|
|
January 18th, 2000
As the evening darkness began to settle over Burbank, any shreds of the morning's carefree attitude of spontaneity were thrown burning into the ocean like so many dead Vikings, and my mouth was a playground for unbridled gingivitis activity.
But five hours, thirteen towed miles, and a hundred and sixty bucks later, the trip to Vegas had ceased to be a mere trip. It had become a quest. A good old fashioned "We've come so far and lost so much, I'll be DAMNED if some stinking gremlin is going to take it all away from us now" kind of dedication had gripped us, and we were going to be in Nevada before daybreak or we were going to die trying.
I had a much deserved date with an Oral-B and a bottle of Listerine, so I sent Caster to rent a car to fill in for my dead Rabbit. A fire-apple red convertible Cadillac. If we were going to do this, we were going to do it the way Johnny Depp and that weird fat guy from the movie showed us.
When I had emerged from my sterilization process, Caster had returned with a set of jingling Alamo keys.
Marcus: Did you get the Caddy?
To his credit, Caster had at least managed to get a convertible. A white convertible Chevy Cavalier. Not my first choice, but considering I intended to stick him with the bill in the end, I really had no room to complain.
With the hour hand kissing 8 p.m., we rolled down the top and were off to plunge into the thick traffic heading to where no man had gone before.
At first having the convertible top down was fun. The wind whistling through my hair, the feeling of being one with the California wilderness, the clear dark sky full of bright pin-prick stars. At some point, however, travelling seventy miles-per-hour in the middle of the desert in the chill of the fifty-degree night lost its charm.
I think it was right about the time that my sinuses had frozen clear out to my eardrums.
Caster: Get my motor runnin'... badada da da...
About 132 miles outside of Vegas, Caster finally pulled over and we went into a convenience store for some beverages. The way that everybody looked at me was starting to really creep me out.
"It must make you go crazy," I thought to myself, "Living out here in the middle of the desert..."
Then I saw myself reflected in the rotating wiener machine.
Between the frozen mucus and the windburns I looked like Unfrozen Caveman Motorist.
Needless to say, the top was firmly affixed in the upright and locked position for the remainder of the trip.
When we finally got to Sin City, it was quarter past midnight, we were half frozen, exhausted, and without a hotel room to call our own.
"Let's try the Luxor," Caster had said, "They have like this total Stargate motif."
With its jet black pyramid glistening with streaming fiber optics and its thick green laser beam blazing out into the stratosphere, the Luxor's decor can only be described as "Ancient Egypt meets early '80s Roller disco." Picture the place where The Prince of Egypt and Xanadu meet, and you're at the Luxor.
After a quick consultation with the desk clerk and an inventory of our thin, misinformer starved wallets, we decided that a night in Tutankhamun splendor was beyond our financial realm.
At long last we found a hotel and casino that wouldn't max out Caster's Discover card. One that seemed to be positioned unfashionably far enough off the strip that even a dork with a battery powered Starfleet lapel pin could afford refuge there for the night.
Marcus: So is this hotel and casino really "super", or is that just a name?
All content © 1999-2007 misinformer.com. Beggars can't be choosers.
|
