Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Life Looks Better on Top

Guess what, Las Vegans! We finally won something! We finally topped a list (and it's not a swimsuit contest at Wet Republic).



A list published in CNNMoney of the top 100 zip codes hit hardest by foreclosure listed Vegas as numero uno! In fact, we swept all five tops spots.

Not that anyone should be surprised by this. I like to brag about how bad the economy is here all the time. Other cities brag about their great hospitals or parks or number of doctors per capita, but is the best news since our suicide rate hit the press last year! Winning!

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

I like to social climb while I stair climb

Have you heard of DAVID BARTON GYM? Well, DAVID BARTON GYM is about to hit Las Vegas. I've got to type it in all caps, because it's just that sweet!!!! Consider the evidence:

Don't you workout like this?

Everyone else does...

...at DAVID BARTON GYM!

Don't worry, everybody. You too can exercise in a club environment when DAVID BARTON GYM opens it's new Las Vegas location at Tivoli Village. I hope to social climb on the stair climber (while wearing stilettos). After all, what's the point of working out if you can't lounge on a suede beanbag after?

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Wanna buy a huge drink and stumble around somewhere?

Alternate title: There's nothing to do here (or anywhere for that matter).

Las Vegas is a 24 hour city, so many people assume this means 24 hours of constant fun. But think about the last time you visited Vegas; what did you do? I'd venture to guess it had something to do with booze and empty pockets. Now imagine you're stuck here permanently. No, you're not incarcerated after pinching a councilman's tush on NYE(I can tell you that story later), you just happen to live here with neither the plans (nor funds) to get the hell out.

"There's nothing to do here," is a common complaint from Midwestern kids who resort to getting black-out drunk in the cornfield and tipping bovine. This isn't a stereotype; I actually knew people in college who said that this had been their typical weekend growing up. Naturally, I assumed that if I lived somewhere bigger or brighter, I'd never face that boredom brought on by yet another Friday night spent in the same bar or coffee house listening to the same Black Eyed Peas cover band or Klezmer group (what?).

But it's no different here. Aside from some really expensive shows or equally bank account-draining activities such as indoor skydiving, helicoptering over LVB, or going to a concert, I generally face the same icky feeling of deja vu weekend after weekend. Here's where I could link to a bunch of stuff that always makes various local press' lists of things to do for locals, such as the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art or the Pinball Museum. But I won't, since most people exhausted all those ideas during their first four months of living here. Instead, I've short-listed several insane ideas I've never tried before. Have you?

Really Stupid Shit to Do When You're Bored in Vegas:

1) Get a prostitute, refuse to pay, and run away on foot.
2) Graffiti the side of Encore.
3) Buy a little remote control boat and drive it in the pool at Bellagio. (Someone has to have thought of this one already.)
4) Scale the fence of Steve Wynn's neighborhood, ring his doorbell, and steal his walking stick. (This is only funny if you know Steve Wynn is blind.)
5) Buy front row seats to Holly Madison's Peepshow, wait til the music gets soft and make loud accusations about which parts of her are plastic.
6) Dine and dash at Joel Robuchon.
7) Egg newlyweds taking their pictures in front of the Welcome to Las Vegas sign.
8) Fill The Mix elevator with ping pong balls; push the button for the top floor.
9) Get a penthouse suite at any hotel and throw stuff off the balcony.
10) Go to the Eiffel Tower Restaurant and order everything in French, ask the waiter questions as if it's the real Eiffel Tower, such as "Did you work here when Bridget Bardot filmed that movie?" and "What do you think of President Sarkozy?"

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Auto-correct, Disrespect, or Consumer Obsession?

Before I start this long overdue post, I'd like to offer a brief apology/explanation for my long absence from the blogosphere. As many of you know, the last six months have been fairly confusing for me for numerous reasons (if only by First World standards). In the interim, I've felt self-consumed and over-exposed enough without taking to this blog and barfing out stories.

That being said, I can only keep from staring in the mirror for so long. Don't misunderstand this as some Michael Jackson-type self-reflection metaphor; I'm really just totally conceited. Consider the following as an end to my hiatus:

The other day I received a work-related email from a woman I've known for some time. It was probably the third or fourth message in a succession of back-and-forth dialogue between the two of us. She's one of those people who sends hurried emails from her iPhone midday and expects an immediate response. In fact, she'd prefer to receive rushed emails full of lies than still prompt, thought-out emails that actually make sense.

At this point, I also have to mention that she'd emailed me several times already that day, and, since she doesn't seem to connect "thinking" to sending emails, nor understand the concept of "day job," she sent them in rapid succession. Many included statements such as, "Before I forget..." or "After I sent that last one, I realized..." in bubbly violet (or was it chartreuse?) script.

Sweat forming on my brow, I noticed that a whole 5 minutes had passed between when the email hit my inbox and when I read it, so I took to my keyboard like Amy Winehouse on speed (too soon?). I furiously typed what I thought seemed like a semi-coherent response, hit spell check and sent it off, hoping that this women was mid tennis match or gnawing at a piece of kale or something and I'd be able to get work accomplished before being forced to send out another reply.

I gnawed on my arm staring at the auto refresh button, shushing anyone who tried to talk to me. Point five seconds later, her next email appeared. It said:

"Dear Nissan..."

No, that's no typo, she actually addressed me as the multinational automaker headquartered in Japan. You might think that happens to me often. Nope.

As I see it, there are several explanations:

1) Auto-correct: Isn't there a law that says the simplest explanation is the usually the correct one?

2) Consumer obsession: Is it possible that this women subliminally advertised a brand loyalty so unconsciously entrenched by our commercially absorbed society that it has invaded even her most casual communication?

3) Disrespect: Is it not true that I, being referred to as "Maserati" or even "Mercedes," could have emailed the remainder of the day away with Bourgeois pride?

4) Fat joke: Have you seen the rear bumper on the current Xterra?

Regardless of intent, my head swarmed with a life's worth of awkward party chatter to the effect of, "Wouldn't it be cool if you drove an Altima?" or "Dude, it would be so sweet if you just took an X-acto knife and just scrapped off the 'N'." I even debated calling her out on her mistake in my next email. I didn't, and I'm still unsure if she realized her mistake.