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July 12, 2005
I Do What I Likes & I Likes What I Do
I was in Las Vegas recently. While it would be much
more glamorous to tell you I was there to compete in one of those
poker tournaments that ESPN televises (for reasons I'll never know),
or that Brooke Burke and Jenny McCarthy had called me up and, in
unison, shouted "Go west, young man!" such was not the case. Not that
the poker jackpot wouldn't have been nice (sadly, the only poker rules
I know involve the removal of clothing), or that a scripted party at
the Palms wouldn't have been side-splittingly funny...it's just that
it wouldn't be true. Rather than bore all of us with the mundane
details of tradeshows, exhibits and other industry nonsense, I'm more
inclined to tell you about some of the people I encountered.
A lot of folks play the slot machines, but apparently only dunces play
in the daytime. One such dunce was an elderly woman and her (I assume)
husband. They both appeared to be in their early eighties (this might
not seem so old if you're reading this and are 95, in which case I'd
like you to know that I'm proud of you and your internet savvy self,
so keep up the good work). Anyway, this woman would press the "spin"
button then feverishly rub the screen with a small circular piece of
cloth. In fact, she would keep rubbing until the machine stopped
rotating. I watched for awhile, then asked her what she was doing with
the cloth (as a sidenote, I asked politely, because that whole cynical
jackass thing often falls flat with our senior demographic...trust
me). She claimed, as the husband took another hit off the oxygen tank,
that her cloth had been blessed. I smiled knowingly (knowing that to
continue in this conversation would be a one-way ticket to Crazyville)
and walked away. I could have understood (and maybe even acknowledged)
a lucky cloth, but a blessed one? Who blessed it? I've got a sinking
feeling it was this guy, although I guess it could have been this guy, or even her, but most definitely not him because we are talking about gambling here people.
If you've ever heard the rumor about there being a lot of prostitutes
in Las Vegas, then allow me to confirm it. It wasn't unusual to
encounter four or five on the brief walk from Bally's over to the
Bellagio. How do I know they were prostitutes? Well, that's a good
question (albeit one I'm asking myself). I don't have a special radar
that sounds an alarm when I'm within a certain proximity to venereal
disease, nor do I boldly approach people and inquire about their
livelihoods, so let me break it to you this way: Nice girls will not
walk up to you and start conversations, at least not in Vegas. If you
are approached it's probably not with the intention of sitting down
for a few hands of Old Maid while you each enjoy an ice cold Coca~Cola
Classic, followed by a few rounds of "Father, I Adore You." If you're
in Las Vegas and a girl smiles at you, ten bucks says she's a hooker
(and, to be fair, that ten bucks won't go far). If said girl invites
you to join her and her friend Natasha (my apologies to all women
named Natasha who are not prostitutes) for a few drinks, they're both
hookers, and you're automatically out-numbered. Finally, if either of
these girls suggests "negotiating" (which is synonymous with
"dickering," although I was afraid using that term might confuse a few
of you for obvious reasons) the price once inside your room, then you
should be aware that these girls are not selling Amway. I'll never admit to agreeing with Sting on anything else, but you really shouldn't feel
obligated to either 1) put on the red light, or 2) sell your body to
the night. If, like me, you've never had to pay for sex before,
there's no reason to start just because you're in Nevada. On the other
hand, if you've made a habit of soliciting the services of a
prostitute, look out...one of these days she's going to be a cop, or a
man, so go ahead and take your chances every chance you get.
I would have been glad to only spend one day in Si(lico)n(e) City, but
instead it was five. I flew the red-eye back into Atlanta early (like
12:35am early) Thursday morning, and ended up sitting next to a Mormon
couple in their early twenties. I was against the window, having taken
my seat first, and Kayla and Jeff shortly joined me. Jeff took the
aisle seat and promptly went to sleep, and Kayla (who was traveling
back to South Carolina to visit her family) took her place like most
people who get stuck in the middle seat do...slowly and with regret.
Obviously I didn't know that either of them were Mormons at first
(neither was wearing a white short-sleeve dress shirt with a black
necktie, and neither straddled a bicycle), but when they mentioned
they were from Utah I all but knew. I wanted to ask Jeff where his
other wives were, but thought that might be a bit forward. Kayla and I
ended up chatting for the majority of the flight. As it turned out,
she had gone to high school with a fraternity brother of mine, proving
that, like that damn song says, it is a small world after all. We
talked about God, about Mormonism, about being married in Heaven,
about Monks stealing parts of the Bible and hiding it in caves, about
family and death, the realities of being newly married and paying
things like car insurance, about politics and cigarettes, and of
course we talked about music (a direction that I will always steer the
conversation to eventually). One thing impressed me more than anything
during the time we talked, and that was the degree with which she
embraced her beliefs. I asked a lot of questions about her faith, and
honestly, she believed some pretty wild things (come on...the whole
golden tablets stuff is out there), but she didn't question it. Sure,
we can argue all day long that such firm conviction is the product of
indoctrination, never knowing anything different, or even
brainwashing. But I don't think I can explain away her passion that
easily. I can do what I do best though (because I do what I likes
& I likes what I do), and leave you with a bit of music...
Are you, are you ready for that great atomic power / will you rise
to meet your savior in the air / will you shout or will you cry / when
the fire rains from on high / are you ready for that great atomic
power
| By micah | 5:46 AM