2 hrs of sleep and off to Newark Liberty. "Drillbit Taylor" on the micro screen means that I get to finish reading 'American Vertigo'-- which is great news. In a world of bullshit job titles Bernard-Henri Levy is a good 'ol Philisophe and I dig what he does. Do you know what 118 degrees feels like? Serious shit, like a hairdryer on high right in your face. The shade isn't much better, it's like a hairdryer on medium.
Toby Keith has a place called "I Love This Bar and Grill" that serves fried bologna sandwiches, but it never happens. Vegas is Douche City, USA. The official uniform is head to toe Ed Hardy, a hat on sideways and cherub locks sticking out looking like Nick Hogan impersonators or the classier Affliction Guido fauxhawk look. This makes me ill. People pretending to be rich makes me even iller. Seems like every successful club/restaurant has a satellite in Vegas with assholes stepping over themselves to give the fat doorman a c-note for the opportunity to buy a $400 bottle of Grey Goose and mix their own drinks...fuck that.
My blackjack karma is good, but my hotel room sucks. The AC unit is weak as fuck and the beds have down comforters which means a feather in my throat and cartoon like snoring. Wolfgang Puck's MGM joint is the best in Vegas--Veg friendly too. Wifey's friend is a trooper: partying in Vegas one day after being diagnosed with a Guatemalan stomach parasite; fucking hardcore. I saw Mike Tyson in person and he's like 300lbs and looks nothing like my childhood idol.
I'm staying downtown in some grind joint next time. Those are my people, I don't need Michelin stars and South beach nightclubs. I want lounge singers, cowboy hats, fat people at the pool, sequins, 100 ounce margaritas, $5 table minimums, pregnant strippers, ill fitting suits, old cocktail waitresses, free shows that are worth every penny, karaoke singing and shady characters. That's my Vegas. I'll leave the strip for the rubes. 2 weeks after Amsterdam and Vegas ain't shit.