$5 (Sticker Shock)

Woke up after sleeping for 15 hours and went to the grocery across the street. Imagine my shock when - used to Walmart prices - everything I saw was $5!

Orange juice? $5.
Doritos? $5.
Soup? $5.
A frozen meal? $9.50. Okay, that's not $5, but it's like, $5 more than what I was used to paying!

Eeep! I hunted for the cheapest stuff I could find and left with a few days worth of food. I guess I'm going back to Walmart.

Le Retour de Clio

With a roof over my head and a bed under my bod, I turned to the reason why I came out here: poker. Maslow's needs were met, it was time to get back into the game.

I forgot how in Vegas, you get dry almost instantly stepping out of the shower. It makes hair care much simpler, and now that I could take showers, that meant I could get away with funkier styles that in Indiana would have left me detangling for hours over a warm pan of microwaved water. It felt good to get back into work clothes again, I'd been casual for far too long.

In preparation, I took a little disco nap in the afternoon and arrived fresh at 11pm. The Mandalay Bay poker room was packed, but I got a seat quickly at the front. It didn't take me long to figure out that there were seven (7!) local semi-pros playing, two tourists, and me. "What the heck," I thought, "this is an AWFUL game to be in, but let us see how it goes." I wanted to see how I stacked up against the local pros.

As I said, it was an awful game. Right off the bat, my second hand, I get pocket aces. Cool! I'm next to last to act, and there is a lot of action in front of me: one player called the $2 minimum bet, then another raised it to $7. There were 4 other callers, making there about $30 in the pot when it was my turn to act. Now aces is a horrible hand against a lot of people at once, so of course I raise to thin out the field - hopefully going heads up with another player.

I raise: $50. They'd have to be crazy to call. Four other people were crazy! With nearly $250 in the pot, the flop comes 789. I know I'm folding as soon as I see the flop, but the betting in front of me confirms it: someone flopped a straight and my hand is a loser. So right off the bat, I'm down $50. Not a great start. Turned out, three (3!) people flopped a straight! One had 56, one had 6T, and one had TJ. Calling $50 preflop with those hands? Money didn't mean much at this table.

A new tourist sits down wearing a red shirt with the letters, G E O R G I A on them. He instantly becomes known as Georgia. He's drunk and playing very aggressive. I've seen this behavior time and time and time again, and it works well. Just bet a lot of money every chance you get and people will fold to your aggression every time (in these kind of weak games, anyway). He built up quite a stack doing that, betting with absolutely nothing. The man understand aggression and played it well. Unfortunately, he didn't understand much else about poker and soon was sporting a bulls-eye right on his forehead. Everyone was playing snake in the grass... waiting for a good hand, then striking to take all his money.

But that didn't happen. I played a few more pots, folded on the flop, then made a score against Georgia for $100 putting me back to even. Shortly thereafter, the game broke up because it was just me and the locals. They all left in disgust that the game was so bad (LOL) and the four of us left were moved to different tables.

The second table was awesome. A GREAT game, both in terms of entertainment and potential winnings. I ended up staying at that table for thirteen (13!) straight hours. Since this was my first time back, I was pushing limits, seeing how the marathon session would affect my play. Answer? Not much. Once I got into a zone, I was fine. It wasn't until my vision started getting blurry that my concentration started wavering, but that wasn't until 2pm the next afternoon.

In the end, for that marathon session, I was down exactly $100. That's like, -$7.60 an hour, not a very good wage, but hey, it was the first time back in over a year, and I learned a lot, not just about me, but how the game has changed since then. Over the course of 16 hours, I played about 20 hands, folded most of them on the flop and won all the ones I showed down, so I felt really good about those stats. I should have played more hands, but it was my first time back, and I didn't have any bluffing money. I was down most of the night and never got more than $10 up or $200 down. I wanted to keep playing, but it was getting hard to focus my eyes on the cards, so I figured it was time to go home. I barely made it before crashing hard. All in all, a good night.

It's great to be back!

Home Sweet Home

I had to buy a bed, so I bought a $30 blow-up one from Coleman at Target, just like the one I slept on in New York. And, that rolls up to the size of the box that the computer is sitting on, so I can take it with me. Literally, have car, will travel.

My office is a bit lacking, what with there being no desk or chair, but the wall works and the blanket makes it feel like not so much sitting on the floor as sitting on the floor on a blanket. Playing the piano standing up is trickier, but it should just make my playing sitting down better.

