After a predictably ball-draining weekend in suburban Cleveland, Madden and I left the dehydrated husk of our pal Hogg behind and headed west. Our goal was to get through the middle of the country as quickly as possible, so you’re in for major disappointment if you’re looking for some sexy and scandalous Oklahoma stories. During the hours and hours in a car together, Madden and I did develop a few bits worth noting:
Every time we were dining in a small town diner, we’d have the following imaginary conversation with the server:
Me: I’ll have a half a rack of ribs with a side of baked beans. On a side note, what’s the sex worker situation in this town?
Server: (cheerfully) Robust!
I don’t know why we found that so funny. But hey - you’re still reading so you can only blame yourself if you think about it. The other running gag we had was Madden’s alter ego Jimmy One Straw:
Jimmy One Straw is a character that Madden came up with about 17 hours into the trip. He always has one straw behind his ear. That’s pretty much it. He occasionally gets frustrated when he needs to use a straw for his drink because that means he has to a) either have no straw behind his ear or b) put another straw behind his ear which means that he technically now has two straws. I’ll admit - the character doesn’t have a lot of layers. But, in a surprising twist, Jimmy One Straw killed himself in Vegas. I know! We had no idea he was suicidal! He hid it so well behind his constant enthusiastic shouting about his one straw. I guess you never truly know a hastily created one-dimensional fictional character until he’s gone.
Also, Madden was weirdly obsessed with historic Route 66. Like, to an irritating degree. Every time we drove alongside Route 66, Madden’s little eyes perked up and asked “Is that Route 66?” and started singing the fucking song. It was cute at first. But on the eleventh or twelfth time, I started yelling “It’s a road, Madden! It’s a fucking road! If you like Route 66 so much, why don’t you get out of the car and fuck it?” It was an ugly chapter in an otherwise idyllic journey.
Undeterred by Madden’s incessant jazz standard singing, we powered through the middle of the country and arrived in Vegas where we were joined by our buddy Winslow. Once Winslow arrived, Operation Vegas Douchebag was on!
Huh? Look at those guys! A couple of reeeeeeal Vegas douchebags, am I right?
I had been to Vegas only a few times in my life. I assumed I wouldn’t like it much because it is objectively gross. But still - a good time can always be had with the right folks. So we decided we weren’t going to be our usual cynical selves and were going to enjoy Vegas completely unironically. So we…
Played (and won!) blackjack at the Tropicana with a very friendly strip club limo driver
Watched an Elvis impersonator show. Three different Elvises from different eras… and even an Ann Margaret! It was a lot of fun!
Spent about 40 minutes inside Spearmint Rhino aka the High Pressure Boob Saleswomen Convention. It was by far the least relaxing time I’ve spent around a group of women outside my brief time in the NXIVM cult. (The brand on my pubis mound still itches, by the way. Is that normal? Should I see a doctor about that?)
Stood by the water fountain outside the Bellagio and knowingly nodded to each other as if we just pulled off a heist.
Actually tried to pull off an elaborate heist. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t prudent to spend three months hiring a crew of twelve experts to steal $240 from a supermarket keno machine. But hindsight is 20/20 I guess.
One note on Vegas - every dude was limping. Seriously, I haven’t seen that many overweight limping 60-something white dudes outside a MAGA rally. Not that I’ve ever been to a MAGA rally, mind you. I’ve just seen the footage on the news. Have you noticed all the limping? It’s bizarre. It’s almost like most of the people attracted to the MAGA thing take terrible care of their health because they’re still emotionally middle schoolers. But hey - who doesn’t like a well-done steak with ketchup, am I right?
After 48 hours of Vegas, it is impossible not to be sick of Vegas. Excitement quickly fades into fatigue followed promptly by sadness. But as I looked around at all the musicians, magicians, card dealers, showgirls - the entire ecosystem of service workers that cater to tourists 24/7 365, I had a thought: I could live here. I could do one of these jobs. I mean, I would have to completely give up on all my hopes and dreams. But if my partner left me and I had no more ambition to leave a lasting impact on the world or live a meaningful life in any way, Vegas would be a lot of fun. New people in and out every day, everything temporary. While on the surface that life seems depressing, I can see the appeal. I could imagine there could be a relaxing, nihilistic zen to the whole thing.
But! I’m not ready to give up on my dreams quite yet! I had to finish this road trip. On to Dream Factory USA - aka California! I once heard a diddy say that they know how to party out there.
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