Dispatches From Las Vegas

1 - Dispatch From the Limo:

When you make your grand entrance to Las Vegas, size does matter.  The black stretch looks so rented, and the white ones ... so wedding - and neither are really looooog enough.

We arrive in a 42 foot limo, fitted in burnished wood and marble.  A full bar, of course - a full kitchen in fact.  Big TV, WiFi, hot and cold flush plumbing and even a washer/dryer.  Our chuffer is my big brother Don, with his wife Di heading up the cabin crew.  This is NOT a “motorhome” - this is what the carriage trade calls a “Coach.”

We roll up the Las Vegas Strip under a banner that extolls the city’s new advertising motto, “What happens here, stays here.”  This is to replace the old “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”  Nothing in this town can stay the same for long and we don’t plan to stay for long - just enough to see a friend-of-a-friend dance in a Cirque du Soleil show, take in the sights, and maybe roll the dice.  Its my birthday party.

 

But after Don and Di depart for their Arizonan home, (the rule precludes telling about what they did)  Lady Luck makes other plans ...

- Strip-Strollin’ Stew

 2 - Dispatch From a Show Girl:

They looked so cold even in the warm desert evening, mainly because they didn’t have much on.  They were late for work and needed a hand carrying costumes - and who could say no to 3 smiles brighter than the lights from the row of casinos a few blocks away. In thru a stage door, they told us to follow.  We talked as they changed into “work” clothes that showed a lot more than their smiles.

Finding out it was my birthday sent them into excited scheming.  It involved their job at a private club called

-  Snuck-in Stew

3 - Dispatch From Show Time:

We hardly recognized the girls in their after-show attire - all chic black and bejeweled.  They told us no one would know or care that we had crashed the party - even in our tourist looking clothes.  At least I didn’t have on the uniform of the masses down on the casino floor - a rinsed-out “I-was-there” t-shirt, cargo shorts and a baseball cap.  Soon it was clothing optional anyway.

It may have helped that Jean was all in black and my golf shirt was a close match for those of the security goon’s standing around the room.  The action was in the middle where Svetlana translated us to her “friends” visiting from Russia.  When I shortened one’s name to “Ski” he roared in laughter, slapped my back and pushed vodka glasses, one of many, across to us.  His pinky ring sparkled in the rotating lights.  He and his friends were “now our friends,” the music was pounding, and soon we were all off to

- Stoli Stew

4 - Dispatch From Big Winners

The casinos don’t use chips anymore, it is all digital, electronic and flashing lights.  But in back, where we had ended up with Ski and his entourage - old school dice, cards and a roulette pea still held sway.  The girls kept Ski laughing while the Chinese group was loosing enough to balance our trade deficit.  Meanwhile Ike, Ski’s buddy, had attracted a small crowd as his winnings piled up - as did the food and drink, which just seemed to appear out of the walls. 

When a group in black-tie and 7” heels came in, the music got louder - and out came the stuff what powers many such all nighters ...

- Roulette Rod

5 - Dispatch From Wedding Chapel:

It was right there as we got out of the convoy of taxis.  Each one of us had to walk past the door, and by this time Ski was ready for anything to change his luck.  With Svetlana on one arm and Candi on the other, he should have stood pat - but in he went and everyone else, laughing and chatting followed.

Someone had a little dog in a rhinestone collar and sat it on what functioned as the alter.  A bottle of vodka followed.  By the time the official marrying lady showed up, several hilarious mock weddings had been performed in Russian, English, Spanish, and what might have been Turkish.

I don’t know if anyone really got married, but Jean said, “I do” a couple of times (to me), and “I do too” seemed to follow.  The marrying lady joined us up to the penthouse, the little dog howling in the elevator.  Then things got pretty 

- Stand-up Stew

6 - Dispatch From the Lineup

Her watch was not helpful and mine had died in the hot tub massage machine.  We had not seen daylight for who knows how long, and it could be PM or AM or even PM again.  My mouth tasted like stale caviar - a flavor unaffected by gargling flat champagne.  Jean now regretted the cigar dare and wished for a toothbrush more than anything in the world.  Finding one in the upstairs guest room fired her up like a filly on a pound of coke.

That was good because the party was on the move again.  When we all came out of the tattoo parlor, we found the taxi company had brought up a couple of fancy vans to rival my brother’s “coach”.  Old rock-and-roll blared thru the speakers and everyone sang along.  In my state, I thought we sounded pretty good - “SWEET CAROLINE ... BOMP BOMP BOM” ... until the sirens joined in.  Next thing we knew ...

- Right to Remain Silent Stew

7 - Dispatch From the Recovery Room

They thought they had seen it all in this town.  The cops had me in stitches with their tales, and the doctors tending to the survivors seemed equally entertained by all that had transpired.  They even gave some oxygen to the little dog.  

Some lay where they fell.  Notables missing were the pot-belly pig and the big black dude with the snake.  When asked to show it, we somehow still had IDs on us and someone from someone’s government came and picked up the tab for the emergency room.  I like hospital people as a rule, but the people at

- Recovering Rod

8 - Dispatch From Eviction

We have been tossed from better places but never one so sad to see us go.  You would think that all the media running around must have provided the place with great free publicity - or not.

As soon as the fire department let us in to get our stuff, we moved down The Strip to a place shaped like a pyramid.  With the help of a small bribe we got a very early check-in and slept like mummies ... until the knock at the door - our Sheriff’s escort to the airport.  We had snoozed around the clock - past the agreed to time to depart the city limits. 

One of them looked familiar.  “Do you own a big snake?” I asked.   “I might,” he said,  “but before you tell any tales, remember our new civic motto - What Happens Here, Stays Here.”

He made me sign the oath that I would obey the code and censor any part of the story that should remain in Las Vegas - http://www.lasvegas.com/knowthecode

He led us to a shortcut thru TSA security.  “Have a nice flight,” he said - and then whispered ... “Happy Birthday.”

- Sent Stew