What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Prologue:

My mother-in-law is a third grade teacher and a regular reader of this blog. Based on her glowing recommendation of Las Vegas, she was partially responsible for suggesting that city as a vacation destination. I believe it was around third grade when I learned the art of writing the Five Paragraph Essay for book reviews and such. With that in mind, the following vacation review will be in Five Paragraph Essay form. Donna, I hope you don't take this personally as I would hate to offend a wonderful, patient and caring mother-in-law, a dedicated teacher, and approximately one-fourth of my blog readership.

Introductory Paragraph

Despite what you may hear from third grade teachers, Las Vegas is the worst city on the face of the earth. If Pigeon Forge, TN and Niagara Falls, NY had an illegitimate bastard child, pumped it full of steroids and hired Epcot Center to design the non-air-conditioned nursery, then the result would be close to the Las Vegas experience. Instead of dwelling on the city itself, however, this essay will focus more on the anthropological study of its visitors and inhabitants. I hate crowds and rude, noisy people and Vegas is full of 'em. Because nothing tells the story of a city like those who are attracted to it, I will attempt to highlight some of those that I find particularly representative of Vegas tourists. The three demographical subtopics will be: 1. Middle-aged women with fanny packs; 2. Shady Filipino men in floral print shirts; and 3. Homoeroticized trapeeze swingers.

Body Paragraph 1

Are you tired of pockets? Can't fit any more into that purse? Longing to mimic a marsupial? Why not try a fanny pack? An ideal tote for your Virginia Slims, spare change, and Carmex, fanny packs provide the perfect pouch for the hands-free Nevada tourist. After all, you can't pull the lever on those slot machines with a fistfull of quarters. Overall, the women of Vegas are a predictable bunch. If you're single and under 35, you're most likely wearing high heels and a mid-thigh-leopard-print-mini-skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. Your goal is to get into the clubs without paying cover and getting free drinks (and VD) from the bachelor party frat boys. If you're 65 or older, you're likely hunched at the slots, betting your social security check on the minimum payout line one nickel at a time, probably chain-smoking and possibly crying, slumping your shoulders with each dwindling credit. But the bulk of the women in Vegas (lit. and fig.) are fanny-pack sporting, Disney-T-shirt-tucked-into-Jorts-clad, visor-sporting, middle-aged female with Crocs and an attitude. Inexplicably, they are likely pushing a stroller (or two) and heading toward the buffet line. Too old and too married to get free drinks from the high-rolling Roulette fellas, and too young to play the penny slots on the Triple 7 Quicksilver Double Diamond machine all day, these are the ladies that can't wait to leave their husbands to their smoky table games and get back to their motel so they can let the kids splash in the pool while they relax with a blueberry daquiri in a lawn chair at the Super 8 Motor Inn. They're there in droves. I don't know why.

Body Paragraph 2

If there is a stereotype associated with shady Filipino men in floral print shirts, I am unaware of it. Therefore, the fact that I am put off by their probing, beady eyes is not meant to perpetuate a stereotype. It's meant to create one. Too short and sneaky to be conspicuous, yet too ominous to be completely unassuming, shady Filipino men in floral print shirts are everywhere in Vegas. You get off the elevator - there he is - loitering in the lobby, leering at you from the corner of his eye with a look of contempt. You sit down at the Blackjack table - there's another - puffing a cigar in your face and hitting on 18. You head to the buffet - you guessed it, another Filipino - plate piled high and taking the last of the pimiento olives. Again, I don't have anything against Filipinos generally. I'm sure the majority of them are very pleasant people who don't hang out in dark shadows of casinos looking like they just offed the pit boss and hid his body. But put one in a loud, garish Hawaiian shirt and put a scowl on his face, and you'll not find a more menacing sight my friend. Not ever.

