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...

This Is Your Captain Speaking

When you're afraid of something but you do it anyway, are you really afraid of it? I am one of those people you could classify as "afraid to fly." I say things like "I'm afraid to fly." That's a pretty good indicator. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just booking a flight. There's an incredible amount of deeply internal self-talk going on during the drive to the airport. Chances are I hardly slept the night before. Sometimes people do that cuz they're afraid to miss the flight. I can't sleep because I know I have to get on the flight. I've flown a lot, not as much as one of those crazy businesspeople but enough to have crisscrossed the country numerous times. I've crossed the Atlantic a few times. I've only missed one flight despite sprinting (how afraid are you when you are actually sprinting to board the thing you're afraid of?) from one gate to another in Memphis. I guess I was still high from having landed safely. The best time to ride the roller coaster is immediately after you've ridden the roller coaster. I survived! Let's test it again. One of these times will surely be the disaster I've envisioned every time I buckle in. Maybe that's the part I fear most. My own imagination. Outwardly, I look like everyone else getting on the plane. Smile at the boarding personnel, trundle my carry-on down the jetbridge, give a reassuring nod to the other passengers that I've done this before, glance at my cell phone a few times. One thing I always do before boarding is touch the outside of the plane. It's a thing, like if you connect with the bird it will get you there safely. Then I say hi to the flight attendant, look a little bored while waiting in the aisle, stick my tongue out at the baby when mom isn't looking, brighten when I realize my whole row is empty for the moment, swing into my window seat (if I am so afraid, why do I insist on this view?), pull out my Sudoku puzzle book and purple pen, pop a stick of gum in my mouth, shove my backpack under the seat, buckle my seatbelt, text loved ones goodbye, turn off my phone. And the last thing I see before I bury my head in numbers are the words, "Your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device." Now see, that's all it takes. Every mini peptalk I've given myself that morning from my bed to seat 17F is shot to hell. I am painfully aware that my seat cushion can be used as a flotation device. I've read that thousands of times. If someone had written "Peas taste like chocolate" in that exact spot on the seatback in front of me I would probably be eating them right now. I act like I'm doing puzzles, but inside I'm thinking why do I need to be reminded every time I fly that I could end up floating? Who has not read that yet? Can we just take it off of there? I want to stand up and say, hey, any first timers on board? This your first time flying, miss? Well, let me tell you something in case you haven't heard. Your seat cushion floats. It's a miracle of science. In the unlikely event of an emergency water landing, you will be fine. The thing is, we don't believe you fully grasp that by me telling you, or the flight attendant telling you, or the in-flight safety video and seatback pocket card telling you. In the likely event that you will forget this important tidbit as we plummet toward Lake Mead, we have written it in Arial caps bold on the seatback in front of you, at eye level so that you may read it and be reminded at the very instant you need to know it. Of course, your head will be between your knees, so perhaps we should have tattooed it on your ass when you boarded.

It doesn't take much to get me thinking about what could actually go wrong while I'm suspended 35,000 feet over purple mountains majesty. Of course, my visions are peppered with every aviation misstep and horrific crash known to man. I picture the plane bursting into flames at least twice during the flight. The first time is right when the plane takes off. It's so loud and things shake and one time I saw smoke coming out of a vent and that was the flight that an orange-vested mechanic with a really big wrench visited just before take-off. I thought what if he missed something? Maybe he went back for a different wrench and we took off anyway and now, boom. That's when I see the fireball come down the aisle. My palms get sweaty and my mouth goes dry just thinking about it. I take deep breaths and eventually the fireball morphs into a nice flight attendant who asks me to please not hug the seat in front of me and call upon the Lord Jesus Christ Our Saviour just yet. Would I care for a sedative? I mean, I really have no reason to be afraid. Not until we start to land anyway. And if it's particulary windy I'm fairly certain the plane will burst into flames. I know it will if there's lightning. I don't know why I assume the worst when I have never really had a bad flight. I'm a little claustrophobic and I'm not good with heights, but those things don't even enter into the equation. I fear the fireball. The odds of that happening are somewhere in the neighborhood of me winning planet Earth, I'm sure, and for that reason I am mildly okay with having not hit it big in Vegas just yet. I have to fly there by way of Miami (don't ask) in two weeks and I am already nervous about boarding. While I'm there I will be nervous about hitting it big. So when I get on that flight home with $13.1 million in my backpack, I'm buying it an extra seat and strapping it in. I want to make sure it's floating next to me on the other side.

Deal Me In

In keeping with the order of things, I'm due to talk about Vegas. But I want to kick this off by giving a shout out to Jessika Baier who auditioned for American Idol in Puerto Rico and may appear in the episode next week that features Rico auditions. Back when I was famous for my hometown talk show (filmed in a barn in Grass Lake), Jessika appeared as my guest several times. Randy and I sort of tracked her singing and pageant career. We followed her parade appearances. We were borderline stalkers. Now that she may be even more of a star, I'm glad to say I knew her when. She's so damn cute you will just want her to kick ass on AI. Here's hoping she does.

Meanwhile...today's hot topic: Las Vegas! I LOVE Las Vegas. People say it's a horrible place with all the sins running rampant and people losing their last quarter every second of every day, but I'm here to tell you it is an awesome place to spend 72 hours straight wide awake and $900 you do not have. I could walk up and down that strip all day taking my chances on random games of chance, perchance to dream a little dream for me. My favorite casino was imploded a while back (the one with the clownface...Boardwalk!), but that was inevitable. My other favorite (O'Shea's, hole in the wall, twice the apostrophe!) is still around. It remains the one place I have: A.) Gambled in a bathing suit (under my clothes...a challenge to pee) and B.) Had a conversation with a highly intoxicated Latino man in an all white suit. I try to get to Vegas once a year because my accountant moved there and no one does my taxes like Lea. I have followed her to the best place on earth to blow your refund. Even if you don't get a refund! Some may worry I have a little gambling issue, but please don't. I'm a responsible adult and I have the 800# memorized. At least the 800 part. If I ever have to call them it will be for insight on the best machine to play. I much prefer cards or roulette, but I have to say, some of those themed slot machines with the bonuses and the flashing and all the hoopla are quite compelling. I remember when I flew, er, played my first Top Gun machine. Wowza! All I wanted to do was get all Gooses on the payline or launch into the Top Gun bonus. The music was super loud and the seat vibrated every time there was a flyby. Then it got old and I was into machines with fish. Reel It In (sounds promising), Goldfish Bonus (fish kisses!) and Lobstermania (actually won something at the airport). When things go awry, I even have a foolproof fallback position: Hexbreaker. The worst you can do on that machine is lose $20 because it is more than likely your last $20. Surprisingly, this combination of desperation and lack of future funding lends itself to winning. I once won $10 on my last $20 using Hexbreaker and then promptly stuffed all $30 into a machine that featured a dancing cactus. The drinks were free!!! I think in my next life I would like to be a casino dealer for Let It Ride, Three Card Poker or Roulette. I've been squeezing a stress ball for years in anticipation that it could happen in this life. I can snap a marble around the toilet bowl like you wouldn't believe. I would not be like some dealers out there who are dull or grumpy or act in many ways like the House is theirs, including the budget. I would wear my shiny vest with pride and encourage people to "bet the farm," "go all in," "hit the ATM." Of course there are consequences. That's what you deal with the other 362 days a year. I'm hitting Vegas in March, staying at the Wynn (ooooooo, shi-shi but for free-free!) and my mission is the same as always which to some is the definition of insanity. But I know of no other way to try to get my millions. Even if everyone who reads this gave me $1, I'd only have $7 ($8 if my cat would get a freakin' job. You heard me.).