . . .

What the?

And the moment was over. My mind meld with the inanimate objects around me ended. I hit cash out.

$1,000.

I smiled. Not too bad.

It was time to find the others. Whale Jo was busy dumping money on various table games, and it seemed like a good time to just cool down and have some fun. The only other crew member left was Buzzy. So we grabbed him and wandered around looking for some slots to play and a nice waitress to give us free drinks.

My eyes spied a Jackpot Party game. I’ve played before and always seemed to have moderate success. But those machines were usually a penny or a nickel machine . . . this one was a $1 machine . . max credits would be $45 a pop. But hey, look here, I have a $1,000 ticket in my hand . . . why not just see if it fits . . . and . . .

I’m off and spinning.

Nothing really happens for a while . . . I’m about to cash it out when I hear those three magical party hooter noises . . . Weeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaa . . . . Weeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaa . . . Weeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . . . and then the music starts . . . . YMCA . . . . .

I start picking whatever it is you are supposed to pick . . .boom, 25 credits . . . 2x credits . . . 100 credits . . .faster and faster I pick until . . . . . .

JACKPOT!!!!

$2070 CREDITS





I blink and look at Whale Jo. He nods appreciatively.

Buzzy, well, I’m not sure what he was doing.

“I won.”

“That’s a hand pay boss! I get my 20%” (Whale Jo and I have an agreement that if one of us hits a slot win over $1,000, the other gets a 20% cut).

And sure enough, here came the slot attendant – HAND PAY TIME.

I started dancing.

I hate dancing.

But I danced.

YMCA, right there, right then in the Wynn.

Then there was a hooker on Whale Jo’s lap.

I kept dancing.

I had to catch my breath. And I had to figure out where the new girl had come from. I turned around and saw her being dismissed from Whale Jo’s lap. She went right over to Buzzy.

“Hi, I’m Crystal”

“Is your last name Meth?”

Oh so good with the words that Buzz.

I filled out some info for the W-2 and then held my hand out as I got hand paid.

Yummy.

I looked at the machine and was surprised to still see 400 credits to be played! Oh heck ya!

Note to self: DON’T BE A GREEDY SON OF A BIATCH AND THINK LIGHTNING WILL STRIKE TWICE, TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN.

So needless to say that $400 was flushed down the pooper in no time.

Oh well, I was up baby! I was up in Vegas baby!!!!! And I had a massive amount of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

We walked around some, and noted that there was an inordinate amount of hookers at the Wynn – I guess they go where the money goes . . . .

Before leaving, we decided to sit down at an unoccupied blackjack table. Now, the following may be a bit insensitive, but I can’t help it.
“HERRO SIR, AWWWW YOU GONNA PWAY BWACKJACK?”

Huh? The dealer looked normal, but he was talking like he was the king of the short bus.

“Um, sure.”

“WHEEEEEREA YOUUUUU FWOOOOM?”

Oh god, please, give life to my legs and make me walk away.

I made something up, “Long Island”

“WEEALLLLY? MWEEEE TOOOOOO. WELL SHTATEN ISLANDUD, BUT CTHLOSE ENUVVVVVV”

Really, god, legs, moving, now!

“BETTTS PWEEEZE?”

I looked at Whale Jo, he looked at Buzzy, and I don’t know what Buzzy looked at. We all bet.

Nuthin. Dealer wins.

“SWOOOORRRY GWUYS.”

“Maybe next time, right?” I asked hopefully.

The dealer didn’t answer.

Oh, wait a minute here.

I waved my hand and caught his eye.

How ‘bout that? A deaf dealer.

For a moment it felt like finding a unicorn in a fairy forest – unreal, magical, and something good like fountains of candy should come raining down on us – but that unfortunately only happens to small children.

Despite being hard of hearing, this dealer was a buzz saw. He cut right through my stacks, all the while wearing a silly, “Hey, I can’t hear nuthin Jack, whatcha gonnna do” grin.

Wow, that was seriously a downer. It was time to return to home base and (a) go to bed; or (b) engage in a black belt level bender.

We hopped in cab and the moment we took off, I knew option (b) was in full play. It was time for Jaco-unleashed.

Well, at least as long as the cab ride would go.

I started talking dirty with the cabbie – he happened to be very knowledgeable on where one might obtain a “fourth of july surprise” massage.

The conversation probably went something like this:

“Hey Kim, you know ‘fourth of july’ surprise”

Muted giggle.

“Ah, yes, fourth of jewrye sooprise, yes, yes, very good.”

Whale Jo leans out window and howls in tongue completely devoid of any tangible meaning.

Buzzy laughs.

I bang my head on the seat.

“Fourth of July Surprise! Baaaaaboooooom!!!!”

Whale Jo continues howling. Then follows it up with some good ole fashioned gurgling.

Buzzy laughs.

I clap my hands like a one of those toy monkey boxes – you know – the ones where the monkey has symbols?

The cabbie cackles.

I don’t know, it seemed funny. Looking back, I’m a little disturbed.

So we tell the cabbie that we want to head to the Mirage . . . . but then we suddenly decide we are too amped up and want to hit somewhere else.

The cabbie suggests somewhere local.

More howling. More laughing.

OK, where?

Orleans.

Sure, why the ef not – none of us had been there before.

And let me tell you something now – I don’t think any of us will EVER go back.

Now, I know my memory of this is quite skewed, but . . . it felt like we were dropped off in the middle of nowhere . . . literally. Like, I could have walked five hundred blocks in any direction and not have ended up anywhere. I swear I heard coyotes in the shadows, laughing, waiting in gleeful anticipation should bad luck befall one of us on the way to the casino entrance and we trip and they are then able to rip the beer marinated meat from our bones . . .

OK, I exaggerate.

Anyway, we walk into the Orleans and I immediately want to run. But I’m afraid if I do that I’ll trip on one of the millions of empty penny slot machines blocking the aisles.

I want my mommy.

That was the little boy Jaco inside . . . I flashed back to some distant memory of being lost in some giant department store . . . alone in my snoopy pjs, holding my Charlie Brown blanket, and soiling my GI Joe diapers.

I snapped out of it, keenly aware that if I was to get lucky here, I needed the power of positive thinking.

We sat down at some machines and starting gaming.

I stuck $100 bill after $100 bill into nickel machines . . . . chasing and chasing and chasing and chasing and chasing that which would never be caught . . . .

At some point I ran out. And then I realized I had burned through my earlier winnings . . .and some.

I believe it would be fair to state that at that moment in time – I was done.

How depressing it all was. I was stuck in a casino that I hated, I had, with full awareness, dumped a lot of money into stupid nickel machines, and it was getting late enough that I could already fell the morning hangover checking in for duty.

What a great way to end the first day.

To top things off, we got a cab driver who would not shut up and kept talking about how Vegas is losing all sorts of conventions. Delivered in perfect monotone, it was pure torture to listen too.
We arrived back at the Mirage around 2:00 a.m. I half-heartedly tried to find energy to play some Let It Ride . . . but I couldn’t get anything. With two green chips left in my pocked, it was time to call it a night.

I walked past the War table and figured I might as well give it a try.

I got a Q, dealer got a 5.

Hmm. Whaddya know. Now I had a black chip.

And momentum heading into Friday . . . .

Good morning glorious sunshine. Despite the bed being slightly lumpy, I had a rather peaceful five hour sleep in the penthouse. Once 7:45 a.m. rolled around, I couldn’t stand to stay in bed any longer. I feared that if I did move out of the bed that I would sadly discover that I was inflicted with a grade five hangover.

Oh joy! No hangover! No headache! It was a Christmas miracle. Despite having downed at least three or four bloody marys, ten to twenty beers, a bottle of wine, and an untold number of mixed drinks . . . I felt refreshed and energized.

I quickly washed and put on some fresh duds. I opened my safe and took out my depleted bankroll and had a little heart to heart with the bills.

“Bills, today is the day you will go forth and multiply. You will breed amongst each other and procreate more bills . . . you will make your keeper RICH.”

I stuffed $1000 in my pocket and put the rest back. I felt I could survive the morning session with a cool k.

I opened my door and relaxed in the gathering room, casually pawing through the room service menu. I picked up the phone and immediately had them send up a pot of coffee, some water and several juices.

“What’s up . . . “

Whale Jo peeked his head out from his room.

“Second day, baby!”