Body Paragraph 3

I'm sure there was a time when a gay circus performer felt like he didn't fit in. Where was he to go with his feathered boa and unitard? Vegas used to be such a man's world. What with its smoky poker rooms, topless revues and mafia owned hotels. Well Viva la France! because Cirque du Soleil has rescued the flamboyant gymnast demographic from the bowels of discrimination. No longer will a performer whose interests include acrobatics, interpretive dance, slapstick humor and ethereal, house music be excluded from those whose talents are valued on the Strip. Too polished to be called a carny, but too outlandishly queer for the mainstream P.T. Barnum crowd, Cirque (as it's called by those in the know, a.k.a. me), is a haven for those who enjoy their circuses (circusi?) brassy and sassy. No longer just spinning plates and bowling pin juggling, this circus is the bee's knees! If by 'bee's knees' you mean 'stupid and boring'. Sorry friends, I know it's popular, but Cirque du Soleil is terrible. Waste of time, waste of money, waste of effiminate Chinese pole jumpers.

Conclusion

In conclusion, in spite of itself, I had a wonderful time in Las Vegas. I don't gamble and I hate (hate!) shows. Yet, something else pulled me 1500 miles west to Sin City. You see, there is one more demographic that I need to talk about before summing up. This demographic is the real reason why I was in Vegas in the first place: The brave cancer patient. You see, my wife and I usually plan a vacation to Mexico every year. It's our escape and our special place. This year was supposed to be extra special. Our five-year anniversary and her thirtieth birthday was last week. Eight months ago, we figured it was going to be a huge celebratory vacation. We had even tentatively booked a trip to Mexico before all of this went down. Then our lives took a detour. Plans were suddenly changed. Flights were cancelled. Because of chemo and surgeries and her need to avoid the sun, we had to decide on a place where we could spend most of the time indoors, yet still get far enough away to try to forget about our worries back home. We settled on Vegas. And it was great. We laughed and we played. We lost money on slot machines and ate big extravegant dinners. We completely forgot about the cancer and those damned treatments. We were as carefree as teenagers. A realization materialized not too far into our trip: Vacations aren't where you're at; It's who you're with. So despite the stupid crowds and lame shows, the loud casinos and shady Filipinos, it's a pretty great memory we'll remember on our fifty-fifth anniversary. So yeah, Donna, I guess it did turn out to be a pretty good recommendation from a wise third grade teacher. Thank you.

Manifest Destiny

Like Fievel Mousekewitz, The Tortfeezor is going west.

Not so much to emigrate and settle with my family of Judeo-Russian mice, but rather to visit and explore the tourist trap that is Las Vegas. I've never been, but I hear there's gambling.

I'll return next week with a full report.

Kid Tested. Mother Approved.

The Tortfeezor is, and always has been, for the children.

I work hard at maintaining a relatively clean site because I know I have a pretty broad range of readers. And by broad, I mean painfully conservative. And by range of readers, I mean my wife.

So in a grand gesture of contempt for our first two Constitutional Amendments, my range of readers (wife) insisted I change my title picture from the very cool looking photo of me with a gun, to something, well, considerably lamer.

Any regular visitor to the site can immediately recognize that my blog has some self-image/identity issues when it comes to layout settings, but I really thought that I'd nailed it this time. The gun picture (now the profile pic) kinda summed up my weekly essays. White, preppy kid in a zip-up corded sweater with a menacing scowl weilding a BB gun. It just kinda screams irony.

That irony, however, as it is with much my humor, was sadly lost on her. It is safe to say that she did not marry me for my witty commentary on my life's painfully embarrassing anecdotes.

She obviously married me for my money.

She also knows full well my stance on any kind of censorship. You see, censorship to me is like a straitjacket on the marketplace of ideas. It should be up to the consumer to decide what is and isn't appropriate. It will sort itself out this way anyhow. All this wicked strict Puritanical nonsense bludgeoning into oblivion every non-mainstream idea is why we live in a bland repetative society devoid of any real edge and smitten with its own banality.

To me, scourging the Bill of Rights is like a swift kick to the crotch. Nevertheless, my First Amendment right to freedom of speech and my Second Amendment right to bear arms does not extend to my marriage and consequently, this blog. So I acquiesced. Not out of agreement of the admittedly fascist policies of a domestic dictator, but out of respect for the woman who puts food in my tummy.

So why do I normally restrict the cursing and off-color humor in my essays on this site? Because that's not who I am. I don't like to write those words and phrases. I can make my point employing an alternative vocabulary. I don't particularly like the vulgar written word.

