At this point in the adventure, we’re in Vegas. We catch a cab from the airport to the hotel. If the cab were a crow, it would have traveled 3/4ths of a mile. But the cab was a cab, and it went 26 dollars. The house always wins.
We arrive at the Mandalay Bay. There’s a fancy revolving door with compartments big enough to house guests and luggage. We test the limits of these doors by packing 3 guys and 3 bags into one compartment. Two minutes later, we enter the lobby.
They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. The same holds true for this blog. Mostly because I have convinced myself that my parents and at least half of the eldership at church reads this. Nothing to see here, folks. Keep it moving.
On the real though, I have no idea what the first four word phrase in this sentence means. The trip was fairly uneventful, so allow me to unleash bullet points:
- We walked past Pete Rose. In Vegas. I love irony.
- We witnessed a boxing weigh-in interview in our hotel lobby.
- We saw lions lick some guy’s hand.
- We inhaled a lot of second-hand smoke.
- We walked out of the hotel at 10:00 AM and were instantly pegged by a limo driver who said (accurately), “These guys are going to McDonald’s. Bet on it.”
- We saw two heavy-set men holding hands wearing pink dresses.
- We were offered approximately 45,000 flyers for strip clubs and escorts.
- We left a tenth of an inch shorter due to the bottom of our feet melting as we walked around the pools [NOTE: We only walked around 4 of 7 pools on the hotel property.]
- We saw street performers dressed as Elvis, Michael Jackson, Mario, Luigi, Darth Vader, a Storm Trooper, a couple of those statue guys, the Temptations, and a midget dressed as Chucky.
- We saw some guy from Dancing with the Stars. [NOTE: I had to take one of my friends’ word for that one. The friend shall remain nameless.]
- We ate at an Irish pub stocked full of actual Irish people. I had a shepherd’s pie so as to feel the full Irish experience. [NOTE: I was unaware that the Irish experience lasted long past dinner.]
- We paid $6.49 for a bottle of water. Ok, “we” didn’t, but one of us did, and that was ridiculous enough for me to mention.
- We were offered cocaine. More than once.
- We watched an Oompa-Loompa lose $200 in under 2 minutes.
And we closed out the trip by listening to *NSYNC’s greatest hits album… Ok, “we” didn’t do that either, but I did, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. That was easily the best 50 cents I have spent this year. Thank you, Essex bargain hunting section. The world needs another boy band.
Anyway, that’s most of what I remember about the trip that could possibly be considered worth writing about… Next week, I’ll be heading to church camp to atone for my trip to Vegas… I’ve made it as easy as I can to cyber-stalk me. All you have to do is read. See you next time.
7.27.2011
7.24.2011
Once Upon a Midnight Dreary...
As I can’t sleep on planes, there’s only so much I can do to keep myself occupied in the sky. Therefore, you get stuck with another post. I’m on the way back from Las Vegas, crammed behind a couple of folks who are not from around here. Here being North America. The lady was kind enough to recline her seat while my computer was resting on the tray table, nestled tightly under the seat. I discovered that a Toshiba laptop can successfully prevent a Boeing 737 passenger seat from reclining by acting in a manner similar to your foot when a young child is trying to get through a door that you have pressed your foot up against the base of in an effort to entertain yourself and frustrate said child.
I’m not sure if the thoughts in my head are going to present themselves well in paragraph form, so hold on tight and leave your grammar standards behind...
On the flight out, I posted up on my window seat, and hoped for a solo flyer to settle into the aisle seat, thus raising my chances of having an empty middle seat. The other three guys who I was traveling with all filed into one row, so, naturally, having an empty middle seat beside me would pay mental dividends as well, knowing they were packed in like proverbial sardines while I was rocking two wind tunnel vents.
My plan worked. Some lady came and sat down in the aisle seat, and no one dared venture between us. Perhaps this was due to our combined leg hair, which was at least 1.75 times my own amount. Now, I’ve never been one to complain about the TSA screening process. I’m all for not being vaporized between point A and point B, but on this trip, I got a little annoyed. In reverse order and avoiding any foreshadowing techniques learned in high school literature class, in the Vegas airport on the way home, I walked through the metal detector (no body scan this time), and it beeped. I knew I was clean and free of any metals.
The TSA agent reassured me of this, “Ok, you didn’t set it off, but you’re a random. Please step in here.”
