Get Up Edina!

Beer and Roving in Las Vegas
By Anonymous


Thursday, March 27

Patrick picked me up around 7:15 p.m. and we drove over to Todd's place. When we left, we all promised our wives that we wouldn't get in any trouble, or get too rowdy. I don't think any of them bought it.

On the trip down, most of the time was spent talking about the War in Iraq, and trying not to listen to Toddy sing along to The Clash, Joe Jackson, and Hepcat. We stopped in the first one-horse town for a pit-stop and considered buying some cheese curd, but finally decided against it. Trying to find an open restaurant in East-Jesus, Omaha after 10:00 p.m. is impossible, let me tell you.

We pulled into my Mom & Stepdad's place around 11:30 to spend the night. After spending an hour or two laughing at my "awkward years" pictures that my Mom has hanging around her house, we finally hit the sack.

Friday, March 28

Vegas

We found the Lady Luck around 11:00 a.m. local time, but couldn't check into the Hotel until 1:00, so we carted our luggage back to the car, and hoofed-it to Freemont Street, about a block away. Freemont is kinda like Main Street at Disneyland . It's got a huge lighted canopy over it that they project stuff on, they've got 3 stages or more for live bands. There's Gift Shops, Casinos, Vending Kiosks, Strip Joints, Arcades, everything. The first thing I noticed about Vegas is that every visitor over the age of 50 must be issued a Gimp Scooter by the city. Everywhere you look, there's another Rascal.

The first time he saw one of these miniature Harleys, Pat asked the rider, "What you got there, a 4 volt?" quoting the Seinfeld episode when George pretended he was handicapped.

This became one of the many phrases that we used innumerably, but never stopped being funny. Another was, "How's it going, Eisenhower?" (John Candy from Stripes) whenever we saw an older gentleman, and "What you got under there?" whenever we saw a redneck with a mesh-backed baseball cap. How do they get those things to balance on top of their heads like that? And "tappin' in." My Stepfather had been a Bass in a big-time Barbershop Quartet, back in his day. He told us about how, back then, they'd do a "tap-in" round. If someone wanted to take a solo, they'd "tap-in." "Heck, you could go all the way from Bass to Tenor, if you wanted to!"

From that moment on, if you sat down at a Black Jack table, you were "tappin'-in." If you wanted to beat some smart-ass down, you were "tappin'-in." If you saw a whore or stripper, you were expected to "tap-in." You get the picture.

Our first stop was Fitzgerald's on Freemont. We sat down at the upstairs bar to play Video Poker and relax for a while. After half an hour or so, we stepped out onto the balcony to do some star gazing. We saw Willie Nelson, George Burns, Queen Latifa, Saddam Hussain, the homos from Depeche Mode, Billy Ray Cyrus, Nell Carter, and several others. At one point, Todd was looking through his wallet complaining that he had lost $5.00. Patrick pulled a fiver from his wallet, threw it towards Todd, saying, "here's your damned five Dollars!" But, at that moment, the wind picked up and carried the cash over the railing and down onto the street. Some loser picked it up, and probably would have waited for us to come down to retrieve it, but we told him it was his luck.

"This is the most I've won all day!" the loser shouted.

It must have been good Karma, or something, because for the rest of the night, Patrick couldn't lose. If he stuck a quarter in a slot machine, he got 10 bucks back. It only lasted the night, but it was a sight to see.

After checking-in, we headed back to Freemont to waste time until our friends showed-up. Walking past the Glitter Gulch (a popular strip-joint) the girl barking outside tried to get us to come in. She was wearing a white faux-fur jacket, white miniskirt, white knee-high boots and a white wig. As we walked by, a man in his 50's approached us with a clear plastic football in his hand, as if he'd known us all our lives. "I've neva been one to frequent dem kindsa places," he said, "But, if I was a younga man, I might consider it..." All we could do was laugh.

"I've been drinkin' since eight o'clock this monin!" he added.

"Very proud of ya," came our response, and we moved on.

Jimmy & the Whale

We took lunch at a buffet in one of the anonymous casinos along Freemont St. When we sat down to eat, we couldn't help over-hearing the conversation going on at the table behind us. Apparently, "Jimmy" was the house concierge, there having lunch with a high-roller from the east coast. The high-roller (or 'Whale' in Vegas lingo) was talking about one of his trips to Vegas several years before. While gambling at the Aladdin, he had lost over $80,000.

"They asked me if I wanted a marker for another 50 G's. 'Yeah, gimme another 50,' I said."

Jimmy didn't look so good, and I don't think it was the Salmon Mousse.

"So I lost that 50 in nothin' flat. And you know what? I stiffed 'em!" the Whale laughed, spraying Jimmy with bits of salad and prime rib as he did so.

Jimmy was turning green. "Did they come after you?" he asked.

