Kings Of Vegas

Let me set the scene for you. As a race car driver determined to win the Vegas Grand Prix, I need some quick cash to buy a new high-powered engine for my car. But it’s my heart that’s racing when I meet a woman who distracts me from my mission -- curvaceous swimming instructor Ann Margret. It’s a razzle-dazzle Vegas funfest of sexy showgirls, roaring race cars, and risk-it-all adventure when I take you along for a wild ride I like to call “Viva Las Vegas: Debauchery in the Desert.”

Now that I’ve got you onboard, allow me to announce a few minor changes to our story that will in no way detract from the high-voltage excitement and glittering Vegas glamour that you crave. Instead of a race car driver hell-bent on winning the Vegas Grand Prix, I’m a middle-aged ad writer with acid reflux and an enlarged prostate. I accept my brother’s invitation to join him and six of his buddies in splitting two hotel rooms and a couple of rental cars eight ways so we can do a long weekend in Vegas for roughly the amount of money one would spend for an afternoon of bowling. Oh, and if that scenario isn’t tantalizing enough, my brother can’t walk much because he’s recovering from double foot surgery and one of our roommates is a guy named “Fudd.”

Ready for an adrenalin rush of electrifying Vegas action? Then say goodbye to the dull and dreary, strap yourself in, and let’s hit the highlights.

Barbarians at the Buffet. There are two things that everyone does in Las Vegas – gamble and eat. Some will try and get the most food for the least amount of money to conserve funds for gambling. Others will spare no expense enjoying lavish meals at swank restaurants because they view it as part of an overall vacation experience to be savored and remembered. The first group is commonly known as “men.” The second group let’s categorize as “women.” Since this trip was men only, the dining strategy was simple: belly up to a buffet once a day, load up on starchy, high-carb chow, and then periodically toss down a pizza slice or hot dog to maintain that feeling of bloated grogginess.

Frolicking with Slots. As an unsophisticated gambler of modest means, I invest 100 percent of my dinero at the slot machines. This means I get to lose just as much money as the table players and the high rollers without all the social stimulation and entertainment. My big win came at a machine called “Top Dollar” that landed me in a bonus spin for $250. My big loss came at an Elvis machine where I was mesmerized by video clips of The King singing “Heartbreak Hotel” while pumping in $140 that found a new place to dwell. My standard facial expression in both situations was a trance-like stupor that I learned from my fellow slot addicts. The machines are programmed to sense emotion, so experienced players never show vulnerability.  Pretend you’ve slipped into a coma and you just might lull an older Wheel of Fortune machine into coughing up a halfway decent jackpot.   

“Funny Man” George Wallace. While other hotels foolishly squandered small fortunes to secure the likes of Bette Midler, Penn and Teller, Blue Man Group and Cirque du Soleil, our adopted dorm, the Flamingo Hotel, slyly recruited alleged comedian George Wallace.   Prominently placed posters throughout the casino proclaimed Wallace’s act as “The Best 10 P.M. Show in Vegas.” Now, I’m no connoisseur of live shows at Las Vegas casinos that start promptly at 10 p.m., but based on the clips of Wallace’s performance shown on our in-room hotel promo channel, the other entertainment options at the hour must have been a trash talking parrot act and “The Hand Shadow Magic of Dobbs Honda and His Portable Partitions.” Here’s a taste of Wallace’s wit and wisdom: “I saw a guy with a bumper sticker that said ‘How’s my driving?’ Am I supposed to follow this idiot around and watch him drive?” My response: “Yes, and when you come back, bring some funny stuff.”

Hanging With the J-Man. My brother Jim is the perfect tour guide for cruising the Las Vegas casino scene. Unlike our travel companions Fudd, Bucky, Screech, Zippy, Weasel and Mr.Eko, he doesn’t let day-long golf outings lure him away from the Vegas Strip and its opportunities for personal enrichment. As an accomplished black jack player, Jim gave me a crash course on the intricacies of the game.

Jim: Ace is 1 or 11.

Me: Uh huh.

Jim: The dealer must hit on all hands 16 and below.

Me: Uh huh.

Jim: Dealer must stand on all hands 17 and above.

Me: Uh huh.

Jim: You don't always need 21 to win, often you're playing for the dealer to bust.

Me: Uh huh.

Jim: Always assume the next card dealt will be a 10.

Me: Uh huh.

Jim: Money is made when you split or double.

Me: Uh huh.

Jim: Any questions?

Me: You up for playing the slots?

Perhaps the single most memorable moment of the trip came on a breezy, easygoing night out on the Strip after an exhausting day canvassing the far corners of cavernous casinos hoping to score free drinks from waitresses trained to avoid us like the plague. Jim and I paused in front of the breathtaking fountains of the Bellagio Hotel. The dancing waters soared. The lights twinkled and blazed. And somewhere in the mist, the ghostly, otherworldly voice of Celine Dion sang out the haunting words to The Titanic theme song “My Heart Must Go On.” With the warmth and spontaneity only two brothers could share, Jim reached over, gently touched my hand and, gazing into my eyes, said, “You owe me $15 for gas, slot boy.”

“Put it on my tab, James,” I mumbled in a drowsy Elvis drawl. “I’m meeting Ann Margret for a mojito and then I’ve got a Grand Prix to win.”

 

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