I am anything but edgy. Yet at home, somehow I'm this gauche pariah. Translation: I'm a boy married to a girl who didn't have a brother growing up. She's been shielded from the crass nature of guys. But in the end, in the War of the Roses, you have to pick your battles.

Pomp and Circumstance

My dog April graduated from obedience class today. She was given a diploma and a hat to wear. She promptly tried to eat both. Other than that, she passed with flying colors. They even took our picture. It's posted on the left side of this page. She's the one without the bad haircut and ridiculous attempt at a goatee.

I was invited to give the graduation speech. Actually I made that part up. But if I was, this is how it would go:

Southside PetSmart Beginner Puppy Class of 2008:

I am honored to be here standing before you today at your commencement. Thank you for such a kind introduction, Instructor Rob. I'm truly humbled to be speaking to such a diverse and intelligent graduating class. First of all, congratulations. And heel.

You've all come a long way since you were all young whelps running around sniffing each others' private parts - yes, Mr. Sneakers, I'm looking at you - you rascal. And Vinnie, the Yorkshire Terrier, why, I remember when all you could do is bark and pee in the corner. Now look at you - you're a regular Lassie - rolling over and playing dead on command. Bravo. No, sit, sit, SIT!

Good boy.

And who could forget the time Hank the Boxer mix tried to eat Roxy the Chihuahua? I still defend you to this day for that Hank! LOL. Roxy was a bitch. Literally.

Oh, the places you all will go. There's no limit to what you can acheive. Who would think now that just 8 weeks ago, none of you could shake? Let alone come when called. Kudos to all of you.

Sure, there have been setbacks. Ginger pooped on the floor, like, nine times. Bandit can't obey the stay command to save his life and we're pretty sure Rocky's mildly retarded. But you've overcome those obstacles! You've reached for the stars and come up with a paw full of moondust! And Snausages.

So don't let anyone tell you that can't do something because you're a dog. You can be AKC registered if you want. You can enter the Westminster Dog Show if you desire. Now in all liklihood you'll run away or get hit by a car before too long. But don't let that bring you down. Dream big.

In closing, be sure that you don't forget what you learned here. If you do forget, it will most likely get you kicked by your owners in frustration after they've spent a long day at the office and come home to find you with a ripped up throw pillow in your jaws. But don't let that discourage you. Retrieve those slippers! Fetch that newspaper! Walk loose-leash! You'll thank yourselves for it. Even if your impatient owners don't.

So Gizmo, Bear, Sasha and Rusty, Dixie, Lucky and the rest, it's been fun. If you take one thing away from me on this day - one thing to keep in mind as you progress through this life as man's best friend - remember to find your own distinct voice in this world.

Unless your wearing an electronic bark collar.

Because getting shocked probably sucks.

Last Call. Ever.

This past Tuesday I observed National Bring Your Hangover to Work Day.
The inaugural holiday, established by me on Monday evening, encourages young professionals to introduce their hangovers to the rigors of the white-collar workplace, while at the same time providing a pointed and cautionary reminder that binge drinking has absolutely no place on a weeknight if you're over the age of 23. Or any other time for that matter.
The goal of the program is to make yourself look as unprofessional and irresponsible as possible as well as promote quick-thinking 'masking' techniques such as the utilization of Altoids and Old Spice to cover-up the lingering stank of various distilled spirits.
Much like Bring Your Daughter (or Son, or Dog) to Work Day, Bring Your Hangover to Work Day is generally a bad idea. The intention is to have the hangover not seen and not heard, just sitting discreetly and quietly in your cubicle. But before you know it, you're fuzzily fumbling with the buttons on the copier and rifling through co-workers purses to find Advil. One thing leads to another and you find yourself in the men's room, contorted under the hand dryer with a handful of paper towels, desperately attempting to rub out the vomit stain from your J.C. Penney Stafford necktie.
Pathetic.
Normally, I know my limits. I like to have a cocktail or two from time to time. But (almost) always in moderation.
Not Monday night.
I completely blame my wife. As we sat on the sun porch, enjoying the warm and breezy summer evening, she watched as I poured myself drink after drink, saying nothing about it. I didn't even realize what I was doing. I thought I was merely intoxicated by her witty conversation and charming smile when in fact it was the three double old fashioneds full of triple-Beam-coke-no-ice I downed in the course of an hour and a half.
I was pleasantly buzzing by the time I hit the sheets. I thought I was whispering sweet nothings into her ear during pillow talk, but in reality I was getting kinda grabby and mumbling Johnny Lee Hooker lyrics instead.
One bourbon, one scotch, one beer, indeed.
So Tuesday morning my head was pounding, I was still congested from the bout of bronchitis the week before and sufficiently queasy from the booze. I held my breakfast down until 11:00 when I ralphed into the third floor men's room toilet (which is finally fixed, BTW).
If you're disappointed in me, you have every right to be. Frankly, I'm pretty disappointed in myself. If you don't know when to say when, I would suggest erring on the side of caution.
Because not being able to hold your liquor might translate into not being able to hold your job.

