I'm in Las Vegas right now, lounging around by my brother's pool while he works. I feel like a fat Kato Kaelin.
I flew out on Tuesday via Southwest Airlines. Son of a bitch I wish they'd get rid of open seating. I need them to have assigned seating so I can reserve one of the two seats on the entire plane that have enough legroom for someone 6'6", the seats by the emergency exits.
As is always the case, even though I was one of the first boarding groups, the aforementioned seats were already occupied by a midget and a fairy pixie, so I had to cram myself into a spot behind a tiny old man who insisted on reclining his seat on top of me the entire fucking trip. In some countries I think we'd be engaged now.
Two bourbons and two magazines read cover to cover later, we arrived in Las Vegas and I limped off the plane, found a shuttle bus, and went to my hotel for the night, Planet Hollywood.
Planet Hollywood used to be the Alladin, but since a lot of Americans think anyone in a turban is Osama Bin Laden, the invisible corporate monolith that runs Las Vegas changed the theme. Ignorant stereotyping aside, the place has never looked better. It's all shiny and new inside, and that's how I like my casinos. The old school places just remind me of the shitty "riverboat" casinos scattered about the Midwest. Why come to Vegas for that?
Each of the rooms at Planet Hollywood has a "celebrity" theme featuring glass-encased artifacts from the "celebrity's" personal collection. I had the Roger Clemons room. Seriously. Autographed pictures of Roger Clemons were everywhere, and his actual uniform from the University of Texas baseball team was in a glass display case. It's weird to be in a hotel room dedicated to someone you despise, but at least it wasn't the Dane Cook room. But I wonder, since they have no problem honoring an alleged drug user and 15-year-old-girl dater, are there also rooms with Timothy Leary and Roman Polanski memorabilia?
That night I went to Margaritaville and drank like it was my job. I vaguely remember being very friendly to strangers, so I must have been drunk. I then wandered around the Strip in a drunken stupor until I decided it was time to go to bed.
The next morning, after a buffet breakfast that may have saved my life, my brother picked me up from the hotel.
Me: "Thanks for fighting the traffic to pick me up, but I'm still voting for a Presidential candidate who'll raise your taxes."
He: "I wasn't born with enough middle fingers."