Deep-fried Oreos: Worth it?

I have an apology to make.

You see, whenever friends come to Vegas and ask me what they should do, I give them a list that includes adventures to activate all the senses. Since I'm a foodie, this list does tend to rely heavily on taste. Naturally, I refer people to Mermaid's Casino for the fried Oreos. They're fried. They're three for a dollar. How can one go wrong?

Here's my confession/apology: I'd never tried this gluttonous dessert. Until last night. After digesting our meal at Serendipity 3, Rob and Dugi and I ventured to Fremont Street to taste these Oreos. I held Dugi next to the dining area while Rob stood in line.

The first warning should have been the fact that no one flinched when I brought a dog within five feet of the fryers. I mean, Fremont Street is gross and Dugi is clean, but that's got to be violating at least 10 health codes. And then, well...

Let me begin by saying that the fried Oreos themselves were delicious. They were salty and sweet and instantly raised my cholesterol. But Mermaid's has got to be the most disgusting place I've ever eaten, let alone one of the most disgusting places I've ever been in my life.

I had more of an appetite looking at a street dog's bottom in Santo Domingo.

My shoes stuck to the floor.
Three people behind Rob was a bearded woman.
Multiple career hookers (illegal) told me how cute Dugi was. They actually pet him.
I was afraid to sit at the slot machine for fear of contracting scurvy. Is that even contagious?

We ate our Oreos outside the casino. We drove home. I lived to tell the tale. But I've got to apologize to anyone I've put through this frightful experience.

Goo goo gah gah fries with that?

I'm rather disappointed by the media outlets in this town. It's blatantly obvious, to me at least, that Las Vegas has some serious child labor issues. Why, I ask, is a 10 year old allowed to serve me my smoothie?

Ok readers, I have to be honest, Vegas has many problems, but employing underage kids isn't one of them. The real problem is that I'm getting old. Sixteen year olds suddenly look like babies to me. Several times now, I've almost blurted out, "What are you, like five?" to teenage boys working around town. Luckily I've been able to resist the urge, lest I become one of those old bags who humiliates the children.

All my favorite artists: Van Gogh, Matisse, Charles Manson

Next month, Sin City Gallery will feature a collection created entirely by convicted serial killer John Wayne Gacy. No, this isn't just a Vegas thing; for those who don't know, so-called "Murderabilia" (art created by serial killers) is highly collectable. In fact, as featured in the 2000 documentary "Collectors," some enthusiasts devote their lives to collecting artwork created by murderers.

In Vegas and elsewhere, this trend has sparked controversy. On one side of the argument are victims' rights advocates who insist that this hobby glorifies killers and stomps on the memory of their victims. On the other side are collectors who argue that displaying this art is free speech and fascinating. Furthermore, profits from the sale of this artwork often, at least in part, go to charities that benefit victims and their families.

As a response to the Las Vegas opening, advocates are providing a competing show, which will instead display photographs of murder victims and act as a kind of memorial.

As a life-long advocate of free speech in all forms and someone who finds true crime television interesting, I support the gallery's right to display this collection. While I understand how victims' family members could be disturbed by this, I don't understand how they equate these art displays with desecration of the memory of the serial killer's victims. This mindset is the same one that leads to capital punishment: Though we as a society would like to forget it, serial killers are human and should be afforded the same basic dignity as the rest of us.

Buy the fountain of youth for one low payment!

Apparently, the ACLU is suing because of gerrymandering in Las Vegas, but I'm going to talk about skincare products.

You see, today I went to the dermatologist for my occassional botox. My doctor had barely shoved the needle into my third eye when he began telling me about a new product.

"That over there isn't even available to the public yet," he said, gesturing at a large orange pill bottle. "That's the fountain of youth."

"Yeah," I chuckled, unsure if he was serious. He has a tendency to ramble about skin science while working on me.

"It's called Telomerase. It'll make you live to be 150." Apparently, Telomerase is an enzyme that was discovered by some Nobel Prize-winning scientist that mimics the resilience of cancer cells. My doctor started taking the stuff a week ago, and he had already noticed "subtle differences." I didn't ask him what these differences were because he seems like the type to blurt out "bedroom stamina!" but I was a little intruigued. "Google it," he said.

After further research, I found that the activation of Telomerase makes some cells "immortal." Yikes, that's one scary word.

The death of books

I had a very disappointing weekend. First, I attempted to sell some books to a used bookstore. Then, I went to Borders.

That's a pretty explanatory sentence right there, but let me go on.

There are several used bookstores in Las Vegas. Perhaps the most well-known is Dead Poets Books, but I would never go there because the owner is an asshat. Just look at him.

They used to have a website, but I can't find it anymore. One part of the site featured guidelines explaining the types of books they'd buy, which is fine; I understand it's a business. The problem was that the owner had basically used the page as a forum to condescend to the little people who couldn't possibly understand the difference between Ann Rand and Tolstoy.

Anyway, I traveled to this other used bookstore on North Rainbow that manages to survive down the street from both Borders and Barnes and Noble. I took a bag of my old books including anything from paperbacks that are now movies to out-of-print craft books. Alas, they wouldn't buy any of them because, as the sweet old lady who owns the place explained, "They won't sell anymore." Sure enough, I noted that they shelves held multiple copies of several of the books I'd brought in. What does sell, judging by the shelves, is romance novels. The "literature" is condemned to a miniscule section at the back of the store. There I saw a paperback copy of East of Eden and about two dozen fancy first editions that are out of my price range.

I lugged the sad sack of books back out to my car and drove down the street to Borders to peruse the now defunct store's inventory. It was kind of a madhouse there, since Vegas loves a sale. As I entered the store, I passed a family exiting. The teenage boy of the group exclaimed, "There's nothing to buy here. All they have is books!"

If you know me at all, you know I hate Borders and have mixed feelings about their going out of business. Clearly, this means the decline of reading, but, like I said, I hate Borders because 1)it's a chain and 2)they mostly sold toys and movies anyway. Still, I love discounted reading material. I picked up several copies of Best American Short Stories, a few lit mags, and a travel magazine for the BF. I'll be visiting again as the prices drop further.

Anyway, what I really had to deal with walking past the shelves of pawed through books was the fact that no writer deserves to have his or her life's work stamped with a huge 20% off sticker. It's depressing to see the likes of Alice Munro defamed like that. There's nothing worse than seeing surplus inventory from a writer you know and then having to face that writer later, pretending nothing is wrong. The maternal side of me wanted to buy all five copies of Fear and Loathing and hightail it out of there.