He gave me a few flash instructions on additional room service that was needed. Just before I was about to call down and get the grub up to our room, I got a call from Chaz. Turns out we had invited him up for room service breakfast the night before – so he was cashing in.

I made the call:

Another pot of coffee;
Bottled water;
Various juices;
Fruit plate;
Side of Bacon;
Milkshakes;
Scrambled Eggs with a Ham Steak;
Eggs over easy with Bacon;
Waffles;
Eggs Benedict;
A variety of Danishes.
Muffins.

Oh yah. Bring on the gluttony.

The first room service order arrived. Some nice chap named “Dan” or “Dave” or some name with the letter “d” in I brought in the goods. I looked at the bill, gave him a big tip, and signed off as “Whale Jo”.

Minutes later ole Chaz arrived. Turns out he had hit sort of a wall – despite having taken an afternoon nap – and had retired after the Wynn. As far as gambling went – he was a bit down, but definitely looking forward to some breakfast in the suite.

It wasn’t too soon thereafter when the second order arrived. What a way to start off the day. Everything was better than average – which exceeded my expectations. I kinda thought the food would be subpar.

I licked up the eggs benedict and slurped down some milkshake mixed with a little juice and coffee. Ahhhhhhhh.

It was time to game.

Jaco and Whale Jo were going to do a little low limit hit –n- runs and see if we couldn’t get something going. First stop – Harrahs.

There was something satisfying about walking into Harrah’s armed with a new bunch of 100 bills and ready to see if I couldn’t scratch out a little luck. I wasn’t looking for anything big – just a win – a bona fide blue blooded win. Could be .01, could be $100 . . . I just wanted to feel victory.

For a moment, I think I was up. We played various $.05 and $1 slots . . . really just focusing on whatever “felt” right at that particular moment. Eventually I grew tired of Harrahs and decided to change locations.

Casino Royale.

I know, I know . . . this place is a particular favorite amongst many people – cheap drinks, cheap gambling . . . . and it did not disappoint.

First thing I walk through as I entered the casino? Some sort of fire sale on already cheap quality clothing . . . “I got f*cked in Vegas” Tees . . . “I Laid a Golden Nugget in Vegas” sweats . . . . “Play This Slot” hats . . . . wow. And there was a crowd. Double wow. And I became vaguely interested in buying some of the stuff . . .

But thankfully I heard the sing song dingaling of the casino floor and my gambling bug persevered.

I really wasn’t feeling any love from the tables – probably because of the little hit I had the night before – I really felt there was more to be had out of slots or video poker. So we stumbled around various penny slots and started playing. Any you know what – we started winning. Not a lot . . . but as I said before, I just wanted victory.

I think I ended up making about $100 or $200 . . . when I heard something over the casino din . . . Luke Skywalker . . . no, it couldn’t be.

Yes! A Star Wars themed slot. I don’t know why this excited me so, but it did and I immediately plugged some bills into it.

I got taken down hard.

Normally, I find you can survive at these rinky dink games for a while because they give you enough payout to make it interesting and occasionally throw you a bonus rounds. Not good ole Star Wars. Nope.

This machine didn’t match up on anything. To make matters worse – there’s some sort of running video of movie clips going on and it is loud enough to make me think that I keep hitting some sort of bonus round.

Jaco hits spin button.

Buttons spin.

Loud X-Wing fighter sound from above with loud yelling and loud R2D2 beeping.

Jaco looks up and claps hands like a little monkey.

Nothing happens.

Jaco looks at reels and sees 0 credits.

Jaco swears profusely and sticks more money in machine.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

So, Casino Royale didn’t work out. It was time to move on. As we were walking out, we got a call from most of the rest of the crew, they were heading out to join us. We decided to meet up at Imperial Palace.

I like this casino. I can’t think of any particular reason why – I just do. Perhaps it’s the lighting, perhaps it’s the dealertainers, I dunno, I just like gaming there.

Again, I wasn’t feeling the table games, so I went for the slots. Again, no luck was to be had this morning. Jackpot Party? Nope. Video Poker? Nope. I wasn’t betting too big, but the losses were starting to mount.

Eventually the crew showed up and they all proceeded to lose money as well. Time to move on. We collected Whale Jo off a table where he was going head to head with John Belushi at $100 - $500 per BJ hand. I think he broke even and I got a nice picture of Whale Jo and Belushi holding hands. Cute.

Next stop – Flamingo. I felt luck had to turn my way. No way I could keep hitting casino after casino and not have at least a little taste of victory!

I have to say – I also like Flamingo – though, like IP, I can’t say why. By time we got there, everyone was hungry. We mobbed some pizza joint and grubbed down quickly. Then, it was on to try Jackpot Party.

Sigh. No luck.

OK. Time to switch it up, I had to give the tables a try. I walked around and found some of the crew banging it out at a BJ table.

Ooops. I lost $300 in ten minutes.

OK, back to the slots.

Ouch. Nothing.

Back to the tables. How about some nice Let It Ride with Whale Jo . . . he was betting $75 per spot . . . I went for $25 . . . .

You can write your own ending here – nothing.

I think the crew lost as well and they took off back to the Mirage. Whale Jo and I were not done – we felt we had one more casino in us . . . Bill’s.

I just had to put my head in my arms for a second as I write this – why why why why WHY did we go there!

All the nice bills that had been keeping my pocket heavy during the day were mostly gone. I was quite buzzed. I knew I wasn’t going to win.

Yet I played and got played. I found some dirty machines in the back corner of Bill’s and like some washed up rat, huddled against one of the machines and started sticking 5s, 10s and 20s into it . . . I was out of large bills.

It took longer to put those bills into the machines than it took to lose them.

I looked over at Whale Jo . . . by the defeated look in his eyes, I could tell he was in the midst of a money flush.

It was time to go.

I would not find victory this session.

It was time to go back, get cleaned up, meet the crew in the suite for a little gathering, and then dinner at Piero’s.

I knew things would get better.

And , boy, did they.

I sat back, cracked open a Miller Lite from the mini-bar and closed my eyes. It was coming to an end. In less than 24 hours I would be leaving Vegas . . . I was just hoping not to go out a loser.

Slowly, the crew filtered into the suite and the beer and liquor flowed. The plan had been to sit down and play a poker tourney, but I think the hours of being beaten down by the casinos had tempered the collective enthusiasm for a group gambling escapade. Instead, we relaxed in the expanse of the suite’s living/dining room. I swear if you took a black and white picture of us all in there it would have looked like something from the good ole days . . . bottles of premium liquor, expensive threads, and a smoky toxic haze blanketing the room.

At this juncture of the story, I wish I could regal you with tales of hookers, drugs and rock and roll, but the mood was subdued in the suite and any craziness would have to wait until later.

Finally, it was time to head to dinner. As I’ve mentioned before, we were going to Piero’s. We had some concern heading to this place that we might be in store for another disappointing meal – reviews are definitely mixed.

Piero’s is very close to the strip – it’s located somewhere behind the Wynn – but that’s about all I can remember direction-wise. Much like Casa Di Amore – the outside is nothing special – though I did note a lot more high-end cars in the parking lot.

Walking into Piero’s was a pleasant surprise. Old school through and through. Dark, leathery and full of Italian flavor. When you first enter, there is a bar on your immediate right that I think was allowing people to smoke. There was also some old school band playing and a smattering of people dancing. Festive.

As you continue forward into the restaurant, your first impression might be that it’s a bit “tight” – that is, the tables all seemed to be jammed together. After the previous night’s sucky dinner at SW, I felt a slight pang in my gut. But, for whatever reason, the relative closeness of the tables did not bother me.

We sat down and some exotic looking waitress came over to take our drink orders. She was followed by a waiter with an amazingly bouffant hair-do. He was no nonsense and made everything sound very very good.

Word to the wise here – if you order any sort of cocktail here, be prepared for a man-sized serving. Chaz ordered a Maker’s Mark on the rocks and I swear they poured him half the bottle.

Anyway, a quick run-down on the food order:

Appetizers:

Fried Mozzarella - I give this an 8/10. It was perfectly golden, perfectly melty and perfectly artery clogging. The only downside, if you want to call it that, is that the portions are too big. They are about the size of a slice of pizza.

Calamari – 9/10. Perfectly fried and tender. These were absolutely delicious. Only reason there isn’t a ten here is because the serving size was just a shade small. No biggie – but if you are going to get a perfect score, you need to be perfect.

