Vegas Baloney etc.

As usual, I'm in the cafe, but not as usual, I've left my headphones back at the apartment, so the jig is up, Lil' Mama-wise, so we're going to have to take a bit of a detour into some other parts of the internet, not involving audio.

In the spirit of crippled media, here's a sneaky peek at the Vegas chronicles, rapidly spiraling out of control, word count-wise. I'm feeling like Grady Tripp over here.

Somehow it came out that I speak French, so Qi asked me how to say "I want to eat you up," and I told her. I found out their ages (thirty-six), and there were some jokes about the mile high club, but joining that club is harder than you might think. That particular conversation went like this:

Qi asked, "Have you ever joined the mile-high club?"
I answered, "No."

Apparently this is not the way to join. Looking back, it seems obvious that the proper answer is, "Yes. As a matter of fact our organization has an opening. Meet me in the bathroom for an application." In my defense, I'm a little shy, and I kind of have a deadpan humor thing going, so I'll console myself that my response just flew over the ladies' heads.

The blogpost I'd written jokingly about Airport to Bedroom had included the tip "Share a cab to your house. This always works." Just then Danielle asks:

"Do you want to maybe split a cab or something?"
"Sure."

So we de-planed and I awkwardly tailed two Portland strippers/real-estate agents past the slot machines and through the security checkpoint-of-no-return. While we waited for their luggage I watched some Japanese tourists photograph the airport and saw limo drivers hold signs with people's names on them. I had arrived in Vegas, with a small amount of style and a limited number of strippers. Things were going alright, but just alright.

Just a draft but whatever, mostly to prove I wasn't lying.