August 9, 2005
Consider this fog on the mirror
I know that it’s time to post when friends call me to see whether I’m still alive based on the frequency of my posting.
Yes, Nicole, I am still breathing.
I’ve had a busy week, as far as busy weeks go in my life.
Two Fridays ago, I set time aside on my calendar for the “Coven Dinner.” The coven consists of three friends of mine from The Princeton Review. I’m always a little bashful when spending time with the three of them together, since I harbor a secret fear that the three of them together are way cooler than I will ever be.
It’s a bit like sitting at the popular girls’ lunch table, and they haven’t asked to copy your homework...yet. You’re constantly waiting for them to drop the bomb: “Um, yeah. We only keep you around so we’ll have fodder for gossip later.”
The three of them (and a fourth gal who was friendly, but whose name I don’t remember. I’ll call her “Rhoda”) were in Vegas for a quickie weekend. I met them in the Bellagio. I managed to pull them from their blackjack and their nickel slots long enough to suggest that we sit at a swank little lounge that the Bellagio has. All four sets of lips curled simultaneously.
Oh no! They’re going to ask me for my homework now!
Their (better?) idea was to walk to the Boardwalk casino to find the one $3.00 Blackjack table in Vegas. Non-Vegans need to understand something: The Boardwalk is a shit hole. It remains open only because they bribe building inspectors and gaming control agents with coke. The coven-and-Rhoda turned down a lovely lounge with leather seating for the shittiest casino Vegas has to offer (except, of course, for the whole of Downtown, which by all estimates should be imploded).
So there I am, sitting at a skanky casino at a skanky 21 table (now with color-coordinating cigarette burns in the green felt!) watching my friends smoke skanky cigarettes and drink skanky casino beer. I catch myself thinking that it would be a damn shame if I were to get stabbed here, since my grandmother would never come to see me in the hospital: She was shanked in the Boardwalk, dears, she’s dead to me now.
After an hour and a half of counting to 23 (no one said they were good at the game) we ate hot dogs! At the Boardwalk! (I’m still alive!)
Rhoda took this picture, and we headed out:
They wanted to go to a third hotel to continue playing 23. I couldn’t continue. I said my goodbyes and consoled myself by collecting as many prostitute calling cards as I could on my way back to the Bellagio where, I rather unfortunately discovered, no one had stolen my car.
Next post: Porn card adventures!