It ain't much, but it's in Vegas, it's quiet, it's got trees and grass outside, and it's close to all kinds of good places. Not sure how long I'll be here, but for now, it's home.

Clio Unclenches

Time was running out. I had less than 12 hours of internet and less than 24 hours to find a new home. Locals calls cost $1/each, so I had to dial wisely. After an hour of searching, emailing, and calling, I only have one appointment, with Paul, for a $475 room that looked like (from the online photos) it would do as a worst case scenario.

Getting there was straightforward, but I realize as I arrive I'm not in a good part of town. Street prostitutes are already out - at noon! Chalet Vegas is a 70's era hotel, with cinder-block construction. It's quite run-down. I make my way up to the second (top) floor and knock on the door. A large black man peers behind the screen.

"You here for Paul?"

"Yes, I'm Clio, here to see the apartment?"

"Yeah, come in!" He opens the door, I walk in, he turns around, shuts the door, and stands in front of it. I don't sense danger, but my spine tingles as I realize this is how women get raped. The flat is disgusting. I would never, ever touch any part of my skin to the carpet or floors. There is an oversized sofa and non-matching recliner which again, would never feel my skin without the introduction of untold chemicals (for the chair or me). There's a mattress on the floor in the bedroom. It's basically a studio apartment, with a little divider between the kitchen and livingroom/bedroom. I peer around to the kitchen and find Paul. He looks like Raymond's brother on Everyone Loves Raymond. Talks like him too. His hands are black with dirt. He does the alpha male thing, sitting down, sprawling out to take up as much space as he can, lights up a cigarette (inside) and uses one of two 32 oz Colt 45 bottles to ash in.

They then go into what I instantly recognizes as a rehearsed routine about how great the place is. I notice there are bars on the doors and windows and ask Ken, who I now know to be the next door neighbor (in a flat also owned by Paul) "is there any crime here?"

His response cracks me up.

"I've never seen a cop here."

Uhhh... okay. I could go on about how disgusting the kitchen area was, how yucky the walls were, the broken door jam where the place was obviously broken into, or the little screens and plastic baggies left behind from the former tenant (for the sheltered reader, those are signs the former resident was addicted to crack), but I think you get the idea. I left as soon as I could, but not before taking a photo of the best part about the flat - the view of UNLV's practice field (now being converted into a rodeo - ew!) and the strip. This photo reminds me of the government housing in London, but with blue paint.

(really big version)

I got into my car and nearly cried. What have I gotten myself into? Seconds after, I banish those thoughts to the curb and head back to the Stratosphere to regroup and continue my search. Clint Eastwood didn't have time to bleed; I didn't have time to cry.

When I got back, there was a reply to my post, "Perfect roommate seeking same." It was very terse, but what caught my eye was that the email was composed with a light pink background having darker pink polka-dots. There was no description of the apartment or anything, but I just had a good feeling about it. I set up a time for 6pm with her and 5pm for the musician post that I had seen before moving out here. How cool to live with a singer and songwriter (who just happened to have 5 keyboards!)

... or so I thought! I show up at house after being escorted there, first meeting at Jack in the Box, which, because I never go there, never did, never will, is forever renamed in my mind - against my will - thanks to my former Vegas roomie, B as "Jackoff in my Box". Dammit, B! Anyway, Ken thinks it's too hard for me to find his house, what with it being ONE ROAD off of the major road, Rainbow, so I meet him there and follow him back to the house. He pulls up into the yard between the house and tree and parks. He doesn't wait for me, gets out, and heads inside.

As I walk in, I'm greeted with 4 cats hanging out on the kitchen table. The entry way has an attached living room with an eclectic, but strangely appealing mix of artwork. Beautiful Asian art of pretty rocks sits next to a Renaissance-style Chagall knock-off, which is then next to a neon print of a naked woman, beside a Roman-style bust of some Venus-like woman next to a 60s-era psychedelic tie-dye print. Glancing around the room, I was reminded of how nice Chalet Vegas looked.

