Taxi'd over to The Gun Store on Tropicana Boulevard, named for the casino that is now showing that Bodies show of cadavers injected with plastiques. Sadly, no time left for that. But The Gun Store. There was scheduled time for that.
Arrived and chose the Saddam Hussein target.
Literal Harold (who'd never shot before) and I split rounds for two automatic weapons, the M16 with holographic scope, and the FBI-sanctioned MP5. Really not to be confused with the ol' MP3.
Got some quick coaching from gun guy Sean, and, after putting on the Ears and eyes, got down to target practice.
Preferred the smooth-firing M16 and obliterated the face of the paper target.
Sean said We need you for our SWAT team.
Not sure if he was on a real or virtual SWAT team.
Speaking of virtual v. real, went to Midway's computer gaming event yesterday and watched as there was a group launching of games and then as the chosen gamers merrily gamed away.
We were all fairly starved and glanced periodically at the Hard Rock's concert venue perimeters to see if the chafing dishes were chafed yet.
Games were played and played and then some nice food arrived.
Ran into the chef AGAIN, this time on the toppermost floor of the hotel, him sitting solo in an adjoining elegant-looking restaurant.
Wandered about in interconnected casinos and such for a while and now, quite now, it's time to smash things back into the bag and jet back east.

Back East Love.

Jetted way early a.m. from Middling City to the JFK, my former hangout of several years where I'd blog/email/wait/read/study.
On the flight from the far Rockaways to Las Vegas, where Yours Truly is presently for a junket to Midway's computer games extravaganza to make scintillating images of such for VH1, I spotted thee Alfred Portale of Gotham fame.
I fairly gushed that on Sunday night, as I'll be wending back towards that other, rightmost timezone of the USofA Friday and then shooting stills from a shoot for a commerical for New Era Cap Co of Derby, NY - for real - fame, that Dorota and I will be plunked down at a table somewhere in his joint at 12e12 in the Shiney Apple.
Yesterday on the flight, when I wasn't soundly snoozing, watched a marathon, apparently, of Top Chef. Think I saw about five seconds of this once but watched their challenges and, despite the fact that I would say my cooking skills are fairly unfair in the sense that they rock, that I do have a lot to learn indeed. When the cooks were faced with the challenge of what to do with mounds of offal (think chef Mario Batali of orange clog fame) I mused that I would not know a god-danged thing to do with chicken feet, cow tongue, maybe something with sweetbreads, but never kidneys. No. Never.
Also to be noted is that YT did not note that the flight was five hours and did not have more than a light breakfast at the JFK so watching all this food prep was torturous. JetBlue tossed some snacks at us a few times. A man two seats down opened up a sub/hoagey/hero and I nearly shouted Geez Up There! A FIRE so I could grab this white bread monstrosity for a bite to assuage the pangs.
Once in Vegas, in this desert, and then once in Mandalay Bay, noted and remembered the grandness of Vegas in the most mallacious way. It's all big and brash and sort of tasteful but sort of way way too.
In one transem of the Mandalay lobby were tiered Andy Warhol cammie paintings, eight in all, up the wall. Across more art. There is really art in Vegas. Not as plentiful as the faux boobs, but there is a lot.
Worked out in the Mandalay gym and it was also elegant.
Seconds ago got a call from Literal Harold (VH1's computer gaming blog star) who is down the hall, asking if I'd collect some hotel soaps for him, apparently he collects hotel soaps. I should probably share with him that I grabbed about 6 bottles of water at the workout centre as I'd paid $20 for the daypass and I'll be dang-blamed if I'll shell out another $3.25 for a small bottle of water.
Should humans have to pay for water. In posh hotels.
In gymnasiums.
Onwards to the desert momentum, this city ringed with gray mountains off on the landscape's horizon.

Desert, not always Dessert, Love.

veni vidi rolli.
Went to Queen City Roller Girls benefit Saturday night to roll and not derby.
In vehicle was also Annie and Jana and up north met up with Cheryl, Liz, Erin and saw The Jens as well as rockabilly and art types.
As well as one Middling City politico whose hippie wedding I shot a number of years ago. They wore sandals. It did not last.
There is a moral there.
So what did last in his closet were some 80s acid-wash jeans that had some streaks of bedazzlement, worn as the night was themed 80s-era prom.
On the wooden floor was a panoply of hideous bridesmaid dresses, corsages.
The QCRG team, numbering at about thirty, is half bruisers and half lithe types who, if they were your grocery checkout girl, you'd feel the need, perhaps, depending upon mood, to help her foist a grocery bag into the cart.
Witnessed were, de rigeur, some stupendous wipeouts (not to be confused of the top ten selection of Yours Truly) with limbs akimbo, people holding onto wall, people holding the wobbly up, some scoping, and lipgloss.
I made sure that, while blading along, lipgloss was firmly applied.
And one of my dearest, Liz, gets my ribbon for roller gumption, lacing up and, in grand Liz style, hitting the activity con brio. I whizzed past her at one point as she was falling and had to go around before I could find her again. I was helping her with some technique issues and she said the greatest quote of all, to be included on the calendar of YT if ever there is to be one, accompanied with image of Liz on skates,
I don't mind falling.
Now those are words to muster up and forge ahead with on a diurnal basis.
Also of special note was the boy in drag who wore a rather unflattering maxi dress that happened to match the odd ochre of the rental skates.
Onwards after the rink headed more north to find a dismal hotel bar so that Jana could review it for some reason, assumedly to assuage those in Niagara County who feel that if ever there is news about their limping burg it is about what transpires (entertainmently speaking) over at the former convention center, The Jackpot Centre.
The bar is not worth discussing (special mention deserved for the bar owner's dyed eyebrows ... no man should dye his eyebrows, and the unchilled white box wine, so Niagara Falls, so OUcH) but the activities of YT and pals are - dancing to a dj who busted out all the party tunes, a stranger (a woman) doing the forbidden dance with YT and I thought it was Jana until she meandered by and then I discovered this elfish drunkish lady behind me all juicey-goosey, and the earnest cover band onhand (A-List, such a grabby name) who not only proffered up one primo homonym typo on their set list (If You Don't No Me By Now), but did a rather overly-syncopatic but welcomed rendition of Neil's Sweet Caroline. To which I did an interpretive solo dance to express my deepest love for Neil, not the A-Team.
You see, the love of Neil is spread far and wide.
To the south, to the north.
In homes, in cars, in cheezey hotel bars the world over.
Wherever It may be, there is Neil Love.

Neil Love, Love.