(We begin the license challenge this Thursday. Check back for the first entry.)
"Illusions are, of course, by their very nature sweet."
"I have no illusions. I lost them in my travels. "-Dangerous Liaisons
So. Shervon (who is henceforth to be known as the best "roll wit me" partner on Earth) and I were in a cab the next day,...the day AFTER...headed to the Rio Hotel and Casino again...but this time, for brunch.
And it's BRIGHT out.
Very bright.
Las Vegas in the daytime is a fucking comedian...and the joke is on you. It seems designed to catch you in the middle of "the walk of shame". Something you'd never know at night.
All of the buildings are light colored or covered in glass, thus reflecting light everywhere, so as to shine a spotlight on your sorry, hung over ass....I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST NIGHT! YOU CAN'T HIDE....now go find a buffet somewhere.
Our third cab driver of the trip is from Yugoslavia. Sorry...don't remember his name.
"You ladies win anything?"
"We don't gamble." I say.
"GOOD FOR YOU!" he replies. "Very smart."
These words of wisdom will be echoed by every cab driver that we employ...so we begin to think it may just be true.
"The city almost looks...innocent." I say.
"Yes, you never recognize her in day." he says. "She is like lady without make-up."
Shervon and I both laugh...thinking about what this place looked like last night. Actually, I couldn't give a shit about what this place looked like the nightbefore. I mean, I think I might have noticed it... or given it a sweeping glance, but I didn't really check it out from head to toe. I wasn't paying attention... too busy trying to catch up to my mind (...which was looking at it's watch...tappin' it's toe...standing in front of the stage wondering..where the fuck was my body...since my mind had been there since I clicked "buy tickets").
..............................
My body...clean and primped...was in a cab, on the way to the Rio.
"NO. I DON'T NEED A PEN THAT BAD SIR. DRIVE! DRIVE!"
He was a nice guy. Ethiopian. Our first cab driver in Vegas. Very patient (to be read as SLOW)...and a gentleman (to be read as...forced me to be a lady instead of allowing me to jump out and break into a frantic sprint). Insisted that he drive us to the front of the Rio Hotel and Casino... got out of the cab to open my door, and as I stepped out, I was instantly glad I'd worn the almost non-existent mini.
The girls (to be read as "3ft of leg") stepped out of the cab first. The outfit was titled "I'm gonna see Prince". Or better yet..."Prince is gonna see me." (Did I mention Shervon was doing the damn thing too? New hair-do...new dress...wearing the cha-cha heels. Doing it.)
Um... OK. Out of the cab.
Shit.
Where is it? WHERE IS...
"Excuse me...where is "3121"?" TELL ME! TELL ME NOW DAMNIT!!!
"Go straight ahead. You'll see all the people...you can't miss it."
"Thanks." ..don't run Nye. Don't run. Stay cool.
Shervon and I click and stride through the lobby...then it hits me. Knocks me upside the head, actually.
"Wow. I'm here."
"I was wondering when you were going to get excited..." she smirked.
"It just hit me...JUST hit me. Wow. I'm pretty fucking excited. Are you excited?"
"I'm excited."
"Yeah. Pretty fucking excited. Pretty damn...oh no. Will you look at that line..."
"Oh man..."
.................................................
My eggs are horrible. So's the coffee...but that's not what's bugging me. And now that the whole trip is almost over...I can settle in...be quiet and put my finger on it.
Oh...I get it. There are a lot of white people in this hotel.
And I know what you're thinking. 1) This sort of thing is not something I'd normally point out, notice or care about and/or 2)There are a lot of white people everywhere...blacks are called a "minority" for a reason. Yeah..yeah..boo-hoo.
But listen.
Vegas is pretty multi-cultural in terms of tourists. It's also pretty class-blind, where the poor mingle with the rich. The poor dreaming of becoming rich and the rich getting off on knowing no matter how much they blow here...they won't ever be poor.
So isn't it kinda...I don't know...ODD...that there's not an Asian or Latino in sight? We were the only two minorities...PERIOD. (Ok. There were two other black people. And we met them. They noticed it too. You'll see what I mean.)
Yeah so ...um...seriously. I'm thinking...wow. There are a LOT of white people here.
But here's the real issue... they are making me uncomfortable.
Here's why.
