b e e f e n c h i l a d a d o t c o m

My pal from college, Little Jimmy, was in town for a conference this week. I picked him up from the airport and dropped him off at the MGM Grand, where he was staying. It turns out he was booked into the West Wing, which is the newly-remodeled wing what is aiming for the hipster demographic. I must say, the room was fair-to-middling pimpin'. As I described it at the time "This is the room you book when you've decided you're going to get the hooker for the whole night."

The main access to the West Wing is through a very slick but also nicelt quiet lounge- It was very classy, as was the plastic rack on the barmaid working there. Anyhow, I showed Little Jimmy where to catch the tram to where his conference was (he got on the Las Vegas Monorail, instead, but that is another story). We wound up back at the West Wing Lounge for a few drinks before I headed home, and I found myself dying for a smoke. I cadged one off the first person I saw smoking: a vaguely attractive woman wandering by. She asked if it had been a rough week that made me fall off the nicotine wagon and I said "yeah, sort of" (actually, it was booze that made me fall off the nicotine wagon, but bogus pleasantries require less thought than the truth). She the said "Well, maybe I can make your week better, if you want," and handed me her card, reproduced below:She then proceeded to wait around, as if I was supposed to hand her $ on the spot and tell her to meet me in my room. I said "Look, let me ditch my buddy and I will call you in an hour. My name is Al, by the way" (Bonus double lie points- I totally did not call her and my name is not Al). Anyhow, it took eight years in Vegas before a working girl gave me a business card in a bar. Am I officially a native yet? Christ, I hope not.

PS: As you might be able to tell if you are possessed of a particularly insightful mind, I changed the number on her card to a "555" prefix. I am sure there is some minor provision buried in the Patriot Act that could land my ass in jail for "Promotion of Alternative Lifestyles" or something like that for putting a hooker's business card on the interweb. Also, given the recent spate of folks who get busted for doing things they shouldn't be because they advertised, I figure leaving the number unchanged might land "Cynthia" a phone call from Metro vice squad. Not that I am a fan of unlicensed prostitutes, but after all, the ho did hook me up with a Newport.

Was at the Foundation Room last night. Bumped into a guy who looked remarkably like Dave King. I asked said guy if he was indeed Dave King, and when he acknowledged being the same, I told him he rocked and offered to buy him a drink. He declined.

So far, the story is just like what happened when I ran into Kim Deal in a bar in Columbus, OH back in '98.

However, unlike Kim, Dave then said "How about I buy ye one, instead?" And then he did. A Guinness. We exchanged pleasantries for five minutes or so, and wandered off to our respective groups.

Mass props to JB for dragging me along and to my new pal Jay for having us up there as guests.

Wound up in a private box, Las Vegas Motor Speedway for the Nascar thing on Saturday. No idea who won. Watched the race for a few minutes. Spent most of the race doing shots and smoking cigars with my host (what kind of ingrate am I to decline the wishes of the guy tolerating my presence?).

Wound up with a pit pass in chubby little hand. I am waiting for a guy who was also there to send me pics, as I am a fool and forgot my camera. Will post them when I get them.

Damn but I was drunk. Crazy props to the Curator of the Nozzleum for dragging me along.

anything more thoroughly rad than The Yooper Crawler. That's right: it's a self-propelled ice fishing hut with built-in auger, propane heat, live well, fish finder, and stove. Holy shit but I want one.


Mad props to the Passive Pickle for bringing to my attention that what has been missing from my heretofore shitty life.

THE OSCARS ARE BULLSHIT AND I AM BOYCOTTING THEM UNTIL REDD FOXX GETS A POSTHUMOUS LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD.
Which reminds me- I finally found some current production "Sanford and Son" T-Shirts, and was happily prepared to buy at least a hundred dollars' worth (I didn't care if that got me three shirts or ten), until I realized that the smallest size they came in was XXXL. I am hardly diaphanous, but that's a full freakin' X more than I can hang.

Moral of story: I must add 40 pounds and get me some of those shirts. Or get some and wash them in HOT water.

PS: Dear Retards: David Cronenberg already made a movie called "Crash" you pathetic assmops.

These are the pics from Poker Night in the Woods. Thanks to Charlie for hosting on his back 40 (more accurately, his waythehellnorth 40) and to Eric I. for snapping these.


Pre-poker social hour (a.k.a. "beer and snow")


Me and Tundra J, Looking All Rugged and Shit


Cookie Break While I Scrape Hot Candlewax Off My Flesh


Poker Tent Lighting is Far Manlier than Your Punk-ass Fire Codes!