Stone Crab: On the night I ate them – 10/10. However, the next morning I woke up with some nasty stomach thing and I think it was because of these . . .

All in all – wonderful appetizers.

Soup:

I may be imagining this, but I think I might have had some lobster bisque . . . .I feel as if it is a part of some disjointed dream – so if I did, it was that good, if I didn’t, I need to find the rest of that dream inside my head.

Salad:

Caesar. Eat your f-ing heart out Wynn. The Caesar here was kick a$$. Perfectly proportioned dressing to green stuff ratio – if a tongue could orgasm, mine certainly did (quietly of course).

Main Course:

Forget about it. I think I can still recite from memory what the table had: Veal Parm, Veal Parm, Osso Bucco, Veal Parm, Veal Parm, and Bone-in Veal Parm.

Forgetting for a moment that we probably ate an entire baby cow, this meal had to have been made by angels. It was THAT good. I remember my first bite like it was yesterday. I held the fork tentatively – not quite sure what portion of my bone-in parm I should touch first.

As an aside, please note that if you go here, the bone-in parm is not on the menu – you’ll have to ask for it by name – only problem is, I don’t know what that name was . . . “The Rack” . . . “The Bone” . . .something along those lines.

So back to the story, there I was, fork poised to strike, I figured a piece of flesh close to the bone would be a good choice.

Jackpot.

10,000 different emotions ran through my mouth and infused my body with an unparalleled culinary experience like none other. First came the crunchy, salty, oh so good coating . . . .I wish I had a coat made out of this that I could wear to movies and eat during the really scary parts . . . or maybe a hat I could wear on really cold days and share with my pet bear – I dunno – it made me want to do bad things. Then came the first bite into the meat. I’m sorry – I know what I was eating, I know how bad it is . . . god of cows, please forgive me . . . but my goodness, oh MY goodness. I wanted to write poetry . . . with a feather . . . in ink made out of gold. Oh so tender . . . just a little resistance . . . and flavor to warm the coldest of hearts.

That is to say, it was G-O-O-D.

Mix all the above with a kick a$$ sauce, and, ladies and gentlemen, you have one of the best meals in Vegas.

I believe there were sides served with all this – but I was too busy gnawing on the bone to really notice or care.

Once this epic dinner was concluded, I had a little tiny teacup of a double espresso (just in case I wasn’t amped up enough already).

Total tab, I think was between $700 - $800. I didn’t get a chance to really look at it, because much to our surprise, ole Chaz picked up the tab. How do you like that, the guy is getting his you know what handed to him in Vegas . . . and he picks up the entire dinner. I travel with a great group.

Our plan after dinner was to hit downtown. The only requirement was NOT to go to the Golden Nugget. We went outside to get a cab – but then noticed a dude that, at least to me, looked a lot like Dr. Phil, and was driving an Escalade for hire. Heck, why not, we’d all fit.

We filed in and decided to have him take us to the Four Queens. As we got underway, the driver went off on several diatribes that were absolutely hysterical. Some I can’t even mention on this family friendly forum . . . but a few I can. He talked about his Uncle Eddie and how hairy the guy was (all of this being delivered to us in a thick NY accent). I guess Uncle Eddie was so hairy that his shirts used to puff up and make him look buff from all the hair underneath. Then there was the driver’s take on, er, foreign taxi cab drivers. Something about how they can’t speak English – or at least seem like they don’t, but have no problem telling you they don’t have change for a $50 or a $100 bill. And then there was his take on strip joints . . . I wish I had recorded this.

So, needless to say, we were fully amped up and ready to hit the ground running at the Four Queens.

As I got out of the car and took in the “sights” of downtown, I must say, what is the allure of Fremont Street? It seemed that it was one big gathering of street waifs and/or silly looking teenagers trying to look tough. Wow. Maybe they are all plants so that people will go immediately into the casinos – I dunno. If so, it worked for me.

We stumbled into the Four Queens and prepared to look for a table where we all could sit. Sure enough, we found a single deck table – with a dragon looking dealer. We all pulled out various bills and got ready to rock.

For a while, everyone, including me, seems to tread water. The deck would get hot, then it would cool down. Hot, cold, hot, cold. Eventually, the table got the better of Whale Jo and he hit the eject button. The rest of us stayed.

I had bought in for $300 and started feeling the pressure of trying to get a win. I doubled it, then I went back down to even. Then, I started dipping below $300 . . . when I got to $150, I shoved all in. I won. Back to even. Then, liking that little success, I put in another $150 . . . won. Hey, look at me! This continued for a little bit, until I finally was up about $600. I walked.

Then I got paranoid. I could feel the pressure of the casino’s siren song . . play . . .play . . . play . . .

Thankfully, I ran across Whale Jo cracking out on a 50-play VP machine. He had it on full speed and was dumping money at a mind-numbing pace.

“Jaco, watch this”

He pressed buttons and lost a lot of money.
I can’t remember if he was playing $1 or .$25 hands . . . didn’t really matter, things weren’t going well.

I noticed an old guy sitting next to him playing as well – but he was doing the exact opposite. He was playing .01 per hand and had it on the slowest level possible. Grinder.

Finally, the money in my pocket had to come out, I stuck a bill in one of the multi line VP games.

Three tens!

I think the total payout was around $300.

I was up $900!!!! Hooray!

I put a lid on any more gambling downtown. I had to get out of there. I knew if I stuck around, I would lose. I wanted nothing more than to take my minor victory and stick it in the safe and go to sleep. I’ve been in this situation before and I knew, given the chance, I would blow it, and all the rest of the money in my pocket.

I walked back to the BJ table, most of the crew was still there . . . with long faces. Turns out I was the only one with the luck downtown. Definitely time to go.

Whale Jo dropped by the table and muttered something about losing and then he disappeared into the night. I wouldn’t see him again until morning.

Double D called us – apparently he had skipped out of the Four Queens at some point and went back to the Mirage. In Slurdistanese, he left a voice message on Buzzy’s phone that Paris Hilton was heading into Jet. We hoped he had not tried to follow her in there.

We caught a cab back to the Mirage. I wasn’t sure what my plan was – I could either call it a night and be glad I had gotten a little of the bankroll back, or I could try for more.

It’s Vegas baby, I had to try for more.

I went back up to my room, shedded my blazer and dress shirt and put on something a little more casual. I grabbed all my cash and headed towards the door. Then I stopped. I’d been down this road. I went back to my safe, peeled off $400, and put all the rest back in its nice envelope. I would make a run with this $400 and see what happened. I did this mostly to prevent melting down at the table games and forcing myself to find some lucky slot machine.

I hit the casino floor and made a straight line towards Top Gun. I shoved $200 in and buckled down. I did OK, nothing earth shattering, actually doubled my money for a little bit, but eventually I cashed out up $100. Good start.

I wandered around for a minute or two before sidling up to some Wheel of Fortune knock off. I lost the $100 profit pretty quickly and cashed out with a $2 profit. Hmmm. Time was running out.

I turned around and spied a “Tailgate Party” machine – very similar to Jackpot Party – but instead of birthday party favors and whatnot – this was all football, beer, pretzels, and other assorted tailgating images. I could dig it. I put my $202 in and hit max credits.

$45 a spin.

Ooops.

I hit spin again. Nothing.

I decreased the credits down do $9 a spin and treaded water for a while. Then I hit the bonus round. Wow – this was cool in a it-was-2 a.m. – and –I was-super-drunk sort of way. Basically you choose a football play and hope that a large number is underneath it and that you advance your team 80 yards down the field. For each yard you make, you get $1 x however many credits you are playing – in my case 1. I did OK, I got all the way to the 10 and kicked a field goal. I can’t remember how much I won, because the minute I got back to the main screen, I upped to max credits and washed out everything.

$200 cash left in my pocket. It had to go in.

I spun twice . . . . . nothing.

Then I hit . . . Jackpot Party. I summoned my inner-Brett Favre.

I wish someone had been there to see what happened, because I don’t. All I know is that I kept picking the right play and kept getting first downs and kept racking up credits and eventually . . .

TOUCHDOWN!!!!

Cool – 80 yards = $80 x 5 credits - $400 . . not bad . . .

Only there is some sort of touchdown bonus . . . . the little light on top of the machine was blinking.

I looked down.

$2,900 . . . .


Holy . . .

Wahoooooo!!!! I won, I won, I won!