This has been a Public Service Annoucement from my liver.

Sick and Tired

How do you get a cold in 90 degree weather? Well, I found a way. Technically less a cold than a severe upper respiratory infection, its gotten the best of me. I did go to work this morning, but only out of necessity. And forgive me if the illness causes a lag in postings in the next week or so.
The regular reader(s) of this blog will remember my rant a few months ago (the last time I was sick) about a co-worker who rooted through my trash can full of germy, snotty Kleenexes to find recyclable materials. At the time, I was pretty down on her whole hoity-toity 'look at me, I live such a green lifestyle' attitude. Well, she surprised me this morning by making me a mug of hot tea to soothe my throat. While I in no way shape or form condone or forgive her earlier behavior (or endorse herbal teas of any kind), I must say that it was a sweet gesture and even the worst of all tortfeasors can have some redeeming qualities.
Tea is gross. I'm still a firm believer in that, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings.
So I was very discreet in pouring it down the kitchenette drain.

The Saga Continues...

Now listen, I know that this blog has generally devolved into low-brow, gross-out discussions about the current state of the third floor bathroom in my building, but I feel that it is imperative that my readership (both of you) is educated on the subject. It is not my intention to be crass, but you might not want to read this on a full stomach. The scene is truth, the conversation is embellished.

Pilot screenplay for a new police procedural:
C.S.I.: Crap Scene Investigation
Based on a true story.

SCENE 1

FADE-IN

Setting: Third Floor Restroom, State Government Building - Mid-afternoon; Yellow police caution tape cordons off doorway. Toilet augers and plumbing snakes litter floor. Urinal ripped from wall and lying in pool of filth. Plungers scattered haphazardly throughout. Nary a maintenance man in sight.

Enter Detective DUKE (late 20s, strikingly handsome) accompanied by BARRY from IT (sweaty, overweight, vacant stare).

BARRY from IT
So whad'ya think?

DUKE
Well, it's not pretty.

BARRY
Any clues?

DUKE
Several. Look closely at the HVPSA.

BARRY
The what?

DUKE
The high velocity poop splatter analysis.
It clearly indicates that someone took a dump in the urinal.

BARRY
(laughing nervously, incredulous - yet somehow suspicious- look of contempt on his face)
Disgusting! Who would do such a thing?

DUKE
Someone who had Taco Bell for lunch this afternoon. That's who.

DUKE pauses. Rubs stubbled chin with thumb and forefinger. Pulls on a rubber glove. Points at fallen urinal.

DUKE
You see the way the pattern is spattered across the porceline?
Its a clear sign of irritable bowel syndrome.
Wait a minute! Barry, don't you have I.B.S.?

BARRY falls silent. Look of shame darkens his visage. Yet he throws his hands up in innocence. A paper falls from his pocket. Detective DUKE bends over to pick it up.

DUKE
This is a Taco Bell receipt.
Three chili-cheese burritos, a gordito and a nachos supremo?
Barry, how could you?

BARRY
(defeated, head hanging)
You got me. I did it. But I had to.
Someone was using the stall and I couldn't hold it.
It was either in there or in the sink.

BARRY begins to cry. He turns to run. DUKE radios to dispatch.

DUKE
All units, we have a Code Deuce.
Suspect fleeing on foot.
Male, mid-40s, ridiculous Hawaiian shirt.

