Jack to Reality

Vegas has a way of illuminating an otherwise forgettable moment. I guess that's why what happens there always stays there. Try to tell someone else about it when you're not there anymore and it just doesn't have the same luster. I just got back from Vegas this morning and I feel like my head is still there. Must have something to do with falling asleep on a jet plane and waking up at my desk... I still have the Goldfish Bonus song ringing in my ears and I keep seeing 17, 20, 32, 5 and 00 / 0 float across my screen. We were there for 4 days. I was a bit sauced for 3.5 of them. I think this is because you can pull up a chair to any given game of chance and within moments a woman in some form of mesh hosiery and a too teenie bra asks you if you want a cocktail. Looking at her like it's 8:00 a.m. because it's, well, 8:00 a.m. is a natural reaction, but what becomes even more natural is your acceptance that she is dressed properly for Friday morning at the Rio and you would in fact, love a cocktail. After all, you've been here since yesterday. Minutes after she delivers your breakfast Jack and Diet, it comes as no surprise she is now the lead dancer spotlighted in a one-woman show atop a row of slot machines 6 feet away. Of course she is. She's not doing anything until you need another drink anyway. It's not like that at home. It's not like that at work. It's not like that anywhere else, really. Order a drink at Chili's and you'll be lucky if the big guy behind the bar remembers your straw. He's not going to start tripping the light fantastic for you. It's such a letdown. Your expectations for entertainment and stimulation soar in Vegas. Everything's a show. Everything's as lit up as you are. It's hard to shake that VIP feeling when you come home. Things dull quickly; there's no action here. No one's trying to accost you with racy booklets of chicks boasting aeriolas too big for their stars. No one's drinking out of a 3 foot genie bottle. No one's removing their oxygen mask to hit a cigarette while simultaneously pressing Max Bet. It's too quiet. There's just the usual hum of the office lights. Every time the phone rings I think I caught a scatter for 30 credits, but it's just Verizon. Transitioning is always the hardest part. Vegas is fading fast and reality is at the door ready with a smile and a handshake. Welcome back. I've got your bills. You need to make an eye appointment. No, I did not bring drinks. What's this $2 for?

While I was in Vegas I thought about my cocktail of choice and topic #25: why Jack is better than Dad. I'm referring to Jack Daniels and Old Granddad. The thing is, I enjoy both. There was a time when I much preferred Old Granddad. I liked the sound of it. I liked the raised eyebrow ordering it would illicit. I liked it's grainy, alcohol-y taste. It's powerful stuff, the Dad. I made fast friends with the very few others who shared my passion for it. Whenever Granddad was not available, I would fall back on Jack or Jim. For a while I thought Jack and Jim were interchangeable, practically twins. But Jack surfaced, the cream rose. Jack is simply smoother and rarely makes me regret him in the morning. It's not like I go around pounding shots of whiskey and/or bourbon to determine their distinctions. I'm not an expert; I don't pontificate. I merely befriend and then see who lasts. Jack has endured, no question. Granted, I can only have so many nips and it's best we part ways for the night (and perhaps a few days after). Maybe I hook up with a Mich Ultra or two in between, but it always comes back to Jack. Bartenders and friends have told me to avoid the Diet part, stick to Coke or even Coke Zero, but I can't help it. Coke is too sweet and Zero is not often an option. I'm sure my liver, spleen and whatever else can turn green is hoping I'll give it up soon, but I am a whiskey girl at heart, I guess. As long as I keep hitting the gym, wearing the patch and avoiding heights, a few swigs of my favorite blend can't do any real damage, right? I vow to re-evaluate in 10 years. Maybe by then I'll favor pina colatas. I do like getting caught in the rain...

