Leaving Las Vegas
For the most part the city of Las Vegas is irrelevant to my life, that is except once a year when I come here for the SIA tradeshow. It’s fine, I don’t really mind it. But after 47 or 48 hours the ready button pops and it’s time to get the fuck out.
So … about this year’s trip? Reconnected with my little Transworld family—Nick, Annie, Muzzey, et cetera—and went with the flow. About eight cab rides a day. Lots of old friends, lots of “what have you been up to”s? A three hour sushi dinner. Wandering though an empty shopping mall in Ceasar’s Palace at 2 a.m. enthralled by the Roman sculpture and ceiling murals. An award’s show. Coffee three times daily. Sore feet. Not enough fresh air.
Nick and Ben, two hours into the three hour meal.
Anyway, saw Draplin, saw Schiff, saw Bridges, saw Kelly, saw George, saw Mikey, saw Tina, saw Jessica and Brian, saw Bobby, saw Carboy, saw Huffman, saw Cartwright, saw Cody and Kim, and so on and so forth. But finally, when you’ve been socializing non-stop for two days straight under greasy, florescent lights with about zero alone time and also consuming more than average amounts of booze and less than average amounts of water and vegetables, you sit down for a second on the bed to rest and suddenly you don’t like anything anymore, everything seems dull and dirty and chore-like. And that’s when it’s time to go.
Huffman and Catwright—on to the next dance party.
I gave up on those circumstances after 36 hours, though it should have been more like 5. Props to making it that long.