SCHIZOPHRENIC VEGAS MEANDERINGS

4/8/04

Photo by Jeff Burk

You read this column at all? No. "No" as in big deal. What the hell. Last year, I went to the Strip at Las Vegas Motor Speedway and had a ball, saw a cover picture of me shoe-horned between two high kicks in stiletto heals, won $70 on a drag racing prize at the local hotels, and basically said if you don't come to this race in your drag racing spectator prime ... uh like ... dude, you're blowing it.

Amendment time. This year was different, for a lot of reasons to be articulated below. As the weekend of April 1-4 unfolded before my psychedelically-slowed eyes, I realized things had changed, ANNNNDDD yet, in some small but major way not, at all. Hence, the schizophrenic split.

What am I talking about?

Let's take it from the top.

Just this. I decided to go to Vegas with this column already half-written in my mind and I was going to rant on lame automotive/race car-oriented ads. In particular, those horrendous, audience-insulting Quaker State ads ... the ones that currently feature someone named Denis Leary. I realize I'm risking being exposed as a fraud for not knowing who this smart-ass is, but what can I do? I like Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, Pat Brady, Nelly Belle, Bullett, and Trigger. But to the issue ...

This Leary guy has done at least two ads for Quaker State where he looks down his nose at the potential clients calling them "fish sticks" and saying things like don't make me come down there and have to read you the lab reports. Before him, there was this cutesy big mouth from a televised abomination called "Friends", who referred to potential customers as "Mr. Tool Belt," with an equally superior tone. I was going to go the Strip and see if sponsoree Funny car world champ Tony Pedregon could get them a John Gotti-like introduction to how the real working class world views such tripe.

That scheme being made flesh, of course, depended on whether something would develop at the Las Vegas race that would shade my pending rants at the "Joe Six-Packers" at Quaker State. Well, things changed for the bad ... and for the good.

Friends and fellow DRO staffers Darr and Zak Hawthorne and I left for Las Vegas Friday for that day's qualifying sessions. As you've undoubtedly read elsewhere, it was "No Go." Wet all day and all night (as well as indoors) conditions, and that led to certain avenues of escape.

The casinos, fer instance.

As I found out, they've been messed up. We had time to kill Friday and since we were staying at the lovely Gold Strike in Jean, Nevada (about 20 miles west of 'the Strip.'), we figured we'd see what the locals had dressed out for us on the plate.

Hot Dogs ranged from $4.00 to $6.00; A soda machine where everything cost $1.50; A cheeseburger at the Rio (this joint was in Vegas proper) at $7.10; beer at $5.00. I mean, like what gives. They're greasing the suckers royally before they ever sit down at the slots or tables. Originally in Las Vegas, the idea was to lighten up on the folks with the seed money until they sat down to play for hours. Not anymore, Vladimir.

If you survive that Ken Lay-ing at the concession stands, there's always the floor. You like to play the slots? I do. I'm, just not that well tuned to rough it out at the card tables save for maybe "Black Jack", although, despite that personal failing, I am still a big fan of Sam Farha, Chris Moneymaker, Johnny Chan, and Humberto Arias.