No idea what a random is, but here was a plexi-glass cage. I stepped in and waited for another agent. My travel companions continued on their journey. Two minutes later, TSA 007 shows up. He asks which tubs are mine on the conveyor belt. I tell him. He goes over to them, grabs my shoes, and tells me to grab the rest and follow him. We go behind the scanners, and he opens a cabinet. He then proceeds to wipe my shoes down with either one of those wipes you get with chicken wings, a maxi-pad, or a temporary tattoo. After a 1.5 second wipe, he hands me my shoes and sends me on my way. So, if one of those shoe-bomber guys is reading this, please fill your bathtub with sarcasm, submerge yourself, and accept my heartfelt gratitude. Jerk.
Ok, so that was TSA point one. Back to the original flight out… As soon as my row-mate sits down, she begins knitting or crocheting (I hope that’s how you spell crow-shay-ing), I don’t know the difference. Which brings me to this question: How come there are several black and white pictures of me au natural posted on a TSA body scan reader’s closet wall while this lady can get two spears into a plane? Apparently, knitting requires a lot of extension of the left arm towards the closest human’s right eye.
So that was the first leg of the flight out. That flight went from Nashville to Chicago. Time in the air: 1 hour. Ground gained on Vegas: none. Second leg was a full flight. My seatmates were talkative. In fact, I thought they were friends until they introduced themselves to each other 3 minutes into the conversation. They introduced themselves to me. We chatted. Some of you know me well, and know that I love to chat with strangers, but for everyone else reading this, planes were not meant to be a real-life session of chat roulette. I’m not complaining though, they were nice girls, and they stopped talking at 10,000 feet. That should be the 11th commandment.
Two shining moments from flight two :
One, the flight attendant came by with snack options. When presented with cheese crackers, golden oreos, pretzels, and peanuts, middle seat asked, “Do you have any gluten free options?” Middle seat and the flight attendant finally decided that peanuts were probably gluten free. Green light.
Two, if you ever find yourself wondering if the big bang theory could really hold up, take an evening flight southwest (I meant the direction, but I recommend the airline as well) and sit on the right side as you look towards the front. From 35,000 feet above the ground, I watched the sunset in the distance while a thunderstorm went on below. It was one of the coolest things I’ve seen. Then, on the flight back, I watched the lightning below as the stars decorated the sky above. So for that, a sarcasm-free thanks, God.
Tune in next time for the actual Vegas part... Well, the parts I can write about.
I’m not sure if the thoughts in my head are going to present themselves well in paragraph form, so hold on tight and leave your grammar standards behind...
On the flight out, I posted up on my window seat, and hoped for a solo flyer to settle into the aisle seat, thus raising my chances of having an empty middle seat. The other three guys who I was traveling with all filed into one row, so, naturally, having an empty middle seat beside me would pay mental dividends as well, knowing they were packed in like proverbial sardines while I was rocking two wind tunnel vents.
My plan worked. Some lady came and sat down in the aisle seat, and no one dared venture between us. Perhaps this was due to our combined leg hair, which was at least 1.75 times my own amount. Now, I’ve never been one to complain about the TSA screening process. I’m all for not being vaporized between point A and point B, but on this trip, I got a little annoyed. In reverse order and avoiding any foreshadowing techniques learned in high school literature class, in the Vegas airport on the way home, I walked through the metal detector (no body scan this time), and it beeped. I knew I was clean and free of any metals.
The TSA agent reassured me of this, “Ok, you didn’t set it off, but you’re a random. Please step in here.”
No idea what a random is, but here was a plexi-glass cage. I stepped in and waited for another agent. My travel companions continued on their journey. Two minutes later, TSA 007 shows up. He asks which tubs are mine on the conveyor belt. I tell him. He goes over to them, grabs my shoes, and tells me to grab the rest and follow him. We go behind the scanners, and he opens a cabinet. He then proceeds to wipe my shoes down with either one of those wipes you get with chicken wings, a maxi-pad, or a temporary tattoo. After a 1.5 second wipe, he hands me my shoes and sends me on my way. So, if one of those shoe-bomber guys is reading this, please fill your bathtub with sarcasm, submerge yourself, and accept my heartfelt gratitude. Jerk.
Ok, so that was TSA point one. Back to the original flight out… As soon as my row-mate sits down, she begins knitting or crocheting (I hope that’s how you spell crow-shay-ing), I don’t know the difference. Which brings me to this question: How come there are several black and white pictures of me au natural posted on a TSA body scan reader’s closet wall while this lady can get two spears into a plane? Apparently, knitting requires a lot of extension of the left arm towards the closest human’s right eye.
