Shortly after returning home from NC I got sick again. Yeah, weird. Turns out, letting mold (and probably dust mites) grow all over your apartment is really bad for you. I donned a pair of latex gloves and went to war. The bathroom was won in mere hours, and I took the battle to living room. I was circling the troops for our second major offensive when I ran out of time and had to leave for Kev's bachelor party. The Battle for Middle-Fridge would have to wait.
Vegas.
I arrived in Las Vegas in good spirits but my throat felt like it was on fire, the kind where it really hurts to talk. I met up with my compatriots and discovered that the plans for the night involved some strip club. I had made it clear that I would not be attending any strip clubs, because of something about knowing lots of girls that would disown you if you went to one, or something. However it soon became clear to me that if I refused to go, they would all change their plans just for me--there was no way I could get out of it quietly.
So we went to the strip club. Braskey navigated us on a really long walk through at least several streets that most people do not typically walk on. My plan for the strip club was to find the part of the bar away from the dance floor and just kind of baby some liquor. That plan did not work. The ring of chairs they seated us at seemed designed to make it awkward to talk to your mates or just sit back and stare at the stage unobtrusively. They were, in fact, designed to just put you out there so strippers could easily walk up and start talking to you. Which one did.
Had it happened in real life, I would have been ecstatic. But we were in a strip club, and, like a best buy or radio shack salesman, she was only talking to me because she wanted me to give her some money. Every time I spoke it felt like I was grating glass in my throat, but I was pretty much trapped in the chair answering question after useless question. Where you from, what do you do, blah blah blah. The only thing that could be more awkward than our conversation would be me giving her money and watching her dance right in front of me, so I politely declined that offer and said I was sorry. I looked around. The stage was empty. The bar...I wasn't sure about. In short, there was no where I could really go that would still count as being there. So I continued sitting in my chair. Then a second girl came up to me. This one was cuter than the first, but started stroking the back of my head like she felt sorry for me, and was much quicker to arrive on the subject of me paying her to take off her clothes. I declined again, and after a quick trip to the bathroom (in which I met a towel guy who said he was from Lansdale, who knew?) I noticed that half of my boys were gone. Off, somewhere, I supposed, happily looking at something they couldn't touch. With the troops depleted I thought it safe to take my leave, and got the hell out of there. I later told them that I don't like talking to girls that are paid to talk to me, but that explanation backfired. Fortunately, after a night or two my sore throat disappeared and I was able to immerse myself in the fun.
Vegas seems to have two main activities: paying girls to take of their clothes and get you all hot but not have sex with you, and playing games of chance that you are mathematically guaranteed to lose. I have a hard time getting excited about either of those options. Dinners and shows are fun though, as was the heat. After Seattle's damp coolness (except in my airconditioning-less apartment) some bona fide sun and hot air felt amazing.
There are also people who stand around pushing fliers for hookers at you, and the people with these fliers literally come in like all ages: kids, parents, grandparents, men, women...its like advertising girls that you pay to have sex with you is a family business. I don't know how it works but they are the easiest people to ignore; I would rather walk past a hundred hooker-advertisers than one bum. Speaking of bums, there were not many bums, and the ones we saw were all at the one end of the strip, between the Sahara and the Stratosphere, which I'm told is the old part of vegas. In addition to the bums and people with the hooker fliers, there are other people who just walk around pushing the strip clubs. Walk around with 4 other guys and you will get approached every couple minutes by someone trying to get you to go to a certain strip club, offering free limo rides or free covers. The one that we went to my first night offered neither, and I have a feeling it was far better/cleaner/less sleazy than the ones we received personal invitations for.
Days and nights ran together. Breakfast, lunch and dinner began trading places or repeating themselves. At one point we hung out at the pool, which I discovered for everyone else means they are going to sit near the pool and play with their laptops. I was all for going in, but not by myself; I couldn't even swim laps because everyone in the pool had no interest in doing anything other than stand around sipping their beers. I spied two girls to my right. They looked hot. I wanted to talk to them. I couldn't think of a single thing to say to them, however, other than the obvious "you're hot I want to make out with you" which I've come to understand is something most girls hate. I made a deal with myself that if I'm ever in such a situation and I do think of something to say, I should act on it without hesitation. Then I thought of something to say: "I just wanted to let you know I think you're pretty" or something lame like that. Following my new rule, I immediately got up ten minutes later, but chickened out and started to leave. However, after I dropped off my towel the exit was on my left and my feet took me right, towards the girls, seemingly without any input from me. It ended up being the painful and awkward worst case scenario I had anticipated. I said "hey, whats you're name," looking at one of them at random. Audrey. Then I mumbled something about just wanting them to know I thought they were pretty. As I did so contempt washed over their faces, but the job was done and I was out of there. In the elevator back to my room I decided to abandon my rule about acting as soon as I think of something to say.
