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The Vegas Files (Entry Two)


THE LONGEST MOMENT in your life, as you're probably wondering about it right now, will never compare to the agony in which one suffers when watching a Jetway slowly lurch towards the front cabin door of an Airbus A320, at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas. If getting off a plane in general wasn't already frustrating, it is now akin to what an addict must feel when he/she is feigning. You haven't even set foot off the plane yet and you can already taste the copious amounts of booze and debauchery that will ensue in 3....2....1.

If there every were a moment to trample thy brethren, it is now.

Lady luck, the temptress that she is, already teases you as you step into the Gate area; slot machines know no boundaries and are lined in the middle, next to the airport bar that you are about to hit-up for a quickie to take the edge off. It's not even noon yet. You're now free to be an alcoholic, its acceptable here. No judgement, oh no. Daddy needs his medicine, mama needs her liquid prescription. The desert air is to blame; or the fact that booze here goes down easier than the women. That's what you tell yourself. For the next week your body will know that beer is now water, and a meal replacement. Your body will do anything for you in order to have fun; it will let you know after your stay what an asshole you were to it. Then you will tell your body that you will be good to it from then on in; you're a liar. The human body is fluid. It's a machine. It's adaptable; just like you.

The tingles that you feel all over your skin, when you take that first step out onto the strip, that's pure ecstasy. It's a mystery as to why it happens. You've just been on a plane for 4 1/2 hours from another climate; it could just be your body acclimatizing and adjusting to the altitude change and the 110 °F outside. Or, it could just simply be your body and mind telling you FUCK YA, thank you for bringing me here. Better than that other shit-hole. Or, perhaps, it's from the energy that surrounds this great place. The thousands of people walking down the strip; the good vibes, the yelling and screaming from bachelor parties, the Heyyyyy! sounds from all the aspiring young talent around you. You then nod in agreement to yourself. People then look at you strangely and wonder who the fuck you're talking to and nodding at. It doesn't matter anymore. What matters is where the closest CVS is, or where the cocktail waitresses are with the free beer.

Daddy is here hunny, where you at with ma' beer and $15 yarder? Mandalay Bay, MGM, Luxor, and all the way down to Circus Circus; you hit them all up on the first day. You then realize that there is no rush. You're there for an entire week. It's OK, you just needed to get it out of your system. You're liver agrees with you, but then you think fuck you liver. You're liver then concurs; because it has's a liver. You are also wearing a beater from Boathouse, so anything you say goes. It[your liver] has no say. A beater is male lingerie, yet at the same time screams domestic dominance. It's the best garment, it can say so many things. Suns out, guns out. Why are you even having this existential conversation with your liver anyway? You think you're going crazy, like the homeless people that stand on the walk-ways and near the escalators. You just need to get inside, let the Benjamin's fly.

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