The Wild Comes Indoors

I've mentioned before how amazingly still the desert is, but we all know that something must be crawling around out there.  I've not seen a whole lot of fauna in the wild, but today the wild came in to us.  It's called a camel spider.  It's large, and it's absolutely disgusting.

Gross, gross, gross.  Scorpions are also common out here, though thankfully I've yet to see one.  Employees warn you when you walk around the greenhouses to pay attention to where you put your hands and feet as you look through the plants.  It's not just the goblins that will get you if you don't watch out.  

Primmest of the Primm

Pam asked me what I wanted to do today, and on a whim I said I wanted to go to California.  Dennis suggested we dip our toes into California territory via Primm, so off we went.

Primm, like so many small towns in Nevada, is inexplicably settled in the middle of nowhere.  It's a tourist trap 30 minutes outside of Vegas consisting of three casinos and an outlet mall.  It also boasts exactly one apartment complex, but outside of that there is no residential housing so practically everyone who works in Primm must commute from Vegas.

For me, the big tourist draw was the fact that Primm is home to the Bonnie and Clyde death car located at Whiskey Pete's.  Like The Excalibur on the strip, Whiskey Pete's looks like an oversized White Castle.  Classy.

The death care makes it totally worth it though.  Plunk down in the middle of the casino floor is a nice showplace for the car.  I didn't count, but supposedly 167 bullet holes riddle the thing.

The small exhibit also includes the shirt Clyde was wearing when he was shot in Louisiana in 1934.  The tag sewn into the shirt reads, "Wasson's Towneshirt, Indianapolis."  Good ol' Wasson's!

Close inspection of the shirt did reveal a few blood stains, but obviously the shirt had been cleaned at one point.  The long cuts across the chest and the sleeves were made by the undertaker.  The shirt also revealed that Clyde was a small guy--the shirt almost looked too small for me.  The sign said that Clyde was 130 lbs. and Bonnie was only 4'11" -- a tiny but tyrannizing couple.  

The small exhibit at Whiskey Pete's also included a bullet-proof 1931 Lincoln used by Al Capone.   The glass is bullet-proof and the panels of the car are lined in lead.  I wish I knew how much the thing weighed and what kind of miserable gas mileage it must have gotten.  While sporting quite a few bullet holes itself, it was indeed in much better shape than the Bonnie and Clyde death car.  Better design through engineering, better engineering by design.

Part of the parking lot at the outlet mall in Primm spills into California, so I literally went 40 feet into California then back out again.  What lies 40 feet within California territory?  A small building that sells lotto tickets.  You have to go to California for lotto tickets because it's illegal in Nevada.  Lewis Carroll couldn't write these jokes...or these laws.

A Friday Night

Pam felt like heading out last night, though it wasn't immediately clear why.  As soon as we left the house she said she wasn't feeling well.  On we went, though, toward a piano bar on the near northeast side of town.  Actually getting there didn't make Pam feel any better.  She didn't like her drink (bartender was too stingy with the white zin) and didn't like our seats (situated directly around the piano).  "I can't talk with the piano player being so close to us," Pam complained.  "What would you like to talk about if only you could?" I asked her.  "The quickest way to go home.  I hate this music," she added further.  And it's true.  As I've often complained, I don't know what compels reasonably competent singers to deluge the audience with nothing but pop covers songs from the past thirty years.  They can do better than that.  Something had to be done.  Sitting next to the piano player as I was, I asked for Cole Porter's "Night and Day."  He and the singer kindly obliged with a very nice Porter medley.  "Billie Holliday's 'Don't Explain,'" I asked for next.  They wouldn't touch it but did offer me "God Bless the Child."  Pammy started to perk up.

"'It's Almost Like Being in Love,'" I wanted after that.  The duo told me they would sing me every top hit of 1947, or almost every hit.  It was a valiant effort at comprehensiveness for sure.  Pammy and I were pleased.

In fact, Pammy was so pleased that she didn't want to go home after we practically closed the bar  down.  "Let's got to The Orleans for some blues!" Pammy insisted.  The blues had already gone to bed by that point.  "Let's find Rico!"  Rico wasn't performing last night.  "Let's take a ride down the strip!"  No, no, no.  "It's Friday night, Pam.  We'll be sitting on the strip for an hour and I'll probably still miss the fountain at The Bellagio.  Let's not.  We said never again after the last time," I reminded her.  This was all to no avail.  We put the top down on the convertible and prepared to cruise down the six mile strip from The Stratosphere to the Luxor.  

