That's How I Roll
With Christmas on the River safely behind me, there became only one clear choice as to what to do next.
Go to Vegas, baby.
Now, I had been warned about Vegas, how it wasn’t what it used to be in the Ring-a-ding-ding days of the Rat Pack, how the activities were basically geared towards kids, how the Lincoln Town Cars have been traded in for Hummers and Escalades. All of this was of no concern to me. I have made a career of making my own fun and with a group of esteemed loungers from all over the country, we made our way to the desert, the MGM Grand to be exact.
Truth be told, we were all there to commiserate with a friend of ours who was scheduled to be in the throes of matrimony and only had a few more weeks to live. Vegas, in a stroke of originality, was chosen as the place for his last hurrah.
Of course, nothing beats going to Vegas with a bunch of has-beens like myself and my friend Fredo, publisher of the legendary publication Barfly’s Beat. We’re both married, we both hate to gamble and we’d almost always rather be at a nice restaurant than any other place we happen to find ourselves in.
I know this news comes as a shock to many of you. Sure, you pick up this paper each week and you think, “The Parkville Luminary is clearly the biggest and best newspaper in all the land.” Ergo, you might assume, its publisher must live a life of unimaginable riches and glory. While this is true in so many ways, at the risk of shattering some conceptions, let me attest that I am nothing more than a low roller when it comes to the world of gambling.
Last time I was in a casino, I had the misfortune of winning too quickly at roulette. I put down a few crazy bets, they all hit, and within about five minutes, I had turned about $30 into several hundred more. Not knowing what to do with this sort of luck, I looked down at my watch and pretended I had a place to go, tipped the dealer and left the casino, walked across the street to Brooks Brothers and bought a pair of nice silk pajamas and a couple of ties. Then I went back to the bar and played it smug, throwing my remaining nickels around as if they were the size of manhole covers.
That’s how I roll.
So anyway, I’m in Vegas, and the bachelor declares that he wants to go “old school.” As luck would have it, I had packed my road tuxedo and was able to represent. The plan was to have a few drinks (lemonade and ice tea, natch) then hit one of the Vegas “showgirl” type shows.
Wearing a tuxedo in Vegas, even in these dress down times, remains the surest way to have beautiful women come over and talk to you. The problem is that every one of them asks you for directions to the bathroom and whether you work for the casino or not.
Naturally, we were late for the show and had to walk to our front row seats right past everyone. The show actually stopped as we made our way, and the emcee commented that we were just “fashionably late.” Whatever…I felt like I was late for church, the entire congregation looking at me with scorn. Except at church they at least let you have a sip of wine (no drinks for the late arrivals, you know).
No matter. After the show, we retired to a bar (for ice cream, natch) where my sharp journalistic acumen made me immediately skeptical at the interest a few of my friends and I were receiving from the various, outrageously attired and seemingly single women that dotted the room.
“So…what is that you do,” one asked, probably gauging me to set a price.
“I publish The Parkville Luminary,” I replied.
Blink. Blink. Silence.
“Yeah. The bathrooms are over there.”