Mullets and buzz cuts. Frizzy perms with bad dye-jobs and bangs. Mom-jeans and suspenders...southern accents....and most importantly... "The Look".
But my mind wouldn't process this..actually, it straight up refused to accept this because I'm in VEGAS. I mean, you can't get "The Look" in Vegas. You get the "The Look" in Georgia. In that little rest-stop you walked in to get some Doritos...where, if it were still legal, they'd call you "Gal", tell "you people" come in through the colored entrance...and when you leave, talk about how "well spoken" you were.
OK. We didn't get this vibe from all...to be fair. But some. OK. Most. And when you get it from most...it's cause for alarm.
Now racism radiation I can handle...not a problem. Happens everyday. (Though in the North, it's masked.)
However, today, this is totally fucking up my buffet experience because I'm really hung over, and I could use all the hydration I can get, but I'll be DAMNED if I get some watermelon. And damn it...I REALLY wanted it. So, slightly defeated and just...aware...I head to the buffet and begin to dig into some peaches. Suddenly, I think...fuck that.
I double back to the watermelon and load up. LOAD up. And head back to the table.
Bad-dye-frizzy-bang-mullet-tee shirt-baseball hat-missing teeth stares and smirks.
I bite and fight the urge to say "dis sho am good." and grin...exposing all of my ORIGINAL teeth.
Too bad there wasn't any fried chicken.
Now...we're trying to figure out how in the hell did we end up in the middle of Burmingham, Alabama when, on our way back to our room, we get it.
The floor is checkered. Dale Earnheart Jr. is grinning from a signed autographed picture.
The signs... NASCAR Cafe/Bar/Arcade/Gift Shop.... wow.
Screens showing the races are everywhere. There's even a NASCAR test track in the hotel.
Great.I've booked us a room at the "Lynch 'Em Inn". Way to go Nye.
Again, to be fair...not ALL NASCAR lovin, mom-jean wearing, mullet sporting, teeth missing whites from the South are card carrying members of the K-Krew...but um. Why chance it? Fans were already at the bar, sucking back a few buds, watching the cars go round...and round...and round...and...
Avoiding eye contact, we break into a quiet brisk walking pace back to our room...now FULLY aware of radiation on our backs and most importantly, the knowledge that beer, riled up NASCAR fans and black people are not the greatest combination in the world.......and then suddenly, I stop. And lift my head...that I actually didn't realize I'd lowered.
Cuz fuck that.
"Hey. We're not going upstairs yet."
"Uh...OK."
"Cuz fuck that."
Shervon giggles. She knows me way too well.
..........................................................................
Vince Carter launches a 3pt'r at the buzzer...and mouths "Fuck you! WHAT!"...pushing the game into overtime....which is perfect, because it coincedes with the start of the Giants game....that gives me something to do.
Shervon is a big fan of the NBA, I've got the NFL locked down on my monitor, and I'm loudly representing for New York. However, when Chicago makes a field goal I fully understand that, at this Belliago sports bar, I'm clearly outnumbered.
Patrons clearly put their money on Chicago, and I can't lie...I would have too.
I check my watch. The Amazing Race should have just ended in New York. I call Petey for the recap...
"No cell phones." The snotty bartender could have said it nicer, but hey.
"Out of curiosity...why not?"
"Nevada State law says no cell phones are allowed at sports bookings. This is technically a sports booking."
"Wow. Learn something new everyday."
Shervon's drink is gone, and all screens are now tuned to the Giants game. She's lost interest.
The Giants scored, but are immediatly bitch slapped for bad sportmanship (idiots) and I realize something.
"I can't do Cirque Du Soliel". I say...giving in.
No matter how pretty "O" would have been...in this condition, it would have been a complete waste of money. I could barely form sentences. It then occurred to me that we'd been up for 24 hours, I hadn't rid myself of my amazing hangover, we'd gotten three hours of sleep and been sight-seeing the Las Vegas Strip for eight hours.
Enough Nye. Enough. (My body said that. Not me.)
"Cool." Shervon said. "I'm tired anyway."
Did I say ...the best roll-wit-me partner ...ever?
...........................................................................
"Remember when we got those free tickets to the puppet show when we were here?" I ask.
She does. And then she recognizes the theater/club. Even then, I thought it was too nice a space for just puppet show.