He leads me around the house - I don't dare enter the kitchen - and into what he described as "the naked patio" which looks like it would be a super cool place to hang out and do drugs, were it not attached to this particular house. It would seat 20 people easily and another 20 standing before it would feel crowded. Kinda reminded me of Dana Larsen's pad up in Vancouver in that respect, very well designed for partying - apparently, these guys were professionals. It was totally enclosed with high concrete walls and had three (3!) water fountains, each one churning a differently colored green slime. There were three more cats out here and I noticed a litterbox which had more poo in it than an A. A. Milne novel.

We go inside and he shows me what would be my room - for $500/month - an 8x8 foot ick with a tiny bed and more eclectic art. Next to it, is a bathroom - with no bath or shower - adorned with photos of naked women, some quite ... how to say it? ... grotesquely obese.

His room is a converted garage which looked like a pretty cool pad for a band, or a teenager. No windows. At this moment, a guy walks in bearing a striking resemblance to Lionel Richie. "Clio, meet Lionel Richie," Ken says. "Hi, Lionel". Lionel gives a non-committal "ugh". "Is Lionel the singer?" I ask politely, tongue firmly in cheek. Nah, he just lives here. Oh... so it's not just two people in a 5 bedroom house eh? Then another guy walks in. "Is he the singer?" He was not the singer. Turns out there was no singer, just 4 other large dudes living in the house. I then find out I'd be sharing a bathtub with those 4 other guys. That's like, ick^4. As B says, "Sharing a bathroom with someone is like sharing underwear." I get out as soon as I can and head to Monic's, praying she won't have 10 cats, chain smoke, or live in filth.

She's waiting outside for me as I arrive at the gated community, which is good, because she didn't tell me her apartment number. We head upstairs to what appears to be a completely empty apartment. There's no furniture in any room and plain white walls everywhere. Minimalist to the nth degree! E (Monic was her misspelled moniker) turned out to be really cool and we gelled instantly like sisters. She too was impeccably tidy, and quite ambitious. She looked Asian but was really Mexican. We were both pescetarians, similarly dressed, and with similiar hairstyles. We could have been sisters, save me being pale as a ghost. My search was over, the place was clean and we were both helping each other. It was perfect. I gave her $400 for the first month's rent right then and there and headed back to the Stratosphere where for the first time in over a month, I relaxed and slept like a baby.

Fresh Meat

As a woman in Vegas, it can be hard not to feel a little self-conscious. Okay, a LOT self-conscious. From the moment of arrival, visitors (and residents) are bombarded with television, print, marquees and billboards of young, flawlessly beautiful women showing nearly everything in poses that would make Kinsey blush.

All this after my travel diet of fries and fillet-o-fishes (Me: No mayo please. McD's: There's no mayo on it, just tartar sauce.) I'm feeling ... fat. Okay, not fat, but not like the women I've been seeing.

At Panera, I saw no less than two women with shorts so short the fold where the bum meets the leg was clearly visible. Why not? If you're used to having out at the pool, shorts must seem like ample coverage!

In this town, women are routinely treated as sex objects, and some of the ones who aren't (overtly) are basically grown women being treated as children. On the way in, I tuned into my favourite (broadcast) dance radio station. There was a lady calling in who self-described herself as a homemaker with an allowance. She actually used the word 'allowance'. It's been nearly 30 years since I had an allowance. I couldn't decide whether to pity her or envy her!

At any rate, men are definitely staring at me... funny, because I have nothing cleavage-wise for them to ogle. But, since they are used to a culture of beautiful women on display, they stare anyway. One guy in truck that pulled up beside me at a red light was actually craning his neck to gawk at me. I caught him doing this and gave him a look, but he was completely unaffected by it and kept staring as I returned my gaze to the lights ahead.

When I hear the compliment'ry whistle
That greets my bikini by the sea,
I turn and I glower and I bristle,
But I'm happy to know the whistle's meant for me!
- I Enjoy Being A Girl (Flower Drum Song Soundtrack)

900 More Miles

Morning came too soon, mostly because bed came too late. Got up at 3am, but didn't get on the road what with shower and check-out until 4am. Filled up at a nearby Pilot and shoved down some OJ and an egg biscuit from the adjoining McD's and left OK behind me.

Dawn treated me with a gorgeous surprise. I couldn't help but think of that scene from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, when they stop the bus, awed by the vast expanse of land that lay before (and behind) them. I too, found my jaw dropping at first light, and the fates conspired at that moment to deliver a rest area, so I stopped the car and took this 180-degree panorama.

(really big version)

So much sky... The other half looked the same, but was obstructed by the rest area. What a sunrise!