So that was the first leg of the flight out. That flight went from Nashville to Chicago. Time in the air: 1 hour. Ground gained on Vegas: none. Second leg was a full flight. My seatmates were talkative. In fact, I thought they were friends until they introduced themselves to each other 3 minutes into the conversation. They introduced themselves to me. We chatted. Some of you know me well, and know that I love to chat with strangers, but for everyone else reading this, planes were not meant to be a real-life session of chat roulette. I’m not complaining though, they were nice girls, and they stopped talking at 10,000 feet. That should be the 11th commandment.
Two shining moments from flight two :
One, the flight attendant came by with snack options. When presented with cheese crackers, golden oreos, pretzels, and peanuts, middle seat asked, “Do you have any gluten free options?” Middle seat and the flight attendant finally decided that peanuts were probably gluten free. Green light.
Two, if you ever find yourself wondering if the big bang theory could really hold up, take an evening flight southwest (I meant the direction, but I recommend the airline as well) and sit on the right side as you look towards the front. From 35,000 feet above the ground, I watched the sunset in the distance while a thunderstorm went on below. It was one of the coolest things I’ve seen. Then, on the flight back, I watched the lightning below as the stars decorated the sky above. So for that, a sarcasm-free thanks, God.
Tune in next time for the actual Vegas part... Well, the parts I can write about.
7.11.2011
Back to Life. Back to Reality.
What took you so long? Well, welcome back. Glad to have you.
I’ve been meaning to write for a while, but nothing was coming to me. What changed? Well, nothing. Then, like a FIFA ref to Rachel Buehler, the realization red card hit me: writing about nothing is infinitely better than watching this dingleberry on the Bachelorette trying to keep Carrie Underwood’s little sister interested while he talks about the environment.
Hold that. She’s about to drop the people’s elbow on this guy. “I don’t know if I see you as my husband.” Boom. “You don’t want to meet my family?”
Don’t worry, buddy. There are plenty of other fish in the tank-less water heater.
“I’m shocked. [Pause] I want to spend the rest of my life with someone. [Tear]”
If all else fails, maybe you can be Will Scheuster’s stuntman and see if things work out with Emma.
But you’re not alone. Many have gone before you, and many will follow after. You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. Of course, the most famous is “Never get involved in a land war in Asia,” but only slightly less well known is this: “Never go on television looking for the love of your life.”
If we’re stuck in a reality television world, the least they could do is force the contestants onto shows they didn’t sign up for. Blindfold the Bachelorette guys and force them onto one of those Wipeout courses. Make the Big Brother folks cook on one of those British guy’s shows. Make the Expedition Impossible people switch places with the Amazing Racers. Well… on second thought, scratch that and have every Survivor contestant ever sit in a room and watch every episode of Survivor and give the last one left in the room a million bones.
I think I’m starting to realize why people read books… or get cable. Honestly, I could go either way.
Stay cool.
I’ve been meaning to write for a while, but nothing was coming to me. What changed? Well, nothing. Then, like a FIFA ref to Rachel Buehler, the realization red card hit me: writing about nothing is infinitely better than watching this dingleberry on the Bachelorette trying to keep Carrie Underwood’s little sister interested while he talks about the environment.
Hold that. She’s about to drop the people’s elbow on this guy. “I don’t know if I see you as my husband.” Boom. “You don’t want to meet my family?”
Don’t worry, buddy. There are plenty of other fish in the tank-less water heater.
“I’m shocked. [Pause] I want to spend the rest of my life with someone. [Tear]”
If all else fails, maybe you can be Will Scheuster’s stuntman and see if things work out with Emma.
But you’re not alone. Many have gone before you, and many will follow after. You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. Of course, the most famous is “Never get involved in a land war in Asia,” but only slightly less well known is this: “Never go on television looking for the love of your life.”
If we’re stuck in a reality television world, the least they could do is force the contestants onto shows they didn’t sign up for. Blindfold the Bachelorette guys and force them onto one of those Wipeout courses. Make the Big Brother folks cook on one of those British guy’s shows. Make the Expedition Impossible people switch places with the Amazing Racers. Well… on second thought, scratch that and have every Survivor contestant ever sit in a room and watch every episode of Survivor and give the last one left in the room a million bones.
I think I’m starting to realize why people read books… or get cable. Honestly, I could go either way.
Stay cool.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)