I looked up . . . nobody was around . . . I felt so happy, yet so tired too. Instead of breaking out in song, I confidently folded my arms together, sat back, sipped on my cocktail and waited to get hand paid.

It felt good.

I took a picture with my cell phone and immediately sent it to a few of the boyz. I got a call from Whale Jo . . he was already back in bed and crapped out. He was happy to know he was getting another 20% taste of the win.

It was time to go to bed.

I met up with Buzzy – turned out he had left a bottle of booze back in the suite, so I took him up there to get it. As we got in the PH elevators, lo and behold who is in there . . .

P-Diddy.

How do you do?

I wish I could say there was more than that – but there’s not. I didn’t have anything to say to him, he had nothing to say to me. We walked our separate ways off the elevator and that was that.

I got to the suite and Buzzy took his liquor. I then laid out 4 $100 bills in front of Whale Jo’s door and took my money, and the money that was in the safe and spread it out on my bed. Not bad.

Then, lights out. This day was done.

Unfortunately, I expected to wake up feeling awesome – instead, I woke up at 6:30 a.m. feeling like I was having a heart attack and an alien crawling through my gut. Oh well, such is the price to pay, I thought.

After laying in bed for an hour or so, I decided to check and see if there weren’t any early flights out of Vegas – nope. I’d have to suffer around until 3ish. Sigh.

The rest of the morning is kind of a blur . . . I remember Whale Jo berating food service for not being able to bring up a pot of coffee and a muffin in under an hour . . . then I remember him ripping into someone with guest services . . . .then I remember hearing him say thank you to someone and then to me, “Dude, it’s all taken care of”

Our room, all room service, and other charges completely comped. Nice job Whale Jo. This worked out to probably around $1500 . . . I think we were supposed to pay $600 a night, and we probably had another $300 in other charges . . ..

And that’s about it. I didn’t go on any major morning bender- mostly due to stomach issues – I did play one video poker machine and made another $50 . . . that put a smile on my face . . .I was leaving on a high note.

Thanks for reading.


Las Vegas: June 2007 Trip Report


Summary & Ratings:
  • Hotel: Wynn - Resort Room (10)
  • Restaurants: Zoozacrackers (Wynn) (6); Okada (Wynn) (9); Golden Steer (.001)
  • Casinos: Wynn (10); Riviera (0); Sahara (7); Venetian (4); Bellagio (6); The Palms (6)
  • Games: Blackjack; Let it Ride; Video Poker; Slots; Craps; Race Book
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Having just been to Vegas in April, I fully did not expect to return for at least six to twelve months. Would I go sooner if an opportunity presented itself – absolutely. And that, my friends, is where this story finds its beginning, middle and end – a wonderful opportunity that fell right into my lap . . . one of the best birthday gifts ever.

Let’s start with the players – this was definitely not a trip with the crew, only one of them made it this time. Ole $5k, Mr. Whale Jo in more recent episodes, was the crew representative on this trip. We also were lucky enough to travel with two beautiful, sexy, smart, playful, and very fun women. This put a slightly different bent to the trip – but one I’d welcome anytime. Their presence in Vegas added a whole new dimension that I’ll not soon forget. I’ll need names for them . . . just not sure what. Don’t think they’d like Chick One and Chick Two . . . I guess I’ll come up with the names at some point while I write this TR.

On with the show.

Pre-flight

Small issue – seems my name matches someone else who is on a TSA watch list. What does this mean? It means every time I book a flight, I cannot print out my boarding pass at home and must check in with an agent at the airport. Same thing usually happens, I give my ID, the agent thinks they’re just going to print out a ticket, but then a little red flag pops up on their computer. This happens right at the moment they are trying to hand me my ID back – and then they promptly pull it back. Some agents are used to this and handle it with aplomb – others get quite flustered and try and mask what is really happening – “Uh, sir, there’s a problem with my computer, I’ll be right back.” Then they scurry off to security and run my info through the “system”, which I’m proud to say, comes out CLEAN. So anyway, I got to impress my lady guest with this – I think she secretly found it sexy that I might have a dark pass – though she didn’t buy my line about being ex-CIA.

So we go through this charade and then proceed to a bar to lube up the mechanics before boarding the plane. Whale Jo was with us and added to the nice pre-flight banter that goes well with overpriced and overwatered airport drinks.

Flight

No first class – but only a couple seats behind, so good enough. Flight was uneventful – just the usual airplane gambling between Whale-Jo and myself. Tried to do a Suduko contest – but that’s just too much thinking on a Vegas trip. We settled on no limit Hold Em, seven-card stud, and eventually some hybrid monkey game that cost me most of my $1 juice bills. Costly, but fun.

I’m sure most of you know that this time of year, flying into Vegas is like riding a bucking bronco. Obviously people get a little scared in this turbulence – especially when you see the cragged peaks below that would rip open the plane like a rusty can of tuna. Making matters worse on this flight? The stewardess who thought she was being funny by coming over the loudspeaker in an ominous voice and saying, “Having fun yet?” – if she had somehow followed that up with music from Phantom of the Opera, I think I would have wet myself.

Plane landed fine, end of story.

Airport

Nothing new here – same anticipation that I feel on every trip – just want to get through as fast as possible. Whale Jo’s companion was meeting us in baggage claim. We found her, got our bags, and met our driver. Part of the reason for going on this trip had to do with Cinevegas – one of our group has, er, “connections” (I’m trying to be purposefully anonymous here) and it allowed us a bit of inside access to this – including a free ride in a nice brand new Escalade from the airport to Wynn (Whale Jo and his gal were staying at the Palms – that’s where the main film stuff was happening).

Arrival and Beyond

OK, after getting baggage, getting semi-lost, the driver got us to Wynn. This was my first time staying here and I didn’t know what to expect. I’d gambled here before, read the good reviews, but really wasn’t prepared for what we got – excellence all around. This property makes the Signature look like the Motel 6 – seriously – I don’t think I’ll be staying anywhere else on future trips – which I kind of like – I think it’s about time I found a home base in Vegas. And what a home base this is.

Most of you have been there by now – so I won’t bore you with the details of color schemes, walkway design, airy light spaces, etc. Bottom line – I think this is the nicest property in Vegas.

In any event, check in goes smooth and we finally get to go to our room. Having just been gravely disappointed by the Signature, I didn’t have too high of hopes for the rooms at Wynn. I expected something nice, but nothing to the scale of what I walked in. Beautiful. We were in a Panoramic room up on the 52nd floor with a view overlooking the golf course – absolutely stunning. Unfortunately, time was short, so we had little time but to get the bags down, put money in the safe, and hit the ground running. Destination: The Palms. We had a private function at Ghostbar that we were supposed to hit. I think it was about 4:30 p.m. at this point – surprisingly, no cab line at the Wynn. More importantly, traffic between the Wynn and Palms was light and we made it there in about ten minutes.

Did I mention that up to this point I had yet to gamble . . . that has to be a first . . . two hours in Vegas and not a bet laid. Needless to say, I could feel myself starting to get twitchy. Luckily our friends weren’t quite ready when we got to the Palms and me and my gal had time to sit at a VP bar and chit chat and gamble. I gave her some cash to play around with and I stuck a $100 in the machine. God that felt good. As I became comfortable with my surroundings I began to get a grip on the Palms vibe – “low roller frat boy heaven” – as Whale Jo puts it. Hmmm. Better check my driver’s license – not sure I’m in that demographic anymore. Whale Jo had a funny story about being made fun of in the elevator by some young guns . . .something about seeing him at the slots at 5 a.m. . . though now that I type that out, it doesn’t sound funny and I’d like to go back there and give those joes an Inglewood Jack . . . OK . . sorry . . . off topic.

Nothing eventful happened on the VP machine – I almost lost the $100, but as Whale Jo and Whale Joette (trying out names here) walked up I hit a string of payoffs and was able to walk away even. I took this as a major sign that things would be going good.

It was time to hit the Ghostbar – I think the event was the Hollywood Reporter party – I hadn’t ever been up there, so I was kind of excited to see what was going on (and who might be there).

