“Are you beating Vegas?” slurs the red-faced man at the next table in Harrah’s Buffet Breakfast. My first response, “Like a red-headed stepchild” I squash between my brain and my mouth, and give an answer instead designed to indicate I am not one for conversation right now. Too much going on in my brain, and while he may still be rocking from the night’s partying, I am reeling, and my head is spinning. As my good friend Jamie puts it – I’m high as balls.
The first time I came here, I had just turned 21 years old in Gatwick airport, been mugged in South Central Los Angeles due to some very poor map-reading, and even worse decisions. After fleeing the city of angels, I had read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as my companion drove, and my idea of the city was one of drugs, filth, and hyperbolic mis-adventures, which of course my companion and I did our best to recreate.
At this tender age I was still part of my school friend tribe – focused mainly on drinking as much as possible and hitting the clubs. I also was moving into what was my university tribe – focused on drinking, drugs, and bad nightclubs too. So my idea then of beating Las Vegas was based on carousing around and seeing the sights, the most memorable of which was a car in flames in front of Excalibur.
The next visit was almost ten years later when my tribe was primarily the technology startup which dominated my late twenties. Living and working in San Francisco a friend and I had decided to get away for a Christmas Eve before I headed on to a holiday in Cozumel (where Ron Malibu was incidentally born at a very late night in the hotel bar). The watchwords of that trip were drinking, and ordering as many shrimp-based dishes as possible from the room service menu at 3am on Christmas Day.
Another decade later and this time I’m here for a conference. I am actually the type who wants to learn as much as possible from the event, which means early nights and taking care of myself. My current tribes include the crazy fit kickboxers at Martial Way Academy, and the eco-warrier community in which I live, though my tribes are now with a small “t”, rather than dominating my every waking moment. So beating Vegas has become a study in maintaining some kid of self-discipline in an environment that encourages wild abandon. I’m not sure how the 21 year old me would view the man sat here typing alone in his hotel room before 8am, after having completed 258 crunches, waiting for the buffet breakfast to digest so he can sneak in a run before the learning starts. Working on improving and changing myself into the person I want to be has meant very little intoxication for the lost six months, and eating thoughtfully. My gift to myself for my birthday in eight months time is a six pack, at which I am working daily.
So last night I went to see Absinthe and was studying the abs of the male performers as much as the asses of the females. No, I don’t think I’m bi or curious, I just want to see what a six pack looks like so I have something to aim for. Parts of my psyche are unchanged – the buffet was irresistible, and my three plates have left me more stuffed than perhaps I would like – it’s hard for me to resist perceived value. In my current incarnation working in Mueller Real Estate in Austin the key phrase is not to leave anything on the table. Unfortunately, while this makes me a great negotiator, it makes me a poor buffet diner – constantly evaluating the alternatives and ramifications of every piled spoon moving to my table:
“I can buy oranges outside, but not pineapple. Smoked salmon is expensive, don’t load up on eggs. Eat fast so my stomach doesn’t notice it’s being ram-raided by a smorgasbord of incompatible fruits and protein. And pineapple is high in Vitamin C.”
These thoughts run around in my head with nowhere to hide, so why then did I eschew dialogue with a fellow diner, and why if I’m trying to live well, am I “high as balls“.
The simple reason that I can’t focus and my breathing is shallow is not from snorting dirty coke from a show-girl’s powder room, it’s the stinking allergy meds. After a long battle with cedar pollen in Austin, which I had some measure of control over by avoiding dairy and most gluten, I got blindsided by the hay-(fever-)maker of a plane flight followed by the pervasive stench of fag smoke which shrouds the hotels and casinos. Being in a bar with my wife in Garland that both allowed and seemingly encouraged smoking was too much for me last week. The smell disgusts me and I wanted to leave as fast as possible. I hate being in smoky places.
There appears to be little choice here, and my sinuses hate me. So I gave in to drugs, and my garbled thoughts are spinning merrily out of my head as the nausea grips my body. I can’t even breathe well, and I woke up unable to pry apart my eye lids apart after conjunctivitis had marched into the territory of my tear ducts as my antibody army lay dormant and concussed by anti-histamines.
I may yet beat Vegas – the thought of nasty cocktails mixed with corn syrup and paint stripper is not appealing, and I will probably only gamble on the super cheap slots and maybe the craps tables just to get a taste. I’ll beat off the street hawkers trying to push the promise of super model sex for $35 as I walk and run past them. (wait, I said “beat off”, that didn’t come out right…) and I’ll take advantage of some of the cheapest hotel rooms known to Western man.
My Tribe with a capital “T” now is really my wife and kids, so winning is coming back in one piece without buying a time share or gambling away the proceeds of my latest vehicle transaction, and learning enough from this conference to keep my kids in buffets until they leave home. Whether I’ll beat the pink-eye and congestion is another matter.