I dunno about this.
Initial impression of Vegas: eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuw.
Let's start with the psychotic conspiracy theorist cabbie who wears an ELF absorbent medaillon around his neck -- ELF as in electric low frequency -- he swears Russia and the U.S. Government are transmitting ELF rays throughout the world to inflict people with cancer to kill them. His medaillon apparently absorbs the gamma radiation so he is protected. Of course, then he's got to deal with the flouride that's being pumped into our waters to poison us because after WWII the government didn't know what to do with the surplus flouride so they've decided to put it into our water in order to keep the population levels under control. In the meantime, he's actively working on killing ME as he swerves violently through traffic that can really only be described as leisurely -- like, everyone's ambling along, gobsmacked by this technicolor alternate universe. Then as we're at a stop light, he starts laying on the horn, explaining to me that this will ensure that everyone steps on the gas pedal when the light turns green so he's not stuck at another red light. I'm pretty sure it's gonna ensure that everyone is annoyed as @!#$%^&* with him because *I* am. But then why bother when he simply races THROUGH the red light because he misses the green light?
It's possible to transcend this plane of distorted reality by listening to songs on my iPod and muttering my mantra: "happy place, find a happy place, find a happy place -- eyaaaggh that's a human being you're about to hit -- happy place, happy place..."
And then let's move to the lovely check-in girl who was so spaced out on some drug she could barely speak. I suppose it might be a telling sign of particular drug use if your nose keeps dripping? Or maybe she's got a wicked ass cold. Maybe I should have offered her the tissues that are perpetually in my pocket. Maybe I need to start carrying Purell around. All the same, I put my leather gloves on to handle what she's touched. Have I mentioned it's 70 degrees out?
From there we go to the Walk through Hell. Apparently the Mirage doesn't like it if you go directly from guest check in to the elevator -- they require you walk a mile through meandering (and I DO mean meandering -- I never knew bulk like that could be supported on two human legs) tourists, drunk college boys, and a zillion slot machines. I'm not sure what's more repellent: the décor or the weeping man at one of the machines.
Oh, and the woman who brought my room service food was shaking so bad I thought she was having an epileptic seizure (I turned off the TV just in case the lights and color were wreaking havoc with her eqilibrium). I gotta tell you, if I'd wanted a martini, I'm sure she would have made one hell of a drink.
My snobbery is clearly showing its ugly elitist head. So is my adoration of the ridiculous. Someone needs to beat them both down.
The long and short is actually that I'm pissed because Bouchon and Le Cirque and Osteria del Circo are all booked solid so I have no hope of meeting my eating goals whilst here.
I suppose I could use all the money saved that would have otherwise been spent on steak tartare and papardelle with smoked duck raghu and find a blackjack table. I can count to 21! Most days. If it doesn't involve goodwill, P/Es, Revenue lines, EBITDAs or Net Income. Or I could run across the road and go to the exhibit on Ancient Egypt and spend the next four nights sleeping with the lights on. The choices, it appears, are endless: eat, gamble or scare myself to death.
Welcome to Vegas?
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