After getting our ID and passes, we were ushered up the elevators to our destination. Walking out of the elevator and into Ghostbar I almost lost my lunch – the view. Wow. If you don’t know, Ghostbar sits almost at the top of the Palms. The inside bar area is OK, but it is the open air deck outside that is really cool. The view of Vegas that high up is incredible. So the four of us merged into the crowd. Most people there were associated with Cinevegas in someway – a director here, an actress there. The heads of Sundance were there checking out the show . . .Dennis Hopper showed up – unfortunately I was getting drinks at the time and didn’t get a chance to catch up. Spoke with the writer of Babel – what an intense looking dude. Met some other people – definitely a fun crowd.

So we ripped it at the Palms for about two hours and then Whale Jo and I decided it was time to show our gals some of the Vegas we experience on the boyz trip. Next stop: Sahara.

Of all the old school properties left, this is the only one that is on my “must visit” list. It still has some life left in her.

Really, the action is pretty good, most of the dealers are personable, the clientele is fairly jovial, and it’s just dark and dirty enough to bring out your inner pimp. Plus, it really doesn’t take a whole lot of action to get the attention of the pit bosses and seem like a real whale. Exhibit One – my friend Whale Jo. Watching him lay $100+ bets at the Casino War table was something special. As he tells it, at one point, after milking six hands in a row and accumulating a nice brothel of benjamins, he attracted the attention of not one or two bosses, but had five or six of them circling around his action. I believe he was told by a casino host that “whatever” he wanted he could have. He asked what the suites were like . . . and was told they sucked. Oh well.

I think I did well enough playing some blackjack. My gal went off to the craps table – something she never really has done before, but by the end of the trip was a craps junkie. I went and tried, yet again, to extract money from the Monopoly machine. Curse you Mr. Monopoly – curse you!!!!! It just isn’t fair how you look so innocent, look so fun and yet are so wrong, so dirty, soooooo bad. I swear the Monopoly games are programmed exclusively to make me feel like I have a rusty saw cutting into the webbing of my toes with a little green toad pouring salt into the cuts.

Sorry, I indulged too much in creative license there.

Anyway, some of my hard earned money left me and I got up and made my way over to my gal to explain how much of a moron I was. That was fun.

Thankfully, it was time to go to dinner. Destination – Okada. Which also meant, some gambling at the Wynn.

I’m sitting here desperately trying to remember how I got from the Sahara over to the Wynn . . . I can’t. I hate that. I know as soon as I get this part of the report posted, I’ll remember. I’m certain I did not walk, did not drive, did not take a bus, did not take the monorail, and I definitely did NOT fly. I think we took a cab, check that, I know we took a cab. I just can’t remember if this was the trip with the Russian driver who imports cars to some area in Russia around the Black Sea. No, that was later.

Anyhoo, we got back to the Wynn and I felt elated. We had about ½ hour before dinner, so we got some chairs at the bar in Okada and drank. I’m mostly a beer and wine guy, but I stepped out of my shell and went for a Macha-tini . . . .at least that’s what I think it was called. All I know is that it had green tea, sake, some other stuff and looked like chopped up grass juice. But it was gooooood. I mean so good I wish I could have slept with it good. Unfortunately, also very strong. So I had two.

In between drinks, Whale Jo and I decided to get a taste of the gambling floor – our gals were chatting nicely together, why not step outside and see if we could make enough for dinner? We stumbled over to a VP bank of machines and put in a bill apiece. Next thing you know, lucky ole Whale Jo hits something and cashes out for $800 . . . wow. I, on the other hand, lost. Not wow.

As we headed back to the bar, I noticed people had begun to line up for something about twenty-five feet or so away from the entrance to Okada. Turns out these hipsters were waiting for Tryst to open . . . . and bejesus, by time the doors were open that line was long and full of good looking people. Maybe something to hit next time.

We got back to Okada and found our tables were ready. What a great setting – seriously – this place had a nice zen, peaceful, you’re not in crazy Vegas anymore, kind of feel. As best as I recall, we had some sort of half booth that allowed me and the girls to sit on some comfy type bench seat, while Whale Jo had the pilot’s seat at the head of the table. Our view was of the lush gardens and waterfall outside the restaurant – if you’ve only seen pictures, they don’t do it justice. I could cry.

Our server shows up – a real nice fella – looked like he just finished a run in a half pipe at Park City . . . yet wasn’t dressed in ski clothes. Not push – which I like, but full of good ideas if asked. Drinks were of course ordered. I opted for my favorite sushi drink – beer, straight up. Turns out Whale Jo’s gal was a hot sake fan (as am I), so that was added into the mix as well. Let’s just say at this point the engines are firing on all cylinders, plus an extra three or seven. Now it was time to order.

I’m not gonna lie to you, I like to go large with sushi ordering. Couple that with the buzz and vibe of Vegas . . .forget it. Game over.

I looked at the menu a little while ago to see what exactly I ordered and here it is:

Appetizers:

Robata Grilled Alaskan King Crab . . .extremely savory. You want the taste of crab with a bit of robust mushroom type overtones. . you’ve found it here.

Lobster Toba-Yaki with Garlic Soy Emulsion. Yikes – sounds intimidating, but forget it, this was another home run. Especially the cooked sea urchin – I could close my eyes and feel like I was sitting at the bottom of some rocky bay with cold brackish water.

Spicy Popcorn Rock Shrimp . . . for years now I have been looking for and trying recipes that would create the perfect popcorn shrimp . . . that task is done. This was so good we ordered more.

Kobe Beef Carpaccio . . . gotta have some raw cow with the raw fish right? Absolutely – the cooked quail egg added just the right amount of contrast that made this dish a freakin’ delight.

Sushi:

For my money, the sushi was the absolute best part of this meal. I swear there were still muscle twitches goin’ on with my fish – that’s how fresh this was.

Japanese snapper – very light, with a hint of the sea – probably would have been better if I ordered it sashimi style. . but still awesome.

Toro Chu and Toro Oh . . . Oh yes. The more delicate part of the tuna . . . you get a little more fat content with these pieces which gives it a richness that envelopes you like a silk blanket of taste bud nirvana.

Tuna – the little stepsister of the mightier Toro pieces – so red, so fresh . . . I almost started barking like a seal when I ate this.

Salmon – though I love fishing for this species, I’m not the biggest fan of eating it, usually. The pieces I had here only had the faintest wisp of salmon flavor – just enough to remind me what I was eating, not enough to overpower me to the point where I’d want to be called Brother Bear.

Kampachi – Baby Hamachi . . . I can’t even find words for this one . . . I know people say kids shouldn’t be in Vegas, but thank goodness for these little guys – I don’t even think I bothered picking them off the plate . . . I just pushed my head down and ate pig style.

I also had albacore and yellowtail . . . but I’ve run out of superlatives. They were good.

The only black mark on the whole dining experience was some off the menu dish that the waiter pushed. He did such a hard sell . . . came up to the table and told us, “Hey guys, I really wish the main chef was here because he does this incredible dish that I know you would love . . blah blah blah” He goes on to describe this concoction where the chef puts some miso sauce in a brandy glass, burns it with a mini-torch, lays tuna on the smoking mess, then covers the glass with parchment. We had to get it.

I almost threw up.

But, when the waiter comes back and asks how it was? “Oh, that was the best dude, thank you!” Whale Jo and I caught a little flack for not being honest – but why tilt the ship at that point.

My saving grace – I ordered one last thing – uni (sea urchin). When uni is good, when it is fresh, I don’t think there’s anything better. Okada’s uni was orgasmic. Seriously. If this board didn’t have family value posting requirements I would extrapolate . . .expand if you will . . . rise up and tell ya’ . . OK . . . hopefully you get the picture.

Check came to something near or over $600. Someone else paid. I am truly blessed to have such good friends.

Now it was time to get my game on.

“We’ll raise up our glasses against evil forces, singin’, whiskey for my men, beer for my horses!”

Have you ever had one of these moments in Vegas? Commonly happens at a blackjack or craps table, where for one shining moment each player is united in extreme good luck, I mean really good luck, like where you all simultaneously win for an extended run. Then, when it ends, you just feel like you’ve been through battle and you want to join hands with these fellow gamblers and yell out some cheese ball song lyric in unison and . . . .

Naaaaaah, me neither. Unfortunately, ‘Beer for my Horses’ was playing on my iPod and that was the visual going through my mind.

So back to the trip.