After that, or maybe before that for all I know, we rode a monorail. Vegas' monorail is both convenient and awesome, and unlike Seattle's, it actually goes somewhere. We rode it to the stratosphere, where Braskey and I each paid $100 to jump off of it. That was fun. The point at which we jumped was only 800 feet above ground level, and we were in a harness and most of the fall was a controlled, unaccelerated descent. It was more relaxing than anything else. I would have loved to take a nap if it had lasted longer. It was scary, but the scariest part was before the fall: they lead me out onto a rustly old blue metal ledge, and I found myself unable to walk on it without clutching the rails. The person facilitating the jump told me exactly where to hold and exactly where to step and then gave me a countdown, leaving no time for second thoughts. Then I stepped off the ledge, and for a brief moment that lasted less than a second, I was in freefall and the dark expanse of the world lay below me. It was incredible. Then the harness did its job and I "fell" at a pleasantly slow pace down to the landing site. I was hoping that jumping off the stratosphere would help me to develop the ability to run and jump off cliffs without hesitation, figuring that would come in handy someday (remember, James Bond is my role model). Honestly I think it just gave me a fear of 800 foot high blue platforms.
Other highlights of the week included me getting yelled at for not letting certain people "help me" ...with something. I don't remember the specifics, but some people look at my life and see something that needs fixing, and by external parties. This argument reached its climax in the hotel room. Security called the room's phone to tell us to shut up. We weren't even being rowdy. Adam suspects that this old couple nearby called in the noise complaint. Whatever the case, I'm not staying at Harrah's again; thats just unacceptable. And what are old people doing there on the weekends?
Slot machines were everywhere. Slot machines are tacky, gaudy, and irritating, and I am willing to bet that the percentage of fat people that play them, verses the card tables, is higher in a statistically significant way.
If the real life Vegas was more like the one in my head, there would have been far, far far far far far faaaar fewer slot machines, and way more poker, and most of the people at the poker tables would be in super fancy suits, and most of those guys in super fancy suits would be either world-class criminals, or eurospies. There would be club after club full of girls that want to have a good time and there aren't too many guys there and you can talk without shouting just like in the movies.
As it was, though, I can't complain. I saw more attractive girls in four nights in Vegas than I have in a year and a half in Seattle. And when I saw some of them playing blackjack, I finally had a reason to play the game. Nothing is ever a complete waste of time and money if you can meet girls while doing it. Its a pretty boring game, but if I learn it well enough, the average amount of money that I lose while trying to meet girls at the table will be similar to the price you pay in drinks to hang out at some club. And the great thing about blackjack is they don't blast crappy hip-hop music in your eardrums. Plus, if I play long enough I will occasionally hit a local maxima that will lend the appearance that I've "won" some money, which I understand is impressive.
And as far as the strip clubs go, I remember some stuff about how they are supposed to be evil, but honestly, to me they are nothing more than a nude version of Radio Shack. No one seems to be getting hurt in there. The establishments are selling sex, but in pretty much the same way that all of the advertisements on tv and billboards and music videos and movies and even some waitresses do. The strip clubs are simply less deceptive about it: they don't try to sell you the idea that buying an expensive shirt will make you look like a model. They have elected to skip the part where you buy some physical product and ask that you just hand over some money directly. I remember something about these places "objectifying women," but I don't know what that means, and it sounds retarded. I am no longer accepting arguments that sound like something philosophy nerds like to argue about. Also, I can tell you all about objectifying something, and I promise it is no where near as exciting as naked girls are. Is this going to have some other negative effect on my life? I knew what boobs looked like before I went to a strip club, and I still knew what they looked like afterwards. So perhaps not. I don't have any plans to attend more strip clubs in the future, though. Meeting girls there seems even more difficult than meeting them in Starbucks, which is ironic. I'll leave you with some food for thought though. You know that thing about if a tree falls in the forest and no one sees it, did it really fall? Well, if a girl is beautiful, and she's not dating me, is she really beautiful? Could I be any more self centered? Talk amongst yourselves.
Where does this leave me? I have a laundry list of things to do, like start racing cars, and start swimming regularly in the hopes of no longer resembling an xkcd character, and a bunch of other stuff that probably won't get done. I do know I need to plan more vacations. Blackcomb-whistler is high priority for early 2011. I'd like to go to vegas again someday and go to one of those places with fancy pools where girls get in free and guys pay $40. What else? The Battle for Middle-Fridge begins tomorrow. I think I am going to just give up trying to keep a stocked fridge--I am home too infrequently to eat the food before it goes bad. I'm going to like bleach the whole unit, finish throwing all the food away, and then keep nothing in there but some carrots and maybe a bottle of wine. I've been operating on the theory that cooking for yourself must be cheaper than buying all of your food, but that theory probably never took into account how much food I always throw out without eating it, or just how cheap hoagies are at subway.
What else? Its 10:38pm and I am seriously hungry. For which meal I couldn't even tell you.
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