The drive through New Mexico was uneventful. There were tiny little towns littered throughout the freeway, each one with a major truck stop and fast food restaurant, usually in the same building. Not sure what one would do if one lived in those tiny towns, but there seemed to be some kind of refinery-type stuff going on. Not much to see. The one sign of life was Albuquerque, which seemed a lot like Salt Lake City from the highway. I suppose it would be a nice town to live in if you absolutely had to live in New Mexico, but other than that, it lacked appeal. I drove through as fast as I could. All the chain restaurants from back East were noticeably absent.

Arizona was different still. There weren't many towns in the entire 400 mile stretch of highway with Flagstaff being the notable exception, nestled in the mountains. I forgot how stunningly beautiful Arizona was what with her petrified forests, canyons of mineral-stained rocks, meteor impact sites, Indian reservations and national forests. Not much else though (on this highway). After Flagstaff, if you found yourself anywhere in the last 1/4 of your gas tank and you passed an exit without refueling, you'd run out of gas. For real, like, 84 miles of nothing, no exit, nada. And then, it's some bizarre tourist trap selling just about every imaginable piece of chatchke. One store, I swear, had on it's approach a rapid succession of 24 billboards (each) on both sides of the road (48 in all)! Kinda felt like a video game driving through it all. They sold everything from snakes, rocks, blankets, chess sets, to DQ's menu. Eventually, you hit national forests, and you know it by two things. First, there's no money-grubbing advertising of any kind anywhere. Second, the land changes from tundra-like prairie to jaw-dropping rock formations of all kinds. Again, make sure you have plenty of gas cause there's nothing in those stretches... not one sign of life!

Getting to Nevada was mostly painless, but slow. NV is building a fitting addition to the Hoover Dam. Since it is one of the great engineering feats of America, they are building over the dam the largest suspension bridge I've ever - ever - seen. The bypass is for the AZ-NV traffic (so they don't have to go through the Dam traffic - LOL!) In case you don't know, Hoover Dam is surrounded by very tall mountains and dizzying deep valleys. The suspension bridge makes the Dam (and the mountains) look tiny, but all that's lost in perspective 'cause the bridge is about a mile away from the dam. But don't take my word for it, check it out for yourself!

(really big version)

The bridge will be a welcome addition when finished. Going over it added a good hour to my travel time. All that was left was getting down into the valley, and maybe 20 minutes later I got my first glimpse of my new home.


Watch out Vegas, Clio's arrived! The final stats:

Arc-hiving the Dream

The road to Vegas is long, but you get to see lots of fun things along the way! I saw (two) ginormous crosses, one in Missouri, and another one in Oklahoma. Evidently, there is a rivalry, for although I thought they were both massively huge times stupidly big, the one in OK came with the boast, "The Largest Cross in the Western Hemisphere." Praise Jesus!

Getting to Missouri was easy enough, the land didn't change much from what you see along I-70 in Indiana, but once past the mighty Mississippi the landscape turned hilly, like southern Indiana hilly. The Stratus had a bit of difficulty with some of them. I think there's a plug not firing, nothing a little tuneup won't fix. Night fell before I got out of MO so although I had never been to OK before and brought the count of states visited to 45, (only Idaho, Montana, South Dakota, Alaska & Hawaii to go!) it was dark the entire time I was driving through it, which was a not inconsiderable 6+ hours! My guess is it looks like the end of MO and the rest of Texas. The kicker is I had to pay $10 to drive through the silly state! I finally gave out in Amarillo Texas, which is basically the last stop before the wilderness of the western desert takes hold. Stay tuned for quite a dramatic shot of it, taken just after sunrise exactly at the 1/2 point between Indianapolis and Las Vegas!

Amarillo is also the home town of the famous poker player Amarillo Slim. An auspicious sign!

With two night's stay secured at the Stratosphere, there's nothing left but to get to Vegas! It's another 900 mile journey, but the speed limit is 75 (read: 82) out here, so that helps. I don't expect to see many cars until I get to Flagstaff, and knowing there's a room/bed/shower waiting for me no-fuss in Vegas, should be enough motivation to get there in one shot. (If I had to meet people or find a home first... ugh!)

So now... she sleeps for a few hours, will get up and go around 3am which should put me in Vegas around 4pm.

Next stop, VEGAS, BABY!