Dinner was finished at Okada. It was time to gamble . . . at least it felt like that is what I should do. I should tell you that a piece of me wanted to see if I could get into Tryst and see what the dealio was. As we passed by this line, I noticed every once in a while a small entourage would be lead by some formal looking person and completely bypass the line. I wanted to do that . . . . . . but the allure of gambling was too strong. Maybe next trip involves some clubbing . . . (wow, as I type that word, freakin’ Culture Club pops up on the iPod . . . now I am envisioning myself at Tryst . . . lights dark . . . fog rising . . . . then bump bump . . . .the music goes off the hook and I’m flying across the dance floor doing the worm . . . ).

As I fingered through the crisp bills in my wallet, I couldn’t help but feel like a momma bird getting her babies ready to fly. I felt sad knowing I probably wouldn’t see these guys at the end of the night . . .and at that point, yes, I should have gone up to the room, but even the loser’s attitude couldn’t deter me.

First, I had to take care of my gal – she was ready to start playing craps, so I peeled off some dough and watched her glide to one of the $25 craps tables. I silently whispered a gambling blessing and began the task of finding something worth losing my money on.

At this point I caught Whale Jo out of the corner of my eye . . . wow, he’d gone straight from neutral to sixth gear. Black chips, money plays, the dude was hitting it big time. At some point during his run he had garnered enough interest that he got a Wynn casino host to come over and give him his card. Tight.

As for me? The night just wasn’t on my side. I was extremely slow from the Okada feast and, frankly, was thinking more of getting to bed. I actually do not remember any specific gambling feats of strength (or weakness) . . . that is, unlike previous trips, I never laid out a bet bigger than $50 . . . maybe $100 . . . I was very proud of this fact. However, even $100 bets can add up over time and come midnight or 3 a.m., my little birdies had indeed left the nest and I couldn’t stomach the thought of going up to my room and taking more cash from the safe. Part of this had to do with my gal – well, let’s be honest – it had everything to do with my gal. She had managed to make about $400 at the craps table – not bad for her first real run at the game. Also, she was looking incredibly sexy.

I, er, um . . . let’s skip ahead.

Hello morning! Ahhhh, nothing like having the sweet sound of a back up beeper crawling into your head and violently shaking each and every dehydrated blood vessel in your brain. At least it was sunny. And, well, what do you know, I wasn’t alone.

To be honest, the construction sound didn’t really bother me at all. There was no way I was going back to sleep – I was in Vegas and wanted to get back to the action ASAP. But, my body didn’t want to cooperate, so I ended up laying in a near catatonic state from about 6:45 a.m. – 8:45 a.m. Thank the Vegas gods, but I had the miracle of miracle recoveries at 8:45 a.m. – the hangover just vanished. Don’t know why – don’t care. I had a new lease on the day (this also meant I didn’t have to go through what is becoming an increasingly long Vegas hangover cure ritual . . .)

We ordered some incredible room service. Me, I had the eggs benedict, side of bacon, wheat toast, cranberry juice, and berry smoothie with some sort of energy supplement stirred in. I smothered everything in butter and inhaled it. She, she had something else that I can’t remember – but I know she liked it. We sat right by the window, overlooking the golf course, watching the morning sun begin its baking cycle of the Las Vegas environs. Life was, heck, is good. I’ve just got to make a quick comment on the eggs . . . I think they were cooked by magic unicorns – they were that good, that perfect.

After breakfast, it was time for a quick clean up then a call to Whale Jo and his girl to see what their plans were. There was some initial thought of spending the day at the Palms in a cabana, but we opted for the more relaxed atmosphere of the Wynn. They’d come over and meet us in a few hours.

I quickly called the pool to see if they had any cabana openings . . . . I wanted to see if the charm of Jaco could somehow swing us a deal . . . I also called Whale Jo and mentioned he should call his new host to see what he could swing . . . . I figured the double team would have to work.

It didn’t.

But, we did get lucky – with a quick tip to the pool boy, he was able to direct us right to the last four chairs sitting in the shade and in a relatively private spot. If you are going to the Wynn pool anytime soon, head straight back towards the European bathing section, as you get close to the outdoor bar/casino, take a quick left . . . the seats are right against the back of the bar wall. What’s so good about this spot? You get the benefit of the misters inside the bar area . . . the overspray tends to hit the chairs.

“Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.”

- Walt Whitman

What is it about Vegas that has the sun put on its high beams? My goodness, put an ant under a magnifying glass and you might start a nuclear reaction with the amount of heat generated.

That’s a few of the thoughts running through my head as my gal and I headed from the relative comfort of the air-conditioned Wynn to the outside pool area . . . a full panoply of sun worshipers and hangover dodgers. Though crowded, there were plenty of areas around the pool where you could indulge yourself in relative anonymity. As I described in my last trip report, I think the best spot is right against the outdoor bar/casino.

As we settled into our chairs, and thankfully underneath the shade of some tree, I couldn’t help but smile. This was nice. Really nice. The only thing that would have made it better was being in one of the hundred or so empty cabanas. Unfortunately, I was not able to get one of these for this trip – but I don’t quite understand how the hotel could say none are available, yet as I walked up and down the pool promenade, there were dozens of empty spaces . . . . oh well, nothing really I could do about it.

This was a brand new activity for me – relaxing during late morning hours in Vegas. Usually, past trips had Whale Jo and I speeding off to go on a casino hunt – trying, usually to get a jump start on the gambling day to try and recoup the previous night’s losses.

Not this time. Nope, I just had lay there, sip cranberry juice . . . .and . . . and . . that was it. I think I almost turned into a statute, not sure, but possible.

Eventually, Whale Jo and his gal gave us a call from the Palms to say they were on their way over. I hopped out of my chair after a few minutes and made my way towards the entrance. Yes, friends, I was going to get these non-paying resort guests into the pool area.

I arrived just as they were getting some serious attitude from the pool security guard about not being able to enter the pool area without a valid room card. I coolly slid up and flashed my Red Card like I was a seasoned CSI veteran.

“Sir, they’re with me” I looked him straight in the eye, flashed the “don’t give me any bull shid, or I’ll have your job” look, followed by a curt nod, in which I implied I was giving him his answer.

“Um, OK, go ahead.”

I smiled, “It’s OK?” I feigned an innocent, “sorry for the trouble” face. He nodded, away we went.

Whale Jo and I had discussed this earlier, but the plan was to leave the ladies at the pool, and we were going to finally hit the casinos. Of course we had both pre-arranged clearance for this activity from the gals . . . I believe they were most appreciative. To be honest, I don’t think my girl had any desire to start gambling before dinner and really wanted to just relax and sit by the pool. Win win.

So, we got our beautiful companions situated. . I made sure to let them know to put anything they wanted on the room . . . and Whale Jo and I made our way out of the pool area and towards the casinos.

Where to go . . . where to go.

The answer came to us as soon as we stepped out of the midday sun . . . . Wynn. A number of factors contributed to this ultimate decision . . . we didn’t have to walk or cab anywhere . . . it wasn’t crowded . . . we both loved the atmosphere of the casino . . . and the Belmont was going to be running in a few hours . . . better to be near a race book close to home base in the unfortunate event that the adult gaming activities caused me to part with my new day’s bills.

So, we walked around. Again, I found myself exercising incredible restraint. No large bets, no huge extended money sucking stays at a blackhole table. At some point, we started doing some bump and runs on $1 and $5 slot machines. Putting a couple bills in and waiting until we hit something, cash out, repeat process, watch profits come in.

We tread water doing this for a bit. Then I think I saw something click in Whale Jo’s eyes – he needed some big action. Sure enough, at some point walking between machines, he left for the tables . . . . things didn’t go so good. I found him sitting solo at a $100 baccarat table . . . .laying wads of bills down. . and losing. Laying yellow chips down . . and losing. Ouch . . .I’d been there to a lesser extent before . . .but this was a major meltdown. Yowza. As he got up from the table, he looked like one of those characters in a horror movie where all the blood’s been drained out and replaced with ants. It was spooky.

It was at this point where we decided to try and cool things down. Nothing says cool down like hitting a $5 VP machine. Heck, I’d graduated to playing $25 BJ . . .why not spend $25 per pop on VP? We pooled our money together and I stuck in $105. I’d have 4 chances to make something happen. Funny enough, I did. Two pair here, a flush there, throw in a full house and suddenly I’m up. I give Whale Jo some walking around money to see if he can’t hit it on the tables and I continued my quest.

