A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

CineVegas Day 2 - My Kingdom for A Better Mix Tape

There are few things more miserable than the red-eye flight back to anywhere from Las Vegas, especially when you're unable to sleep and the movie playing is The Wedding Date (starring Debra Messing and Dermot "Hey, This is My Second Shitty Movie with 'Wedding' in the Title" Mulroney in a reverse twist on Pretty Woman's "whore makes good" theme). Continental also, for some reason, really enjoys taking off from one terminal (C) and landing at another one (E), necessitating a 3/4-mile walk to get to one's car.

But you don't want to hear about that. You want to know about [a] all the money I won, [b] the booze I drank, and [c] the colorful personalities I met during my adventures in Vegas. These can be addressed pretty easily: [a] $12 on a Star Wars slot machine, [b] beer, mostly, and [c] none, after Friday.

Wasn't up for gambling most of the time I was there, for some reason. I've come to the conclusion that casinos disturb me, and not just for the legions of zombie tourists playing the slot machines arrayed in ranks around the creamy nougat center of craps and blackjack tables. No, I think this it's because this is one of the first times I ever spent a significant amount of time outside while in Vegas. And after taking in the "scenery" at the Palms hotel pool or the view from the Ghostbar, subjecting yourself to the unending parade of blinking lights and droning beeps and whistles inside is somehow not so appetizing.

Another creepy thing all of us in attendance noticed: the entire city of Vegas seems to be on the same soundtrack. Every casino, club, and party we went to played the same goddamn songs, even if there was an alleged DJ present. Worse, all seemed to be roughly one year old. There was that one about not being a "holla back girl," whatever the hell that means, and also the one by some girl who claims her milkshake brings "all the goys to the barn," or something. Fairly innocuous, you say? Not 50 times over the course of two days.

I mean, I always assumed Vegas (the Strip, especially) was this massive networked series of gaming and security systems, all run by some vaguely Yog-Sothothian being housed in a giant cave under Nellis Air Force Base. I just wasn't expecting it to be confirmed so conclusively.

So...Saturday. Got up around 9:30, picked Chris up at the airport, hung out at the pool until 1:30 or so, then watched movies (reviews up shorly) until party time. The organizers of the festival did a pretty good job wrangling everyone around, even if I did end up sitting on the floor for one film.

Let me 'splain. I got an aisle seat for Firefly (no, not that one) and there's one empty seat next to mine. An older couple comes up to my row and the man slides into it. He looks at the woman and says something like, "Looks like there's only one." She mumbles something about that being fine and proceeds to hunker down on the steps next to our row.

Maybe this "every elderly marriage partner for himself" attitude is normal Vegas behavior, but I found it pretty incredible. No other seats were forthcoming, of course, and Mr. Chivalry didn't show any inclination of relinquishing his throne, so as the lights went down, I got up and asked the woman if she'd like to take my seat. She did, thanking me gratefully. I told her it was no problem, not adding that I doubted even a couple hours sitting apart would've eased the pain of having to live with that insufferable prick for the last 40 years.

But enough about that. The first party we hit that night was at someplace called Green Valley Ranch, which hosted Saturday's Tyson fight (he lost). Beautiful place, with a huge outdoor area and all the Kronenbourg I could drink. That turned out to be a lot. It was the anniversary shindig for Vegas Magazine, meaning a lot of local beautiful people were there, not just film types. I contented myself with watching dudes take cellphone pictures of the mermaid models and trying to stand behind TV interviewees while acting like I was about to throw up.

The next party was at Light, the Bellagio club. I think the only way I could gain admittance to this place on any other night would be if I was dating Lindsay Lohan, and I'd probably still have to wait in the ugly people line for a few minutes on general principles. And for what? Light is like every other dance club I've ever been to: deafeningly loud, unnaturally dark (kind of ironic, given the name), and stuffed to the rafters with obnoxious wannabe "players" and the women who spend their money. We couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Literally. We had to take an elevator.

Chris and Mark retired at that point. I hung out at the hotel bar and watched Sportscenter for a while. Next up: ArenaBowl XIX.