"Yeah, they called me a couple of times. You know what I said?" At this point, the Whale was pantomiming a phone with his thumb at his ear, and his pinky at his mouth. "F''' YOU!" he screamed, and pretended to slam the phone down on the table.

Jimmy was obviously not well. To avoid hearing the inevitable discussion about House collections policy, we decided that we were full and hit the street. The Whale coughed up tiny bits of shrimp on Jimmy's Itallian suit as he guffawed.

We got back to the Lady Luck, and after checking in, we ran into Owen & his girlfriend, Maggie, on the street. I was under the impression that everyone was informed that this was to be a 'He-Man-Broad-Hater's-Club' weekend, but apparently Owen didn't get the memo... Not that Maggie was a pain in the ass, or anything, but it was an adjustment. Todd went inside to help sort-out the rooms for them, and while we waited in the Suburban outside, a couple of hookers crossed the street in front of us.

"Now we're talking!" Pat yelled out the window. The ho's didn't even flinch.

About eight o'clock that night, we all found our way to another anonymous casino for dinner, and while we all sat at the table, Patrick's cell phone rang. It was his wife.

"Hi, Honey... Yeah, we got in ok... We're eating dinner... Umm, I don't know, I'm not sure where we are..." Pat started looking around to find out where we were.

"The Glitter Gulch!" I offered, a little too loudly.

Pat's got a pretty mean backhand. Before I knew it, I had a red knot on my forehead and Patrick got up from the table to finish his conversation in private.

Pre-Summit Party

It was difficult to talk Pat into going to the Ska Party at Julian's. When it came right down to it, none of us were really there for the Summit. We were there to see old friends and hang-out for a weekend and give each other shit. We used the Summit as an excuse to leave our daily lives behind, and act like idiots again. But, that's not to say that we were completely uninterested in the concert. Of course, I was gonna go to the Pre-Summit Party, and the Summit itself. I knew that there would be old friends that I would want to see, and new friends that I had promised to meet there.

Pat stayed for about 10 minutes, then left to recover his losses. I guess that as soon as estrogen was introduced into our controlled environment, Patrick's winning streak evaporated. We made plans to call each another around 10:30 that night. Pablo's plane was coming in at 11:00, and we both knew that we had to be there to meet him.

Pablo is more than a friend. He's someone that we didn't have to explain our stupid, obscure movie references to. The three of us could have an entire conversation using nothing but quotes from movies. If someone unfamiliar with our code happened to be listening, they would have no idea what we were really talking about. Pablo may be a few years younger than us, but he has an extensive movie-quote vocabulary. Not only that, but I really owe Pablo everything I have. He was the one that introduced me to my wife, and set up a date between us. If it weren't for this man, I would still be living in a cubbyhole behind a Tapa Cloth with Jughead and his family.

With Patrick gone, it was just me, Todd, Owen and Maggie. We sat around for a while exchanging rounds, and making fun everyone else. We even got little stickers from The Suicide Girls. You know, the sexually-ambiguous, dyed, inked and steeled tough chicks you've seen on Cable TV. It's funny, but when you get old, you see the idiocy in yourself reflected in the younger people around you. It's not that the others were laughable, it's just easier to laugh at yourself with age.

The night was actually fairly enjoyable. At one point, a group of kids from our home town approached us. Some of them we knew, some we didn't. But, it was pretty cool to see that your past life wasn't a total waste, and that if younger kids were still into Ska, then maybe you weren't a complete schmuck.

One of the kids that I had known for a while pulled me aside and asked if he could beg a favor of me. "Shoot!" I answered.

"Well, I'm not sure how to ask you this," he stammered.

Then, it clicked. "Sorry, brother," I shot at him. "I'm not buying booze for you."

"Alright, that's cool," he said. "I had to ask."

I felt bad for shooting-down a friend in cold blood, but I had made up my mind on this sort of thing long ago. "I'm sorry, man, I just can't do it."

He took it well. "Nah, that's OK, I knew what your answer would be. I can respect that."

In all honesty, I was surprised that one so young could be so reasonable. "Thanks, man, I appreciate your understanding," I told him. I gave him my cell phone number to hook-up later that weekend. He never called, and I'm not sure if I'm upset about that or not. Apparently, the party they had attracted some of Vegas' finest.

Pat called me around 10:45, I met him at the Hotel, and we took off for the Airport to meet Pablo's plane. Damn, it was good to see him again. It had been over a year since I had seen Pablo. He had come back to visit us from Stockton a couple of summers ago with his girlfriend, and we all had dinner together, but since then our correspondence had been through email only. I'm sure Patrick felt the same way. It was a lot like seeing a family member again. He looked like he'd lost a few pounds. He was pretty sturdy the last time I had seen him, but I guess he'd been hitting the treadmill since then. All Pablo could say for the first hour was, "Holy Shit! Paddy! Holy Shit! Toddy!", etc., etc. There was a lot of head-locks and reminiscing and hetero-male bonding going on.