I found myself thinking I was in some magic machine land where it was just me and this bank of VP machines . . . I knew there were a select few in the bunch that wanted me to play . .. . . but, there were others that were ready to crack me faster than an acorn in a squirrel’s mouth. What to do? Discipline. I would cash up if I got up $50 or $100 and cash out if I lost more than $50 . . . this was going fine . . . I was at about $300 when BAM . . . 4 of a kind. Sure, I’ve gotten this hand playing good ole $.25 poker . . .but $5 a credit? Oh yes baby . . . . bring on the benjies. I did a little tiny happy dance . . .nothing fancy, just a little hybrid hokey-pokey/tango/salsa move that I’m working on for the next time I’m at a wedding and have too much to drink.

I played some more, won some, lost some, and finally cashed out at around $1000. I took the ticket over to show Whale Jo that I had earned a nice little profit . . . .but he wasn’t quite ready to leave the tables, so I went back to the machines. Good luck strikes again. I cash out around $1,400 . . . now I really want to take the money and run. But Whale Jo comes over and says that I’m hot and no need to stop now. I agree.

I play.

I lose.

And lose.

And lose.

And cash out a ticket worth $1.25 . . . .

Someone check my underwear please?

Sigh. The only saving grace was, at least as I told myself, was that I had only really lost $50.25 . . . . that other $700 or so never really existed . . .

I looked at my watch. Holy craptown – post time wasn’t far away. No time to lament the loss – the ponies were about to run and it was time to get ‘er done.

Surprisingly, the race book was not crowded – at least the betting windows had no lines. All of the little booths had “reserved” signs on them and were filled with rows of 60 year old men who all looked like they’d flown in from upstate New Jersey.

Whale Jo and I walked up to one of the open betting windows and asked for the race card for the Belmont. The sweet gal behind the window gladly handed over hers. Prior to the race, I had already committed myself to laying money down on the #1 horse . . . don’t know why, but that’s the “feeling” I had. The gal told us that she liked 2, 3, and her sleeper was the #7 . . . the only filly in the race. Between us, we dropped about seven bills on this race . . . I’ll leave you in a little suspense as to whether or not any of the tickets we bought paid off.

We still had a little time before the race, so we stopped in at the nice little café/deli shop that’s right behind the race book. I don’t remember what it was called, but it was the absolute perfect place to watch this race. There are big flat screen TVs that you can look at from virtually any seat and most of them had the race tuned in. I got myself a big ole fat cheese steak, adorned it with some splashes of ketchup, sat back and was ready to watch magic happen.

Or at least that is what I was hoping would occur.

As I sank my teeth into the sandwich, I realized I had not had anything to eat since breakfast, earlier in the morning. It made the sandwich all that more scrumptious. So, there we were, getting some much needed food, sipping on some expensive Miller Lights, and waiting for the race to begin. Man, I love anticipation. Oh, and the meal was picked up courtesy of Mr. Whale Jo’s comps at the Wynn . . . .thank you sir.

All of our race tickets were spread out in front of us . . . I think we were really the only ones in the little café interested in watching the race . . .and then, THEY’RE OFF.

The little space in the café we were sitting in came to life.

“HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARD, RUUUUUUUNNNNN HARRRRRRRDDDDDDDDD!!!!!” I screamed this out as the race got underway.

I watched in dismay as the one horse fell behind the back.

“COME ON DONKEY!!!!! GET IT GOING NOW BEFORE THEY TURN YOU INTO GLUE!!!!!” Not sure that this comment was appropriate, but money was on the line folks. And my dismay turned to despair as the one horse fell even further back.

And then my dismay turned to sheer disgust as I watched the seven horse – the horse I’d been told I should put some money on - - started making its move.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” I ruined a few lunches by screaming at the top of my lungs. I hadn’t bet the seven horse, and the seven horse won.

Sanjaya.

I sat still for several second s and caught my breath . . . oh well, I could easily get that money back . . . .

But I hit the afternoon wall . . . you know, where you just can’t’ seem to muster the energy to go on? Thankfully we got a call from our gals and they were ready to move on from the pool and get ready for the night’s activities.

On tap? A repeat trip to the Golden Steer – which as you may know, did not turn out so well (which should have been no surprise based on my trip there in April). After the Steer? We were gonna try some gaming at Venetian and Bellagio.

I went up to my room, cleaned up, and put on my evening duds. Just some nice silk pants, silk shirt, and a pair of comfortable leather sandals. Most comfortable Vegas outfit I have. I grabbed all the money I had left stashed in the safe and in a loud and proud voice, told my gal, “Saddle up girl, we’re headin’ to the Riviera”

I sold going there based on the idea that it would be great to see this piece of history - real old Vegas - plus a little cheap craps gambling - a game she really started getting into. Mostly though, I wanted to see if I could exercise the demons from last trip when I vomited money in that place.

I couldn't have been more embarrassed of my choice - how drunk was the crew on the last trip that any of us liked this property? Was it dark when we were there? Were we on drugs? JC on a popsicle stick - we walk into the place and are met with an overwhelming stench fog laced with urine - I guess because most of the patrons in there had either wet their pants or were in the process of wetting themselves. Every table was empty and the dealers all looked like someone had cut their nipples off and replaced them with hot pepper tic tacs. I tried a few tables and lost about $20 in chips - but freakin' every loss I got this look like the dealer thought I had just compromised my last mortgage payment on my 1972 Double Wide Vinyl Express . . How bad was this place? One of the dealers was trying to push the freakin' chess championships they had going on. Compounding the problem was asking one of the zombie cashier people whether or not we could walk to the Sahara . . . "Sure, it no problem sir, just two block, two block down, you go, nice nice."

Yah, two blocks that encompass an entire two miles of strip property - 90+ degrees out - and having to endure the anxiety that every person we passed on that walk was going to jack us up if I didn't move off the entire sidewalk into traffic just so he could pass unabated. I can't wait until they blow that place up.

So, out we went into the desert heat and took the long hard walk between the Riv and Sahara. I don’t remember how long it took . . . at some point I began hallucinating that we’d been transported into Escape from New York . . . I half expected Snake Plissken to jump out from behind one of the several decrepit bus stops . . .

But we made it safely, if not a little dusty and definitely sweaty. Ahhhh, the pleasant sanctuary of the Sahara . . . I could tell she was glad to see me . . . . first order of business was to hit the players card desk and find out if I had racked up any cred from the night before and possible from April’s trip.

“Sir, you have $85 worth of credit to use”

Well tickle me Elmo and call me Grover, if that didn’t just put a little hip in my hop. I could now buy my gal and good and proper gift courtesy of the Sahara gift shop. I came out of the players card area, took her hand, and said, “Come on baby, let’s go shopping!”

It’s so funny trying to replay events in my head, at least from my perspective. How much of what happened is the real story versus what I imagined happened versus what I need as filler to continue the story. Next time I’m carrying two things with me at all times: (a) a pocket recorder; and (b) some sort of video recorder I can wear as a hat.

Now that I think about it, you know what I would really, really like? Some way to have a “theme song” played at certain points during the day. This could be a seriously delicious way of making some memorable exits and entrances in Vegas . . . heck, anywhere really.

Jaco strides confidently up to the doors of the Sahara casino. With five gold rings on his left hand and three silver rings on his right, he grasps the desert oasis themed door handles and throws open the doors as wide as they go.

-cue music-

Suddenly, music from Jaco’s teal and rusted crimson blazer pours out.

It’s Dido . . . ‘White Flag’.

Jaco fumbles furiously at his jacket and retreats back out the doors. The music fades. He gathers himself and, again, throws open the doors and strides through into the casino.

-cue music-

It sounds vaguely familiar . . . the song starts quiet, a blend of electronic synthesizers and drum machines . . . .then a British fellow starts talking . . . . then a muted guitar riff . . . ‘I get knocked down . .

‘Tubthumping’ from Chumbawama . . . .

Horrified, Jaco tears the jacket off and goes screaming into the fading desert summer evening.

OK. Sorry, it’s been a week since I’ve written anything and the urge to riff on some creative thoughts crumbling tumbling through my head is too tempting. I’ll try and stay on course for the rest of this report.

Back to it then.

I had just asked my gal if she wanted to go shopping . . . .but of course.

Unfortunately, I had to let her know that with my Sahara credit, our options were, um, limited. I had to remind her that this shopping experience was “free” – she really could get anything she wanted.

Just as long as it came from the Sahara Gift Shop and was under $15.00.
I mean, come on ladies . . . who wouldn’t want that.