Apparently, Prince did too, which is why he bitch-slapped it with "3121" everywhere. Even the blackjack tables outside the club boasted the numbers. Wait. What's a J.W. doing associating his brand with blackjack tables??
The people on the never ending line were pissed. One girl mumbled about being there since 8:30.
I checked my watch. 10:10 on the dot. Great. We're never getting in. Not ever.
I found an official looking guy in black. "Excuse me...where's the will-call line?"
"Fan club"?
"Uh...yeah." I said, surprised.
"Go see that gentleman there." So we did. And that gentleman there whipped out two green bracelets.
"See that walkway?....Enter through there."
And so we did. And in less than two minutes flat...we were in. On the dance floor. In front of the stage.
You've got to love the way Prince treats his fans.
Monitors on the wall rocked retro video-mixes. Soul Train, Carmen Jones, Under TheCherry Moon, Graffiti Bridge... I found myself flanked by a professional poker player who gave me the re-cap of the night before and wanted to talk everything Prince, and a really large teddy-bear silent type, who uncomfortably reminded me of my ex-fiance.
The DJ spun songs I thought I'd never hear in a club in this decade. D.M.S.R. Sexuality. Erotic City (sigh). Cool. 17 Days.
After the second Red Bull and vodka (served in a large Solo cup with a REAL straw. Like...McDonalds kinda straw...)....I thought the wildly dancing guy with the top hat and homemade purple vinyl Prince coat seemed pretty normal.
A few tattoos on women who probably never married...and plenty of "what are you doing after the show" glances from men knowing most of the women were...well..Prince fans. God. It's so easy to get laid at a Prince concert. And when you add Vegas into the mix....
"I flew in from Tennessee..." a guy behind me boasted.
"They're from New York" the poker player retorted.
Everyone raised an eyebrow. That's right. Instant respect for the Prince-Fan gangsta. Or insanity... depends on how you look at it.
The DJ threw on "Adore"...and the Jamal look-alike suddenly grabbed me for a slow dance. (Actually...he hemmed me up without asking. )...he pulled me into his body tighter and something began to gro...
"Uh...you mind if we just do a nice two-step side-by-side?" I asked.
He was embarrassed. I felt kinda bad. Kinda. Suddenly, the song stopped.
The lights dimmed.
I screamed.
.............................................................................................
Zombies are coming at me at an alarming rate.
"House Of The Dead" is my therapy. I fucking hate zombies, so I try to play this game as much as possible to rid me of my fear. It's just different when you have a gun OK? It just is.
This new version is kicking my ass. There's a new grenade launcher and some genius thought it would be fun if the zombie "grabbed" you, while you shook em off. I almost ran away from the game when I discovered this little surprise, but instead, shook his ass off...and fed him a grenade. Yeah. How bout I eat YOUR fucking brain?
I've just dropped ten bucks in the NASCAR Arcade, which gives us enough tokens to stay and play for quite a while. We hit the air hockey table and our day camp skills kick in. (Well...Shervon's does....she whups my butt. X-borough style.)
After this...we hit "The Fast And The Furious"....then some motorcycle ride...and we both feel slight radiation...but this makes me wanna do nothing else but touch EVERYTHING. Let's see...what other wildly popular game can we take over....?
Oh yes. YES. YES!!!
Janet Jackson's "Doesn't Really Matter" is blasting through the Arcade...and we play it over...and over...while I whup Shervon's butt in"Dance Dance Revolution X".
Then we find some racing cars...and take pictures with them...as if it were our life long dreams to take pictures with these cars. Some guys stared and gave disgusted looks. Like the cars should be cleaned after we touched them. At that, I almost licked door handle. Cuz fuck that. Fuck that.
............................................................................................
Name one man who can open a show with "Jonny B. Good", sprinkle in some Led Zepplin and then some damn Teddy P.
I sang along..."So good ...loving somebody...and somebody loves you back..."
...and THAT'S when I caught eye contact with him...a nod and a smile. Then he said it. The one thing I've been waiting to hear all my life.
"I'm coming down there."
WHAT? NO !! HE'S COMING THIS WAY...This can't be happening....Don't...faint Nye. Don't...faint...don't...don't...Oh no. I'm gonna... hey.
Wait a minute.
He's really tiny. REALLY tiny. He barely can clear my breasts.What a big head. And a tiny body...He looks like a walking pez dispenser. Boy did THAT shatter the illusion. He should have stayed on stage. Damn it.