We met up with everyone else and headed back to the Horseshoe. While we were there a few of things of note happened.

First, I stayed away from the tables. I was too broke to do much. You'd think that since I had known about this weekend for months, that I would have saved-up a few bucks. But, alas, I am not that smart. Consequently, I did little but watch during most of the gaming. While watching the rest of them at a Blackjack table at the Horseshoe, we witnessed a guy being dragged out of the place in cuffs. He had at least 3 Security Guards and 2 City cops on him. He was yelling something about "all I was doing was just... (something or other)." It didn't matter. It was funny to watch.

Second, during a particularly difficult hand, (the dealer was showing a Queen) a waitress standing behind Maggie dropped a bottle of beer and it landed square on its bottom. The beer fountain that erupted landed perfectly on our table and soaked it completely. Not only was Maggie wet, but the table itself and the whole deck of cards had to be dried-off, as well. Since a hand was in play, they couldn't take away anyone's cards, and had to dry both sides of every card. We saw that the Dealer had a 6 in the hole, giving her a 16, so everyone stayed, the Dealer broke, and everyone won. Later, at the same table, Owen split 2 Aces. He got Aces in return, split them again, and ended up with 4 hands. His final score was; 21, 19, 18, and 20. The dealer busted again, and Owen won all four hands. That was pretty cool to witness.

I left around 2:00 am to get some sleep. Whatever ever else happened that night, I'll never know. I've been told some details, but I cannot independently verify anything, so, anything you may have heard is just heresay.

Saturday, March 29

We found Pat already down in the Casino when we woke up. He was doing his best to make up for the night before. We had breakfast, and we all dicked-around for quite a while.

Finally, late in the afternoon, we headed for the Summit. We had to stop at a Saver's thrift store to ask directions, but we made it by 4:00 p.m. Most of the bands we had wanted to see had already played. It was pretty disappointing. The crowd was mostly children who were all trying very hard to prove their hardcoredness. There were kids buying vinyl LP's at the vendor tents from bands like "The Dead Boys." How many 13-year-olds, do you think, know who the Dead Boys were? 0.00038%, if I'm not mistaken. I felt old. Very, very old. Most of the audience, to us at least, looked like the little brother from The River's Edge. "You nailed it!" was heard more than once that night.

We saw some of our friends again. Sam and I also found our way to a tent to find Tazy Phillips, one of my old Ska DJ compadres. It was good to see him again. We also found Chris Murray, someone we'd known for a long time. It's always good to talk to Chris. I also saw Brian "Boom Boom" Dixon surrounded by quite a large gaggle of groupies, so I decided not to bother him.

The first act we caught was that sturdy girl from Save Ferris, I think. I can't remember her name, and it doesn't really matter. Yeah, she's got a great voice, but so does Barbara Streisand, and I can't stand that slag, either. Next, please!

When Mustard Plug came on, I couldn't believe it. We had missed Fishbone already, and these guys were playing after Fishbone? Twelve years earlier, they were in my area without a show and I gave them the opportunity to play in some dude's living room. Yeah, some dude's front room. They played a helluva show, I'll give 'em that, but how the hell did they go from that to playing after Fishbone? Not only that, but I thought we were at a concert. Apparently, we were at a Socialist Worker's Party rally. Not really my bag.

It took a while, but my boredom was finally evident to everyone. We drove back to Freemont St. and our little group split-up. Most of the rest of that night is a blur. If I remember correctly, three of us wandered up & down the concourse, some drinking 52 oz. football-shaped beers (not me, of course), laughing at everything we saw, and harassing both tourist and vendor, alike. There was one guy from the Middle East (not that there's anything wrong with that...) who had a little kiosk selling Pipes and Bongs. If you've been to Freemont, you've seen him. One bong was black as obsidian and shaped like an enormous phallus. Another was crafted in the image of a nude woman on her knees and elbows, holding a bowl in her hands. You can probably guess from where you were supposed to toke. I think we tied that poor guy up for an hour, trying to get him to explain which one was better and why.

My biggest vice was the Escort Ad magazines that you can find on any corner in the city. You look at the little newspaper machine, and think you're picking-up a copy of the Thrifty Nickel, but not in Vegas, baby!. What you're getting is free ultra-soft porn! I collected these by the dozens, and accosted everyone I saw, waving them in the victims' faces and screaming, "I USE THESE!" (Reference: National Lampoon's Vacation)

A few other interesting things happened that night, but I can't really talk about it. What I can say is that Pablo ended-up with a goose egg on the back of his head after some unwanted sexual advances, Todd gained a pound or two, Pat covered his losses, I, well... I came back. 'Nuff Said.

All in all, not a bad weekend.