We sat, and we sat, and we sat.  Traffic, inexplicably, doesn't move on the strip.  In spite of the crush of the crowd and the heat of the cars, it IS always a good time just loitering on the strip.  I even caught more of The Bellagio's fountain show then I normally do.  Then my view got blocked by a Chippendale's moving advertisement.  For a solid 15 minutes I stared at this:

The ads are basically huge billboards positioned on the back of a truck and driven back and forth along the strip all day.  We got boxed in by some similar adds for prostitutes ("These girls want to get to know you NOW!" the truck informed us), but I was too lazy to get my camera back out of my bag at that point.  There is always something to while on the strip. Just don't get too picky about what you're likely to see, ok?

Wash. Rinse. Repeat

Last night we went to Dennis' favorite of the dive bars.  Monday night seems to be open mic night everywhere in Vegas.  Dennis warned me that it would be an older crowd, but I found it to be a lively one nonetheless.  I forgot to bring my camera along, so I can't show you what you missed.  I can, however, tell you that the dance floor looked like a cross between an Arthur Murray student exhibition and a Fosamax commercial, which is to say that there were a lot of elderly people swing dancing, even to Weber's "Music of the Night."  *sigh*  I've heard the same guy sing the same song a half a dozen times at this point.  My question is this: if all of the performers out here are soooo talented, then why do they only sing the same three songs over and over again?

Anyway, I met a handful of new performers.  Vegas is a very huggy-kissy sort of place.  I was just about to say hello to one of the singers when she ended up swooping in for a kiss on the cheek.  She caught me mid-word, and I think I ended up licking her.  Oops.

The best in show for the evening turned out to be our waitress.  She got up at one point to do some violent and sustained hip gyrations to the song "Wipe Out."  It was impressive.  I commented to one of our table mates my admiration, and my neighbor blithely informed me, "She was a pole dancer before this job."  Forget the karaoke singers--get that girl a pole!  I know true talent when I see it!

One of Vegas's most talented saxophonists (so I'm told since I've never heard the guy play) came over to me and asked me if I was a scientist.  Apparently I was sporting a keen and intelligent look for the evening.  "Unemployed philosopher," I corrected him.  Instant approval.  It's funny, but this may be one of the few places where the moniker wins you a hint of street credibility.

Pam told me not to tell anyone this story, which means that I must tell you.

No one is sure what got into her last night, but after dinner Pam decided that the moment was right to take some exercise.  "I'll join you for a walk, if you like," I told her.  No, walking is too much work.  Dennis had just bought himself a new bicycle a few days ago, so now there were enough bikes for everyone in the house.  Spin around the block it was.

Pam warned Dennis and me that she hadn't been on a bike in 40 years, and true to her word, her form was a bit rusty.  It's difficult to describe just how she managed to crash.  The circumstances were extraordinary--the bike was stationary, kickstand out, and still in the garage.  Yes, it's true, Pam didn't even make it out of the garage without injury.  Down she went, yelling at Dennis and me the whole time.  While incapacitated on the ground like a beached seal (that is, a beached seal with a bicycle on top of it), she screamed, "Why didn't you guys help?!  You just stood there as I fell!"  And the accusation was completely true; Dennis and I did nothing.  "It just seemed inconceivable that you'd keep falling.  I thought any second you'd catch yourself."  So went my excuse.

Today Pam has a bruise on her left leg but is otherwise recovering nicely.

For no good reason other than the weather was unseasonably mild after our .08" of rain yesterday, Pam and I decided to hit some of the nearby greenhouses.  Cactus Joe's was pretty awesome.  Tons of cacti and yard art for sale.  I wish I'd had my real camera with me to take some better pictures.  Marta, you'd love the place!

They also had oodles of fossils, glass, rock and mineral pieces, and some nice looking jewelry from a handful of local artists.  I don't normally wear a lot of jewelry, but one little bauble made by a gal named Cece did speak to me.  It's a pendant made from a dip pen nib.  

Crave Attack

You know how in horror movies you see vampires being drawn out into the street owing to their lust for blood?  Their story is my own...only I'm not in it for blood...I'm in it for the fried twinkies!

