Vegas, Baby, VEGAS!

Vegas is a culture unto itself. Like New York, except slutty. My hypothesis is that there are in fact plenty of classy folks on the Strip, but that they stay sequestered amongst their own, probably at the Bellagio.

 "We're gonna give Big Daddy the old Rainman sweep. Vegas, baby, VEGAS!"

I and a couple pals from school (NOT actually Jon Favreau and Vince Vaugn as the photo may suggest) Mini'd over from Claremont on Saturday, to avoid Friday's Memorial Day weekend traffic cluster. That night we found ourselves wandering the Strip in search of penny slots with--as Ryan says--lots of "play." Not very experienced in the whole Vegas, slots, or "play" thing, I just went with it, and we ended up at Harrah's, where I dropped a hot twenty clams into one of those one-armed bandits. After an hour, I'd dropped to $4.10 with little to show for it. After a couple hours I hit $20.39. HA! I beat the House at their own damn game--the penny and nickel slots deliver the largest profit margin to the House. So I cashed out. Suckas.

 WIN.

The next day was spent loafing at the pool. Then we hit the Strip again in the evening to see what we could find. Answer: more slutty. We also found one of Matt's cop friends. I triumphantly regaled my gambling accomplishments to him and received in response thinly disguised disgust. "Penny slots," he says. "Penny slots? Oh, no. No. Don't let anyone ever see you at the penny slots. Those are for senile old ladies and homeless people. You know they have cameras in there, right? Oh, no. Penny slots," he snorts. "That's stoopin'!"

Eh. You live you learn. Will persevere: From now on, only high stakes blackjack for me.

The best part about this weekend, though, is that the hotel has cable. Honest-to-god cable! I haven't had cable since this time last year. Which means that I haven't seen The Deadliest Catch (or Dirty Jobs or Ace of Cakes) at all this season. I'm pretty much all caught up now on perfect storms, lost anchors, sick skippers and feuding brothers. This show is pretty much the same every episode (oh, man that greenhorn just doesn't get it; dude that is a big storm! Oh, no, what if they don't catch the crab??), and 5 years in, it continues to grow in popularity. I continue to (singsong) love it!

The drive home from Vegas leaves a bit to be desired. Especially after a long weekend when you will probably slam on your brakes a few times to go from 70 to 0 in about 3 seconds, then roll sedately along at 8 or 9 mph for an hour or so. Then back up to 70. Then to 0. And on and on and on until you can finally see the lights of the Inland Empire--almost home! I had to fill up the Mini near Barstow, where I saw a sign that said, "Calico Ghost Town, 3 mi." Oh, 3 miles, I think, that's nothin'. It'd be dumb not to go. So instead of heading back to I-15, I Mini'd out into the blackness, equal parts terrified and exhilarated at my feeling a little too much like the unwitting protagonist in one of Stephen King's short stories, until I came upon a western-y sign for the Calico ghost town. Maybe I should've gone during the day, because there was nothing to see except sheer rock faces, a decaying wagon frame, a crumbling stone foundation and a large, long parking lot.

Ghost town FAIL.

But here is what I was expecting, and what it's supposed to look like, courtesy of Google.

Disappointed, I shut the Mini down in the middle of the black parking lot and stepped out to gaze skyward, and I met in awe with the infinity of our galaxy. This brief sojourn into olden times Americana ended as I Mini'd back to the lights and bustle of the interstate, cranked Daniel Boone's "Beautiful Sunday" and rolled home.