12.16.05

...Or Why I Can�t Talk About the Venetian Just Yet Because the Buffet Blew my Mind

Woke up in the hotel room, disoriented.

Wha� happenin�? Where the�oh yeah. Vegas. Whoa. Bathroom, �cause you don�t buy beer, you rent it. The toilet, a water-saving model *thud-suck-THWOOSH!* (Understandable in the desert, yes. Conducive to calming jangling nerves after drinking and negotiating a strange hotel room without turning on a light and trying to avoid barking my shins on anything? Not so much.) put every one of my nerves on ultra-high alert. (I believe that�s puce or magenta or something according to Fatherland�oops, darn�Homeland Security.)

Back to sleep. Woke three hours later to the sound of ChosenBrother� taking a shower. Dozed until he was done gettin� purty. Then my turn in the shower. ChosenBrother� went in search of coffee.

The joy of a high-pressure shower with unlimited hot water is akin to a good massage, chocolate �clairs, and expensive tequila�all in one. There was wallowing and snorting and lying on the tub floor while *mmmmmmmm* luscious, hot water bounced and beaded over my pinkening skin.

Fine. I�ll get out of the damn shower. Jeez. Popped into my Vegas uniform; low-waisted blue jeans (tight enough to be intriguing, loose enough to leave something to the imagination), too tight tiny t-shirt, and my Chucks. Partner that with my oh-so-butch leather jacket and I got that biker/babe/bitch thing going. Whoop. ChosenBrother� left a cup of Star$$$ on the counter. Is there nothing in Vegas that doesn�t have a corporate monolith behind it?

Demanded fried potatoes �following the Way o� Chris; I always feel better than I deserve to after fried potatoes�and cola beverages (that one thanks to Johnny). Went down to what�s billed as the Largest Buffet in Vegas.

Oh. My. Goodness.
It goes on forever. The length of a bowling alley and then some. And the patrons�oy. Yard for yard they have to be the most well-upholstered humans on the planet. This isn�t the weight of thyroid disorders, or genetics. No. These people work hard each and every day to maintain their diet plan of eat more, exercise less. I�ve never seen so many Rascals (those mini-cart/chair-thingies) in one place.

We got seated in the smoking section. Because what�s Vegas without breakfast and smoking at the same time? The sudden, hacking cough. The bite of food and a drag off a cigarette. Ahhhhh. How times have changed. The smoking section was off to one side and hidden behind a partition. Can�t even destroy our health in that free-wheeling, devil-may-care way that should be our right in the city of excess.
Our waiter was exceptionally perky.

Creepy. No one could be that chipper without some lurking well of horrible waiting to burst forth. Or he trained on a cruise ship. Either choice is distressing.

Need potatoes. Need potatoes, now. Now. Now. Or someone will die. Now.

Hopped over to the Buffet o� Largesse, grabbed a bowl. Found hash browns. Found scrambled eggs. More hash browns. Jalape�os? Yeah. Right. Not in this white bread and mayonnaised spread. Filled my bowl and back to the table. Bothered the two cowpokes at the next table for their Tabasco. ChosenBrother� had ordered an orange juice for me.

I tucked in.

When in Rome, eh?

After the slurping and crunching ended, and feeling almost human, I went for course two. I�d seen lox and eensy bagels. Lox good. How is it that the buffet is so large, and the bagels are so teeny? They may have been Cheerios post-buffet, but I don�t know. I could fit three in my hand. Good lord, has Atkins even gotten here?

It�s too late.

Took two bagels and too much lox.

Finished breakfast and needed a nap. No, no�that might eat into valuable drinking/gambling time. Best to move about.

We decided to go over to the Venetian. See what trouble we could get into.

Not much.

The slots ran cold. Couldn�t find a waitron to serve us free drinks. The casino was quiet. Too quiet.

Time to go.

Though the fake Luciano Pavarotti standing stock-still at the main entrance was worth a giggle. The terrible renditions of �Santa Lucia� that echoed from the fake Grand Canal made me sad.

It�s Italy; big black rat-ified. Ugh.

We went into a gallery. A gallery, in that it was a big room with stuff in frames on the walls, but not like any gallery I�ve ever seen. The sales droid swooped down and talked about how famous blahdiddy-blah artist was and how valuable the work is.

Yeah. Well. It still ain�t art in my book.

Oh. Must run.

Next episode:

Is that your Nipple in my Mouth? Or, The Fremont Experience

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