The yellow cake dissolves flawlessly into the breading, and the cream turns into a delightfully gooey center of unidentifiable mush.  The powdered sugar is a bit excessive.  I got it all over the bar top and consequently made it appear as if I'd spilled some sort of illicit substance all over the place.

Want a fried twinkie for yourself?  It requires a trip to Fremont Street.  Dennis pooped out on us, so Pam started flashing me these beseeching eyes at me that asked, "Will you drive?"  (She herself was suffering under the weight of a White Castle slider craving.  I'm not sure if there are any other places to get those nasty burgers in Vegas outside of the Mermaids casino.)  I-15 on a Friday night?!  I felt more than equal to the task!  Dennis gave me some pointers on how to get my parking stub validated, which involved making a $1 bet on a blackjack machine last long enough for me to flag down a casino worker to punch my ticket.  (Parking is "free" for active gamblers.  Woot!  I'm active!)  I felt my casino savoir faire skyrocketing.  

I was expecting an even freakier crowd on a Friday night, but Fremont Street proved to be fairly tame.  The crowd was smaller than when we went on Thursday, and I'm unsure if this was due to the fact that it wasn't a holiday weekend this time or if the body count was down owing to the wildfire that closed I-15 coming into to Vegas from Los Angeles.  There were a handful of Elvis impersonators and a half dozen naked women walking around in pasties and heels, but other than that the sideshows were tame.  The main band last night was a country cover band, which didn't appeal to either Pammy or me.  We took our fried goods into the street in search of other entertainment.  For a while I tried snapping pictures of people's bottoms who earned Pammy's derision, but it's tough to balance a camera and a fried twinkie at the same time.

While there are plenty of entertainers who set up their act on Fremont Street, there are also scores of entertaining civilians who are just caught up in their own joie de vivre.  

Pam got a wee bit restless though and decided it was time to move on.  "Let's go to The Orleans for some blues music," Pam insisted.  "Where is it?" I asked.  "I don't remember," Pam admitted.  Thank goodness for GPS.

The Orleans, based on size and layout, looks like the typical off-the-strip casino.  The cars you see to the right of the picture made up three lanes of an extremely backed up valet area.  

There was a lounge area directly in front of the stage, but Pam and I could only find seating around the bar.  There was a decent view of the stage and a fascinating look into the world of Vegas novelty drinks, including $24 margaritas served in a giant plastic leg.  

The music was enjoyable enough, though one of my gripes persists--every artist is a cover artist. There's not a lot of original music to be had.  As at any casino, gambling consoles are built directly into the bar.  As Pammy sat and sipped, I decided to get $5 worth of blackjack in.  The machines are interesting.  If you click around enough it will tell you about the gaming algorithm.  (The dealer holds on anything over 17, holds after six cards no matter what, that it's using a 52 card deck, etc.)  However, it tells you nothing about the card dealing algorithm.  What a load of crock!  For every one blackjack I was dealt right out of the gate, the dealer managed about seven.  I lost holding a 20 way too often.  The thievery is blatant and shocking.  It did lead me to wonder about different card dealing algorithms for different parts of the casino.  They say the loosest slots and games are near the high traffic areas because the owners want patrons to see people winning and thus entice them to try their hand.  I certainly wasn't at a loose machine, but $5 did give me a surprisingly long amount of play time considering I'm a rapid fire player.  I began to wonder if I was being miserably drawn on (as opposed to being mercifully busted in quick time and forced to feed the machine more money) in order to encourage me to drink more at the bar.  Whatever the casino's nefarious plans for me, they got no further than my $5.  I've had my fill of gambling for the decade now.  I'll try again in 2025.

Another thing I love about Vegas is the valley at night.  Coming home, the lights of Anthem (another Vegas suburb) stretch up the hills and to the base of the mountains.  It's a beautiful sight and impossible to photograph properly with my little camera.  The building to the left is South Point Casino.  

Lest their be any doubts in your mind, unemployment is hard.  All of my skills are put on hold while I'm left to float around with an idiot smile on my face.  Oh the indignity!  Is this not the face of suffering and strife?   (Pam thought it was very important to include the alligator in the image.)

I've gotten multiple requests to reveal the state of my legs.  As you can plainly see, I've not managed to score a tan at all after three weeks in the sun.  That's the power of SPF 10,000!

Toes up!