part 2 of tragic vegas, yo...

Ya, So Jake and the Cult are headlong blazing toward Vegas, yes the city of proud sin, egregious, exaggerated and too much enough to be real, with two girls, his promised (and delivered) pocketful of money and pinches of potential energy. Again, it is now turning into one of the clock in the a.m. The music gets turned up and up some more and then some more. Me? I'm like whatever as long as I feel the driver, my stable friend Jake, is able to stay reasonably focused on the road. Things are fine. Oh, I forgot to mention that just before we set off it took Jake and I an additional hour to find where the one girl, eventually found out to be crazy as the proverbial bitch, lived. Just because I may write shit about her we will not use her real name. Let's call her, "Crazy Ass Stupid Bitch" or, for the sake of what my mother would ever think, we'll shorten that to "Casbi". So Casbi ,what we all later figured out, faked a weak stomach and motion sickness so she could sit in the front seat where I was sitting. The Cult smelled fish, but of course, didn't trip over that ego trap. I settled in the back for the long haul south through and toward the unwieldy desert. It stunk from the beginning, but even the effluvium of a foreshadowed doom, as long as it is connected to adventure is worth the effort, trouble and expenditure. Should we have put one and one together and gotten that there was even a chance that that funky attitude that we knew before today, but were experiencing in four dimensions and neon bright would haunt and heavy our trip from jump street until the bitter gross end? F ya, we should've freakin' known, but no, we had to see it through- let this drugged monster breath and pout, snort and flail about in some grotesque and let us say, shitty language and look. What lot of patient I have readily available, in reserve and back-up for emergencies was worn, burned and wasted by the time we arrived on the strip with me behind the wheel looking for our first planned stop (notice:plan). We make a premature turn, bust a near Los Angeles U-turn, LAU, or the "busted bitch (a U-turn also) and find Caesars' Palace, valet Jake's new Grand Cherokee (Go America!) and begin the delicious downward spiral to an exhausted and nasty, ruinous, wasteful adventure. I curse not the time, only that stupid girl. And there were pretty tickling moments that dotted the landscape of misery and melancholy. We are out of the car, in the open air, stretched and ready to hit some tables and sip on some Scotch or something. What? The girls want to go to the club? At four-thirty on a Wednesday morning? HA! Are you joking? Jake and I sneak "WTF" glances as we try and justify walking around the more and more sunlit and tourist and police populated streets of Las Vegas. Oh goody, now we're impaired, wearing sunglasses to legitamitely conceal the rising sun and on a quest, it seems, to some imaginary club, the "rockin' ones", the "hot ones"...I didn't know where these places were at four thirty in the morning on a Wednesday and afreakinpparently, to the bursting of my ire, neither did they...In reference to the descriptor "delicious" used above, it gets worse...more on this in part three my lovlies...