Monday, January 11, 2016
"Is waterboarding this bad? Maybe I'd like that more than this?" Of course, I'm referring here to the modern atrocity called "no-frills flying." Even the petite old lady to my left was complaining about the crammed conditions of the seating. For someone my size, it was, well, torture. And add to it the hot, recirculated air making me regret wearing winter-ish clothing and leaving me gasping with every stale, microbe-laden breath. Other sucky things: pitifully tiny seat trays, no LCD screens (not that they weren't working, they just weren't there at all) and you had to pay for everything, even soft drinks and water...oh, and they asked for tips on top of that. But, the plane was modern (A320, one of my favs) the staff were nice and it was quick, we got in 25 minutes early. Oh, and did I mention it was cheap? $118 roundtrip non-stop.
I opted to repeat the lazy yet expensive behavior pattern from the LA trip and grabbed a cab to the hotel rather than cheaper options like the city bus or the car rental I'd reserved. $50 and a driver who just wouldn't shut up. This "chatty stranger" theme endured throughout the vacation for some reason, starting with the lady sitting next to me on the plane to some oldster bugging me while waiting at the gate for the return flight home. I must look like someone who gives a fuck. How wrong everyone is.
The intense wave of ciggy smoke enveloped me as soon as I walked through the hotel casino main entrance. Chatty front desk clerk told me all about sleeping on the roof of his house growing up in India. My room was at the top of a flight of stairs accessed from the middle of the casino floor. Bored table game dealers stared at me each time I walked up or down them. They're lonely 'cause the gamblers here stick like glue to the slots. Each of them illuminated by the deathly glow of their machines. It looked like they were zombie slaves forfeiting their life force to their plinking, bleeping, flashing mechanical masters.
The chit-chatty comps desk lady gave me coupons for free beer and free spins. I never did get around to cash in the free beer tickets and when I finally did try to use my free spins promised, the card didn't have them on it. Figures. This sums up Vegas in my mind actually. Nothing in this town comes free. And promises are just empty words with no real meaning.
I stayed at the famous old landmark El Cortez Hotel and Casino near the Fremont Street Experience in downtown Las Vegas. I booked the lowest rate room, a Vintage Room which for all intents and purposes was the equivalent of a Motel 6 room, but with the added "thrill" of the sounds of the casino floor at the base of the stairway just outside my door, the noisy drunken partiers in the adjoining room and a curious windowed "porch" area which didn't look like it was supposed to be a part of the room's features. It had no furnishings, just a pile of dirty maintenance items in one corner topped by a 6-pack of empty beer bottles. The bed was quite comfy though. I didn't bother checking the mattress for signs of bed bugs, wasn't sure what I'd find. The mouse droppings behind the sink base in the bathroom were disturbing enough, thanks.
Now don't get me wrong...this place wasn't as bad as the Motel Capri in New Orleans. It was more on a par with the Motel 6 room in Fredricksburg, VA or the City Center Hotel in Los Angeles. But, having been once owned by Bugsy Seigel, I couldn't help thinking how many people were "whacked" in my room years ago. Luckily, I don't believe in ghosts.
I was quite exhausted from my torturous flight and though only 9:30 pm in Vegas I was still on Eastern time so it felt like 12:30 am (and I was on a daytime schedule for this week) but I still found enough energy to make my way past the myriad of miserably cold-looking bums and likewise miserably cold-looking tourists to the Fremont Street Experience. Wow. Um, if it was still the early 90s when this was put up. Even the early 00s refurb with then-new LED lighting can't hold up to modern LED displays. Dingy, dim and low-res, I was quite unimpressed by this overhead canopy of "dazzling brilliance." Run-of-the-mill LED billboards advertising family dentistry and neighborhood restaurants back home are 20 times brighter, sharper and more vibrant.
This 80s country rock cover band was good though. And loud. Definitely loud. But after about a half hour, I'd had enough. The crowd was decidedly blue collar and either ghetto or trailer trash. I made my way in the frigid desert night air to a nearby 7-11, grabbed a six of Bud, got a foot-long BMT from the Subway inside my hotel, walked up the creaking staircase past the sad staring glances of the lonesome blackjack dealers and called it a night.