DUKE, red-faced, shakes head, looks into camera.

DUKE
It Just! Doesn't! Get! Any! Easier!

FADE OUT

Ballet avant de Toilette

We gotta head for higher ground
We can't come back till the water comes down,
Five feet high and risin'
- Johnny Cash

As I mentioned yesterday, I only use the restrooms here at work when it is absolutely necessary. The previous post was not hyperbole. If anything, it was an understatement of the unspeakable horrors in the third floor restroom.
But I had to work late last night. When I work late, I like to have an afternoon coffee. I'll let you connect the dots, but the physiological cause-effect paradigm of ingesting fluids made using the facilities, in fact, a necessity. A man can only hold so much.
So as I packed up to leave, I reluctantly slipped in for a pit-stop (knowing full well that I'd be face-to-face with the yesterday's aforementioned wall booger). If you were paying attention, I also mentioned that people use the urinal as a wastebasket for their chewing gum, binder clips, wads of paper, band-aids, etc. Of course, as I walked in, the urinal was clogged and nasty mess was spilling out onto the floor.
Before I realized it, I had tread (waded) halfway through the room. Once I figured out that I was ankle-deep in liquid human waste, I gingerly stepped over the puddle (so as not to splash and ruin my pants) to use the commode in the stall.
Now someone had left a about a quarter roll of TP unspooled in the doorway. I didn't see it, so I stepped right on it. The combination of the floor pee with the toilet tissue made a paper mache-like paste on the sole of my shoe. The remaining few sheets flagged out from under my heel.
You must realize by now that there is no sanitary or suave way out of this situation. Either I use my hand to remove the raw sewage affixed to my loafer (gross) or else I walk out of the restroom trailing a toilet paper banner from my shoe. I had my briefcase and sportcoat in my hand and did not want to set them down for fear of them being permanently contaminated. So with the puddle growing and spreading across the floor, I was in grave danger of being encroached upon by this festering cesspool of filth.
I could have panicked, yet I took a deep breath and remembered being forced to watch Billy Elliot on a date. As the crescendo of Tchaikovsky's score swirled in my head, I attempted to step left foot-over-right on the paper in fifth position. This did not work and sent me into an impromptu grand fouetté, nearly sending me sprawling and flailing to the floor. Then I cautiously balanced on one leg and lifted my shoe in a clumsy pirouette. Without much aplomb, I managed to lift my leg high enough to scrape the bottom of my sole on the broken metal door latch. With enough leverage, I successfuly extricated the paper from my heel.
The plumbing was still flowing and I knew I had to get out of there fast. Drowning in raw sewage is pretty much the worst way to go. Ever.
I leapt over the puddle to dry, safe ground. As I walked out, I briefly contemplated going down to the 2nd floor to finish what I never really started.
I didn't press my luck.
I held it until I got home.

Slim Pickins

Who left the booger on the wall above the men's urinal in the 3rd floor restroom?
Seriously, guys, it's been there for a month. I've let it go until now. But we need to talk about it. C'mon, we're all in this together. There's only one bathroom on the floor for about seventy dudes. One stand-up and one sit-down. We gotta look out for each other.
A nose nugget on the backsplash isn't the way to do it.
I have to stare at it every day after morning coffee. It's just hanging there like a tiny, disgusting piece of modern art. If you're expecting someone else to pick it off for you, it ain't gonna happen. I wouldn't do it with rubber gloves and a pair of tongs. Its your snot rocket. You take care of it.
The custodial staff isn't going to scrape it off. This is state government. They got the job because they were the lowest bid contractors. If I was a janitor getting paid minimum wage to clean up after guys like us, I wouldn't wipe off our nasal secretions either.
Didn't have a Kleenex handy? Toilet tissue? Handkerchief? Sleeve? If you come forward and claim the chunk of dried mucus, I will personally purchase you a neti pot for future cleansing.
I have my suspects. Barry from IT and Deepak from Human Resources are on my short list. Chances are, one or both of these shady characters are the same culprits who silently broke wind yesterday on the commuter shuttle.
Then again, I've also caught Glenn from Receivables neglecting to wash his hands after twosies and Manuel in the mail room admittedly doesn't have very good aim. And please flush, gentlemen. For the love of all that's holy, just flush. Twice for good measure.
I appreciate the IKEA catalog left in the stall last week. That was a nice surprise. Would've prefered a Maxim, but it'll do. And whoever brought in the Citrus Magic air freshener is an absolute saint. But it still doesn't atone for the floater left last Thursday or the wads of chewing gum circling the urinal cake clogging the drain.
We all have to realize that we're not as fortunate as the women. We've all heard the rumors. Huge, sprawling clean stalls - four to a washroom! Artwork, flowers and candles. Scented handsoaps! A couch! And bidets! Can you imagine? Bidets!
But we have to make do with what we have: broken tiles with dirty grout, drippy plumbing and a busted stall door latch. So we must rely on each other to leave it as we found it. I guarantee we'll all have a much more pleasant experience.
Just because we have third world facilities doesn't mean we have to treat each other with third world etiquette.
Thanks .

