California Dreamin'

The only bad part of a vacation is that you have to come home. Tripp and John were awesome hosts for my week in Cali and Vegas, big ups to both.

Vacation time spent with Tripp is often tough to describe to people at work. It doesn't sound like a normal person's vacation to them. I don't know what the fuss is, but it's hard to get across to people why it's so much fun to go to Amoeba records. Comments like "Think of Muslims visiting Mecca" somehow don't get it across to these people. I think you also have to have a certain kind of tempermant to enjoy the schadenfraude of watching the bad stand-up comedy that has marked both of my LA vacations so far. My obsession with Pink's hot dogs seems to be a mystery to everyone, even Tripp.

Vegas is another story altogether. What a royal mindfuck of a town. All you have to do is say the word to people and they break out into a broad grin. Stories aren't needed, because 9 times out of 10 they don't even want to know and the less you tell them the more their imagination runs wild. I love this.

There is one story that has to get told though. Tripp and I waited until the last minute to book our hotel reservation. Big mistake. By the time we got around to it we had priced ourselves out of everything in the new part of the strip. So all that was left in the realm of affordability was Circus Circus.

Whatever you do, avoid this shithole. We pulled up at 12:30 AM on a Friday night and found 150 people waiting on line to check in. What the fuck? After 6 hours in the car this was not cool. After 45 minutes on line surrounded by screaming kids we finally reached the desk."

I'd transcribe the whole conversation, but I forget the exact sequence and it would take all day so I'll just highlight a few of the absurdities that the douchebag behind the desk spouted:

Statement: A forty-five minute wait is the normal amount of time it takes to check into a busy hotel.

Reality: I don't have a degree in hotel management, and I'm no the most seasoned traveler in the world, but I don't think that I'm going too far out on a limb in saying that this is complete bullshit.

Statement: You guys aren't used to a wait like this because you're from Virginia where they roll up the sidewalks at night. Vegas is a 24 hour town. (He had Tripp's licence in his hand).

Reality: You don't need to be an expert linguist to peg my accent as being distinctly New York. So don't give me shit about 24 hour towns, because we invented the shit motherfucker. And if this is such a hot happening 24 hour place how come we had to wander around the hotel for twenty minutes before finding someplace to eat?

It went downhill from there. The longer the conversation went on the more absurd it got. I was glad that Tripp was there with me to witness it all. Together we could laugh at it. Alone I think I might have flown into a rage.

When he finally get through the paperwork of checking us in, douchebag pull out a map of the hotel complex. "OK. We're here" and he circles a spot on the left side of the map. "Your room is here," circling a spot on the far left side of the map, "in Pavillion 5." It's important to point out that there are no two points on this map that could possibly be farther from one another.

Tripp and I break into hysterics instantly. Running with it, I point to a spot on the counter about a foot beyond the border of the page, "Is there any chance we could get a room somewhere out here? I'm in the mood for a stroll."

At this point Tripp is laughing so hard he's nearly in tears and he's clutching at his surgery incision. The guy looks up at us with a bewildered grin and chooses this moment to say the smartest thing that's come out of his mouth so far, "Would you like something closer?"

We would indeed. "Something closer" turned into a King size bed we had to share, but it beat carrying our bags for a half a mile across the complex so we took it.

"Something closer" also had an air-conditioner that sounded vaguely like the Concord and smelled like it's exhaust. Something closer was also on the 14th floor, accessible by an elevator jam packed at all times with the dregs of the earth. It had the annoying habit of reversing course in mid-trip and going back to floors it had already visited, stopping to open its doors while a sexy feminine vioce informed us that, "We are experiencing technical difficulties.

Honey, you have no idea.