"Is waterboarding this bad? Maybe I'd like that more than this?" Of course, I'm referring here to the modern atrocity called "no-frills flying." Even the petite old lady to my left was complaining about the crammed conditions of the seating. For someone my size, it was, well, torture. And add to it the hot, recirculated air making me regret wearing winter-ish clothing and leaving me gasping with every stale, microbe-laden breath. Other sucky things: pitifully tiny seat trays, no LCD screens (not that they weren't working, they just weren't there at all) and you had to pay for everything, even soft drinks and water...oh, and they asked for tips on top of that. But, the plane was modern (A320, one of my favs) the staff were nice and it was quick, we got in 25 minutes early. Oh, and did I mention it was cheap? $118 roundtrip non-stop.
I opted to repeat the lazy yet expensive behavior pattern from the LA trip and grabbed a cab to the hotel rather than cheaper options like the city bus or the car rental I'd reserved. $50 and a driver who just wouldn't shut up. This "chatty stranger" theme endured throughout the vacation for some reason, starting with the lady sitting next to me on the plane to some oldster bugging me while waiting at the gate for the return flight home. I must look like someone who gives a fuck. How wrong everyone is.
The intense wave of ciggy smoke enveloped me as soon as I walked through the hotel casino main entrance. Chatty front desk clerk told me all about sleeping on the roof of his house growing up in India. My room was at the top of a flight of stairs accessed from the middle of the casino floor. Bored table game dealers stared at me each time I walked up or down them. They're lonely 'cause the gamblers here stick like glue to the slots. Each of them illuminated by the deathly glow of their machines. It looked like they were zombie slaves forfeiting their life force to their plinking, bleeping, flashing mechanical masters.
The chit-chatty comps desk lady gave me coupons for free beer and free spins. I never did get around to cash in the free beer tickets and when I finally did try to use my free spins promised, the card didn't have them on it. Figures. This sums up Vegas in my mind actually. Nothing in this town comes free. And promises are just empty words with no real meaning.
I stayed at the famous old landmark El Cortez Hotel and Casino near the Fremont Street Experience in downtown Las Vegas. I booked the lowest rate room, a Vintage Room which for all intents and purposes was the equivalent of a Motel 6 room, but with the added "thrill" of the sounds of the casino floor at the base of the stairway just outside my door, the noisy drunken partiers in the adjoining room and a curious windowed "porch" area which didn't look like it was supposed to be a part of the room's features. It had no furnishings, just a pile of dirty maintenance items in one corner topped by a 6-pack of empty beer bottles. The bed was quite comfy though. I didn't bother checking the mattress for signs of bed bugs, wasn't sure what I'd find. The mouse droppings behind the sink base in the bathroom were disturbing enough, thanks.
Now don't get me wrong...this place wasn't as bad as the Motel Capri in New Orleans. It was more on a par with the Motel 6 room in Fredricksburg, VA or the City Center Hotel in Los Angeles. But, having been once owned by Bugsy Seigel, I couldn't help thinking how many people were "whacked" in my room years ago. Luckily, I don't believe in ghosts.
I was quite exhausted from my torturous flight and though only 9:30 pm in Vegas I was still on Eastern time so it felt like 12:30 am (and I was on a daytime schedule for this week) but I still found enough energy to make my way past the myriad of miserably cold-looking bums and likewise miserably cold-looking tourists to the Fremont Street Experience. Wow. Um, if it was still the early 90s when this was put up. Even the early 00s refurb with then-new LED lighting can't hold up to modern LED displays. Dingy, dim and low-res, I was quite unimpressed by this overhead canopy of "dazzling brilliance." Run-of-the-mill LED billboards advertising family dentistry and neighborhood restaurants back home are 20 times brighter, sharper and more vibrant.
This 80s country rock cover band was good though. And loud. Definitely loud. But after about a half hour, I'd had enough. The crowd was decidedly blue collar and either ghetto or trailer trash. I made my way in the frigid desert night air to a nearby 7-11, grabbed a six of Bud, got a foot-long BMT from the Subway inside my hotel, walked up the creaking staircase past the sad staring glances of the lonesome blackjack dealers and called it a night.