Inside Looking Out

As I woke this morning and wiped the sleep from my eyes, I gave a stretch, let the dog out, toasted my bagel and drank my V8. Like any other day, I tied my tie, buttoned down my sleeves and prepared for the rigor of the day's work. I slipped on my shades, set the dial to rockin', and pulled out of the drive.

But this morning - this dawn of a glorious new day - I had no idea that I was soon to be inducted into one of the most exclusive and secret societies of our time - no, rather, of all time.

I, like the rest of you downtrodden peasants, experience the stress of a budget straining to fill the tank. The four-dollar-a-gallon prices are not restricted to the poor, working class serfs like yourselves. Nay, even the elite feel pain at the pump. Well, friends, here's one less dude who has to worry about life's little financial hiccups. Its all smooth sailing from here. Downhill, with the wind at my back

Why, you ask? What sets me apart from all the blue-collar drones eeking out a meager living day after day with no hope in sight? What makes me so special? Well...

You're looking at the newest member of The SuperAmerica Speedy Rewards Club.

The Knights of Templar, Skull and Bones, the Illuminati, the Freemasons, the Red Hat Society -all pale in comparison to the Speedy Rewards program. Those trite fraternal orders are merely proletariat compared to this convenience store bourgeoisie.

Sure, those ancient organizations may recruite only the best and brightest for their select rites, but can they get you a buy-6-get-one-free discount on Krispy Kremes?

I think not.

They may influence kings and world leaders, but will they get you jumbo jalepeno and cheeze sausages with a large Dr. Pepper as you play your Scratch-off?

No they won't.

And, of course, membership in those associations may get you a job or get you elected to public office, but will it save you half-off on your individually wrapped turkey sub or brushless car wash?

Again, I don't think so.

And although the top brass at the Speedway on County Line Road won't be too crazy about me sharing this, but being the hard hitting investigative journalist that I am, I feel compelled to share our time-honored traditions.

How's this for clandestine ritual: Free refills on your personalized Big Gulp coffee mugs.

Our signature ceremonial custom isn't a sacred rite. We just ask that if do you borrow the key to get into the bathroom around back, don't take off with it. That's not cool.

Secret password? Leave a penny, take a penny.

I mean, where else can you get a bag of dog food, a box of Camels and a case of toilet seat V.D. all in one place?
So when Hank the cashier (hereinafter 'Brother Hank') scanned my keychain club card and spotted me an initial extra 100 Rewards points, I knew I had found a fraternity where I belonged. And not the kind of fraternity that hazes you as a freshman and requires attendance at phony-baloney philanthropic canned food drives just so you can attend that night's mixer with ZTA house. But rather the kind of fraternity that has a limited selection of groceries and will charge you a minimal fee for money orders.

So the next time you're feeling down-and-out because of a flagging economy, a government that fails us, and a malcontent society, take heart in my rags-to-riches story.

I know you've generally become ashamed of your station in life. Well, look for a better station: a gas station. Sometimes life leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth. Well, I've got some not-so-sour news for you, pal:

Exclusivity tastes sweet.

It tastes like brotherhood.

It tastes like success.

It tastes like blue rasberry ICEEs.