The gift shop is all the way in the back of the casino – not sure what the planners were doing hiding this thing so far away, at least that was my thinking before stepping foot into the store.

“What the frick is this place doing here at all.” – that was my thinking after we entered this place.

Fake jewelry. Wow. “Hey sweetie, why not grab that gold covered necklace there – it sure looks good with those ear rings shaped like sea lions . . . or are they turds?”

Get past the fake bling bling (which I actually would not have minded buying and wearing in copious quantities – next trip for sure) and you find yourself perusing aisles of trucker hats, snow globes, Doritos, and collections of refrigerator magnets that wouldn’t hold a post-it to any metallic surface.

I sighed. Well, you gotta make do. So we just started grabbing random stuff. First, the necessities. water. Second, the splurge items: domino sets; random stuffed animals, chocolate; and personal electric hand fans. Yes, hand fans – I wanted to sit at a BJ table, pull the fan out and use my tongue to stop it. I of course would have put a packet of ketchup in my mouth beforehand and then screamed bloody murder as I pretended the hand fan was turning me into a mute.

Um. Let’s continue.

I also wanted a really nice lighter – and by george – I found it. I have it right here in front of me and I kid you not, it’s magic. I don’t know if it’s the fine faux chrome plating that reflects back my image in such a way that I look like an elf, or the six foot burner flame that shoots out of it . . .but I love it. It even has a name – “Chicken”. I love my little Chicken.

I just read that out loud – I need to rethink that name.

So we put all of our stuff on the counter and lo and behold – we were under budget. I can’t remember how much, but I’m telling you I cannot wait until I get back to Vegas and perform Shopping Trip Part Deuce.

I looked at my watch. Yikes. We didn’t have a lot of time . . . just enough to hit a video poker machine. I told my gal I felt lucky.

Well, maybe I would have been if I had not picked a machine right near some dufus talking extra loud on his cell phone about a repo man taking his car the night before.

The dude was pissssssssed. Scary pisssssed.

Thank goodness I was stuck inside a smoke-filled third-tier gambling joint, grinding it out on a video poker machine.

My gal? She was absorbed in a How-To-Play-Craps book purchased with my casino credit.

Ahhhh. Did it get any better than this?

No. Unfortunately, the tail end of this tale probably doesn’t even need to be written. However, I can’t stop myself. Even bad memories can be good ones in Vegas.

So I dump some cash in a video poker machine at Sahara . . . oh well. Thankfully, our time was short and I didn’t have time to engage in a full-fledged five alarm melt down, though as I watched my last credit disappear into the dirty JOB machine, I did feel the strings of self-destruction gently pulling on my psyche, probably just a quiet reminder that the tug could turn into a gaping sucking gravity smashing black hole at any time. This caused a mild coating of temperature cooling, body-odor producing condensation to wick through some of my snappy clothing. Hmm. Time to move to darker environs.

On our way out the door, I told my companion about the Golden Steer. I regaled her with tales of Dom Perignon, the best steak this side of the Colorado, service that would make a queen cry . . . . I also cautioned her that that particular experience had been over a year ago and that one about thirty days prior the Steer had not lived up to the first visit. Nonetheless, I was willing to write off the April experience as a minor blemish, easily curable, no permanent damage done.

For those of you who do not know, the Golden Steer is just about a block off the strip, due west (I think) from the Sahara. It sits in some sort of decrepit strip mall – I couldn’t even tell you what else sits there. We took a quick cab over there and I jumped out and ran to grab the door to open up this place to my lady.

If April was a minor blemish, let me start by saying that June’s visit was a full-fledged Jessica Simpson zit-fest. Forget it. This place is now dead to me.

First, on past trips, it seemed when you entered, you got this feeling of stepping back into old Vegas . . . and if not that, at least a feeling that people were having a good time. Not this trip. Walking in there reminded me of a funeral parlor. Long faces . . . quiet music . . . and a real sense of loss.

Whale Jo, in making this reservation, had told someone on the other line that we were going there for two special occasions and that we wanted the best table they had, plus a bottle of bubbly waiting for us. We were assured that the Frank Sinatra table was waiting for us and that they looked forward to seeing us, again.

When I politely inquired with the check in person . . .nada. No record of any reservation. OK, no problem I thought. There was only one table filled and they looked like zombies . . . I could live with that.

While my gal and I waited for Whale Jo and his gal to arrive, we bellied up to the bar and ordered a couple of drinks. There’s something so not romantic about being in a place that is devoid of any character, devoid of any vibe . . . . I began feeling guilty about having brought her here.

But before I could really do anything about it, in strode our friends. We were taken to our table and our waiter dumped some menus in front of us. We had this particular waiter back in April . . . back then he had been friendly and talkative to a point of being a nuisance. Now, well, it looked like someone had cut his, um, er, delicates off, and was holding them hostage back in the kitchen. No smile, no welcome, just a bunch of tired defeated sighs. Then he just disappeared.

Mr. Depressing No. 2 suddenly showed up at our table to take our wine order . . . then he disappeared. And Mr. Depressing No. 3 arrived asking if we’d like to order any drinks. I said we’d like some wine . . . and he left to get No. 1. No 2 shows up and we order the wine. No. 1 shows up and asks if we want wine . . . we tell him we already ordered a bottle and I am fairly certain he started crying. But, unfortunately, only half the lights in this place were on, so the streaks on his face could very well have been grease marks from him sitting in the back licking the floor clean in order to get his jewels back.

OK, enough. I’m just trying to get across the point that the whole experience was quite maddening. Not mad as in angry, I want to punch my fist through the wall – but mad as in people’s shoes are talking to me and telling me that they need to be untied and set free.

So that is how dinner proceeded – a cacophony of servers, all depressed, trying to make up for each other’s mistakes and misdeeds.

The food? I ordered a NY Strip . . . .medium rare. I honestly have no idea what they served me. Yes, it was a piece of meat. I could tell that from the grizzle and hair still on it . . . and the reddish looking fluid oozing from my first cut. Maybe they were really into free range stuff . . . I tried a bite. Gack. Gack gack gack gack. I couldn’t stop my throat from making this horrible sound. Best I could manage was spitting out the food into my napkin and dropping it to the floor – where I swear I saw other naught-chewed pieces languishing.

One freakin’ bite. That’s all I took and I didn’t even bother sending it back. What’s the point? When one of the waiters finally came to clean the table, he didn’t even bat an eyelash at my full plate. The look on his face more seemed like, “Yup, par for the course – don’t even bother with desert.”

I had to get some air. Whale Jo and I excused ourselves to go sample some fine tobacco products outside. The minute we walk up, some dude drives up in a crashed car – freshly crashed – I could smell the radiator fluid steaming through the bent grill – he looked at us – then dashed off into the darkness. Huh?

It was time to go. I picked up the bill, mostly so I could leave a low ball tip. This was something new for me – generally I tip 20%+ on the entire bill – booze, tax and all. Sometimes I’ll leave a little less if there was a small issue – but usually still 20%. For their pathetic efforts, I left 5%.

So, it was time to get out of there. We got a taxi and decided on our next destination – the Venetian.

The night was alive, despite the negative experience at the Golden Steer. Always the optimist, I fully expected that my lady and I would win and win big. I had even bigger hopes for Whale Jo and his lass.

Unfortunately, the gambling gods had other ideas.

The Venetian blew. Not only did the vibe here completely suck any joy out of the pleasure of gambling, it also sucked the money right out of my wallet.

We got out of there fast and decided to give the Bellagio a whirl.

Yuck. Though Bellagio had a nice little vibe going, the tables and machines were hard set against letting me win. Thankfully my lady had a little luck with some craps and blackjack – always nice to see that sweet smile on her face. I’d happily lose all night just to see that.

So, that closed the night out – me losing, she winning . . . me wishing that I wasn’t leaving the next day.

Morning came fast. My gal went shopping and I decided to try one more run at Mr. Wynn’s VP machines. And what do ya’ know, I got a little lucky. I put a couple bills in the $5 VP machine and turned it into about $800. OK, good enough.

I went over to the Red Card desk to see if I had acquired enough points to do anything – sure enough I had. Not enough to get a free room, but enough to get the regular rate dropped to the casino rate. Another win in my book.

And, that was that. Another trip in the books.

(note – sorry for the quick ending on this – I’m writing the last six paragraphs almost a year after this trip and, believe me, details are fuzzy).