Smoke 'Em If You Gotta

The last time I smoked a cigarette (I think) was the summer between my junior and senior year at MSU. And it's not like I was stressed out by finals or something and smoked all summer long. When I say a cigarette, I really mean more like a half a cigarette cuz I split it with my sister as we were tooling around in my Dodge pick-up truck with the windows rolled down and Bad to the Bone blaring on the radio. She found them in my glove compartment and raised an eyebrow at me, so naturally I lit one up. I want to say they were Virginia Slims but probably they were Camels or Marlboro Lights, long forgotten by a friend or that hitchhiker I picked up in an earlier episode. Turns out Tess and I are horrible smokers. We tried to look cool but it's hard to do that when it takes you 20 minutes to light the thing because you don't want to actually inhale. I think when it comes to smoking, inhaling is the key. You gotta breathe that shit in. You gotta want it. Even if you don't, in order for it to work, you at least gotta act like you want it. We finally managed when Tess decided to dangle it from her lips and talk like a union worker while lighting it. I guess if you put yourself in context you can do just about anything. I want to remind you that was the last time I smoked a cigarette (cigars are another blog), which everyone knows is entirely different from the first time you smoke a cigarette. The first time I smoked was shortly after I met Jim, when I was a freshman at MSU. So you can see why I always tell people I was a smoker in college. Hated to quit, but I still wear the patch to this day just in case. Jim was a smoker and a fast friend. He had a mohawk which was awesome and a pierced ear and a sly smile and twinkly blue eyes. He was quite gay at a time when I was quite not (yet). I loved his stories and his witticisms and his generally broody yet suddenly cheerful disposition. But the thing that impressed me most from the moment I laid eyes on him was his ability to walk and smoke a cigarette at the same time. Listen, I was not born or raised in a Hoover, but my only real exposure to smoking was my Oma who I can only remember from the waist up at the kitchen table enjoying an occasional nicotine fix, wisps of smoke trailing upward and losing themselves in her curlers. I never actually saw her on a walk with a cigarette. It's not like I didn't know it was possible. It's just...Jim looked so frickin' cool. Let me tell you, I was inspired. I don't know that I've admitted this to many, but I was so moved by his abilities that I actually bought a pack of Marlboro Reds - it took me several minutes of practice to pronounce it properly to the clerk, but I had to do it cuz that's what Jim smoked. As soon as I left the store, I started walking and smacking the pack against my palm like I'd seen Jim do. I honestly don't know what this does other than hurt your hand after awhile, but it makes a cool sound, even if I was doing it upside down. I think it helps clear your head cuz that's when I realized I didn't have a lighter. But I can pronounce that, so it was no trouble really walking into a different store to buy one of those. I tried to look cool opening the pack. I'm pretty sure it was obvious to anyone watching me dance that I was new to this. I finally managed to put a cigarette to my lips and light the son of a bitch just like Jim. I breathed in and blew out just like Jim. Unlike Jim, my eyes watered and I coughed while trying to hide my eyes and suppress the cough. Waving the smoke away from your own face is probably a sign you shouldn't have started it. Maybe if I walked a little... so I mosied down the sidewalk with a lit cigarette in one hand, an open pack in the other and all the time in the world. What a glorious feeling. Jim feels like this every day? Lucky bastard. I took another hit. Squinted my eyes this time and they didn't water as much. Blew the smoke out and pointed at a squirrel with my cigarette. "Hey, you. I'm smokin'. And walkin'." And more coughin'. I didn't think I would get it immediately, but I had hoped I would, I don't know, love it eventually. Not so much. I managed to smoke the whole cigarette but I gave the rest to Jim. He never asked why there was one missing from the pack. Maybe he was used to it. I wondered how many other foolish friends of Jim had tried to mimick his smoke-walk and, instantly defeated, gave him the other 19. Probably kept him in smokes till he graduated. I guess I'm just not the smoking type. I have friends who smoke and friends who don't and whether they do or not has never really precluded friendship. It's a little smelly, but hey, so's my cat so what are ya gonna do? That's why they invented Febreeze. Which, by the way, you should not spray until they put the lighter down. Eyebrows do grow back, I'm told. But the look of surprise never really goes away.