Vegas, baby, VEGAS!
Those 3 words vs. those other 3 words.... hmmm... tough call! Even after having been there 9 or 10 times the anticipation isn't any less. To help convey the feel of Vegas for the uninitiated, an excerpt from a column by one of my favorite writers on the net:
"I'm going downstairs to buy some cough syrup and pills at 3 a.m. Monday. I'm half-asleep, in one of those hazy, surreal, "I'm so sick that I'm not even sure if I'm really awake right now" states. I'm wearing my glasses. Everything's dead-quiet on my floor. I ride the elevator down, the doors open ... and I'm in a casino! People gambling, people cheering, people screaming and whooping it up. It was jolting. You forget, Vegas never sleeps.
Anyway, I buy my cough syrup and end up getting back on an elevator with four people, including a woman who looks like a hooker and asks the guy accompanying her, "What floor are we going to?" Hmmmm.
So, the elevator starts going up and the hooker turns to the guy standing in front of me, who's wearing an Eminem-type club outfit; suddenly she looks concerned, asking him, "Are you OK?"
Eminem turns a little. He's bleeding from the nose, the left side of his face is already starting to swell up and the front of his shirt looks like somebody dumped a quart of blood on it. It's obvious that he just got his butt kicked. As I try to take 15 steps back in a 4-by-6 elevator, he starts mumbling, barely coherent and slurring his words.
"Dgdgsgshshm," he says. "Mdbdgfd fhfhfgs glgkfhjs afsfwds dbcdgdsg shshsg fkfkfdkds mndnsmn."
(Translation: "Yeah, I'm OK. I got sucker-punched at the club I was at. I'm changing my shirt, then I'm gonna go find those guys.")
The elevator stops, the doors open, and Eminem wobbles out, presumably to change, go find his gat and become the lead suspect in the next episode of "CSI." The doors close, and we start shaking our heads.
"He looked pretty messed up," says the hooker sadly. "I hope he's OK."
We have one of those unspoken, "Shaking our head/the world is a crazy place" moments. Then the elevator stops, and the doors open again. "This is our floor," says the hooker's date. He puts his arm behind her and gently pushes her out, but not before she smiles sweetly at me and the other man on the elevator and says goodbye. She's about to go have sex with a strange man and get paid for it.
Now the doors close one final time. The other guy and I glance at each other and start smiling. The guy shrugs.
"Vegas," he says."
"I'm going downstairs to buy some cough syrup and pills at 3 a.m. Monday. I'm half-asleep, in one of those hazy, surreal, "I'm so sick that I'm not even sure if I'm really awake right now" states. I'm wearing my glasses. Everything's dead-quiet on my floor. I ride the elevator down, the doors open ... and I'm in a casino! People gambling, people cheering, people screaming and whooping it up. It was jolting. You forget, Vegas never sleeps.
Anyway, I buy my cough syrup and end up getting back on an elevator with four people, including a woman who looks like a hooker and asks the guy accompanying her, "What floor are we going to?" Hmmmm.
So, the elevator starts going up and the hooker turns to the guy standing in front of me, who's wearing an Eminem-type club outfit; suddenly she looks concerned, asking him, "Are you OK?"
Eminem turns a little. He's bleeding from the nose, the left side of his face is already starting to swell up and the front of his shirt looks like somebody dumped a quart of blood on it. It's obvious that he just got his butt kicked. As I try to take 15 steps back in a 4-by-6 elevator, he starts mumbling, barely coherent and slurring his words.
"Dgdgsgshshm," he says. "Mdbdgfd fhfhfgs glgkfhjs afsfwds dbcdgdsg shshsg fkfkfdkds mndnsmn."
(Translation: "Yeah, I'm OK. I got sucker-punched at the club I was at. I'm changing my shirt, then I'm gonna go find those guys.")
The elevator stops, the doors open, and Eminem wobbles out, presumably to change, go find his gat and become the lead suspect in the next episode of "CSI." The doors close, and we start shaking our heads.
"He looked pretty messed up," says the hooker sadly. "I hope he's OK."
We have one of those unspoken, "Shaking our head/the world is a crazy place" moments. Then the elevator stops, and the doors open again. "This is our floor," says the hooker's date. He puts his arm behind her and gently pushes her out, but not before she smiles sweetly at me and the other man on the elevator and says goodbye. She's about to go have sex with a strange man and get paid for it.
Now the doors close one final time. The other guy and I glance at each other and start smiling. The guy shrugs.
"Vegas," he says."