He got back up there...thankfully....
"Will ya'll go home! Get outta my house!!" he yelled.
The crowd collectively refused."Ok fine. Then stay for breakfast. You know I like pancakes."
Two hours and two encores later...he took his Twinz...and brokeout. His sax player came through the audience and spoke with everyone...while I found Shervon...(oh yeah. She left mid-concert to find a seat. The cha-cha's were killing her.) We took in the energy of the club...did some two-stepin' to the beautiful DJ's spinning...and partied till we couldn't...or rather....till I was convinced he wasn't coming back out.
Straight up giddy.
I found the Jamal look-alike (who kept staring from a far. That got creepy) thanked him for the dance. (Told ya...I felt bad.) Found the guy in the trench and top hat (Bob) and just thanked him for being alive ...thanked the DJ (she's in the "Black Sweat" video) and took one last sweeping glance.
Wow.
I hit up the boutique and just...took it all in. I need another Red-Bull and vodka.
You down?
"Sure."
The girl hangs like monkey with superglue on her hands I tell you.
............................................................................................
"Ma'am, did you know these were lighters?"
"Oh...are they"? I lied.
Don't ask me how or why I didn't think to put the souvenir lighters I'd bought back in my suitcase. Shervon did mention it...I shrugged. Shoulda listened. "The only way to get these is to mail them to yourself or check them..." "Nevermind. Keep them." Damn. They were cool lighters too.
"Where are you going where you need two jackets? Is it that cold?"
"New York. Yes. It is that cold." Bitch.
"That is..."
"A tambourine."
She saw the symbol...looked at me. (Touch my tambourine, and we're gonna have a serious fucking problem...)
She let me through.
Shervon and I barely said a word on the way back...sharing a content silence only sisters can be comfortable with. She listened to 3121, I got quiet and thought about things and people...and the lesson.
Because there's always a lesson people. Always.
I came to a few conclusions. (I thanked Vegas for them.)
The town is about illusion, and there's nothing wrong with illusion. It's entertaining.
But that's all it is. Entertainment. It's not real. However, ifyou believe it's real...you got a real problem.
Here's the thing about illusion. No one will tell you that it is one...because you look too happy living it.But you'll pay to maintain the illusion. And when you run out of money,time,energy, sense of self...whatever...your illusion will crumble. Right before your very eyes...and there will be nothing left....and you'll wonder. Why.
Why in the hell didn't you wake up sooner? ...Stop betting two hands ago. Just...go home.
Here's the trick to beating the house every time.
Respect and understand that what you're shown... it makes you feel great. But it's fake. It's entertainment.
And if you feel yourself change to fit into the illusion...it's pretty much the same as donning a Mickey Mouse outfit and saying...I live in Disney!
Respect that what is real...isn't hidden. It's right in front of you...but you won't see it unless you want to.
(Ever look into a dealers eyes...as they watch people lose fortunes? You can't. They never raise them from the cards.)
I'm not saying don't subscribe to entertainment. Hell. I'm a junkie. I'm not even saying don't gamble.
But make sure you're OK with what you lose...and the risk you'll take. Don't act like you didn't know. Fly out to see your icon. Sure. But be OK with spending a stupid amount of dough you don't have...and chance him getting off the stage and ruining the larger than life illusion when you realize he's kinda...bobbly-headish.
But you do hear stories of people who gamble and win unexpectantly. When they didn't even mean to gamble in the first place...they just happen to hit the jackpot. For instance, you may discover that bonding with your baby sis is possibly the coolest thing you did all year. And the money you spent wasn't actually on Prince...but on some splendid quality time....and you'd do it again in a fucking heartbeat. An unexpected win. Those are the best.
Our last cab driver was a talker. Really nice guy. Actually all the cabdrivers were. Soooo not New York like...
"Most people ask me for a tip. They say hey. You've been living here such along time, you've got to know an inside tip or something. They expect me to tell them how to win at Blackjack or better yet to tell them not to gamble. But I don't tell them not to gamble. You know what I tell them?"
"What's that?" I asked.
"The best advice I could give them is... don't leave on a Sunday."
"Well...we're leaving on a Monday. You don't need more than a few days here."
"Smart. Very smart. No. Nobody needs to be here longer than need be. Nobody."
Amen.
-Nye
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