BartBlog

     Esther’s Kitchen was a delight.  The wine steward made documentary films on his day off and said there was going to be another George Floyd protest march tonight.  7:00 pm.  At Container Park.  The police will be staging on Clark Street.

 

     The chicken cacciatore was excellent –- even though I usually hate chicken breasts.  But they didn’t even charge me for the wine because the owner knew my neighbor.  Thank you, Joe!

 

 

 

 

     So what’s my point?  That I have made the most of my first day in Vegas -– and now I’m all proud of myself.  Now if I can only go to sleep.  Nah.  I’m too hyped up for that.

 

June 3, 2020:  Housekeeping just woke me up at some un-Godly hour -– 8:55 am.  So apparently I did get some sleep.  And dreamed.  The first two dreams involved a construction crew, an attorney, a Tibetan guy, the #60 bus and the meat counter at a supermarket.  Some man there came over and accused me of shoplifting.  Me?  “I’m simmering this meat into pot roast on the sidewalk while waiting for the next bus.” 

 

     Then I had two more dreams that involved a short middle-aged woman dressed like Little Bo Peep, and some guy who had broken into my car.  Nothing was stolen but I didn’t have very much to steal.  But then an evil little girl popped up from the back seat and started threatening me.  Yikes!

 

      Where do these strange dreams come from?  Where do any strange dreams come from?  Guess that’s why they call dreams “Surreal”.  In any case, it’s another hot day in Las Vegas.  What should I do next?  Think Think Think.  Perhaps go watch The Strip get ready for its Grand Re-Opening?

 

     Last night I watched about 20 large flatbed tow-trucks roll by and turn west.  What the freak was that about?  Protest related?  Or not.

 

     What to do next?  Look for a decent computer to check on my e-mails?  Walk around in the sun like a mad dog and Englishman?  Try to find Greg Mannarino?  Take the #202 bus and the #109 bus back to the airport In-N-Out Burger?

 

10:30 pm:  Good grief, what a day.  I’m so tired that I probably won’t even make sense of anything I write down but here goes.

 

     Heat.  Up to 109 degrees.  Trudging.  A lot.  Ran into a young White guy while waiting for the Deuce bus that drives up and down The Strip.  “I got hit by a rubber bullet a few days ago.”  Can I see his scar?  And when he pulled up his shirt, there was a giant bruise like a bull’s eye.  I took a photo of it and posted it on FaceBook with the caption, “What to expect if you’re expecting a rubber bullet.”  Big ugly bruise.  “But I left the protest because everyone was wearing face masks and I don’t believe all that hype about COV$D.”  I almost high-fived him in agreement.

 

     Later I found out that the reason so many demonstrators chose to wear face masks is to foil various facial-recognition programs.

 

     Then I trudged some more and took some more buses and trudged even more in the 109-degree heat until I ended up on Fremont Street.  And then I trudged some more after that.  Hot, tired and hungry.  But wait!  I spy an oasis!  A taco truck!  I tipped the vendors well.  They saved my life.

 

     More trudging.  More heat.  And finally it there it was -– the Vegas neon museum and bone yard.  Lovely old neon signs from the 1960s, the 1950s, and even one from 1928.  “They bend the glass and fill it with….”  I forget what.  Argon?  “Each sign is handcrafted.”  Must be a dying art.  I loved the place.

    

     Except. 

 

      It was out in the broiling sun and I got sunstroke and almost passed out.  It was a near thing.  They brought me a bottle of ice-cold water.  I drank part of it and poured the rest on my head.

 

     Back to the tour.

 

     “Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky started the Flamingo back in the 1930s.  The Moulin Rouge was a racially-integrated hotel back in 1953, where Black performers could stay.  The Platters.  Joe Lewis.”

 

     Then back to trudging and taking buses -– back home to the Tuscany hotel.  Turned on the TV before going for a wonderful, cooling swim.  Bad idea.  “There will be another protest march tonight, this time to City Hall….”  No oh!  All I want to do is swim and sleep.  But no.  Duty calls.  Gotta go benefit more sentient beings.  Back on the bus.

 

     But then the march ended up coming to me.  Sort of.  I got a bird’s eye view of the police forming up ranks — a view from the top deck of the Deuce bus.  Then I got off and was in the thick of it too.  More trudging, however, was involved.

 

     I must have walked eight miles today.  In 109-degree heat.  But kept on trudging and shouting, “No justice No peace!” for six or eight more blocks. 

 

Photo-op after photo-op.

 

     Then I trudged back to Esther’s Kitchen and ordered prawns to go.  Prawns?  They looked more like huge crayfish or giant insects from outer space.  Lots of antennae were involved.  But God they were delicious.  So glad I went to Esther’s a second time.  Served on sourdough bread.  Homemade sourdough bread.

 

     Eating and trudging.  Trudging and eating.  So good.  Met a nice home-schooled Christian boy at the bus stop.  “I just want to come and be of help,” he said.  Then more trudging.  And then finally back at the hotel.  Who knows what will happen tomorrow.  But I’d made the most of myself again today.

 

June 4, 2020:  And I continue to have other people’s dreams.  This is probably a good thing.  Don’t ask me why.  “Lost in the Bardo again!” as they said in Tibet.

 

     In the first dream, I was in a dive bar somewhere and pretending to have a false birthday so I could celebrate and get presents.  Some kid called me out on that.  The second dream was about a wise Indian yogi, a sadhu, whatever.  Lying in state.  A true holy man?  “Nah.  He just passed out after eating too much at the buffet.”

 

     So.  Now I’m awake.  What to do today?  It’s the first day of the Grand Re-Opening of course.  And then there’s swimming.  I gotta go swimming — at least just once!  And In-N-Out Burgers.  But what can I do to benefit sentient beings the most?  Always a good question.  Always on the top of my list.  Or at least it should be.

 

     I wonder if there are any haunted hotels in Las Vegas?  Trump Tower?  Definitely.  Where else?  The Flamingo, the Westgate.  0h.  Tupac Shakur was actually shot and killed just two blocks from where I sleep at night.  Wow!  Double wow!  Triple wow!  How historic and haunted (and sad) is that.  And I know just where it happened.  I’m staying in the most haunted place in Vegas and didn’t even know it!

 

     And my lap swim was refreshing.  And nice.  And now my hair is even clean.  “What next?” I asked a local woman in the pool, a dancer at one of the many Vegas strip joints.

 

     “The High Roller is always fun.” 

 

     And also the funeral of George Floyd is on TV.  “Stand with us for eight minutes and 46 seconds.”

 

4:00 PM:  Now I’ve got my Vegas story hook for sure!  Tupac Shakur!  What a deserted place to die.  Right in the middle of some forlorn tacky street intersection.  With no monument, no memorial, not even any grass.  Even as sad and forlorn as the miserable death of George Floyd.

 

     2Pak was murdered way back in 1996 — and yet his fans still come and write “R.I.P.” on a lone utility pole at that forlorn intersection.  And on the anniversary of the day he died and on his birthday, they still bring flowers.  This is a shrine.  Assigned to the greatest rap artist ever (sorry, Biggie).

 

     And yet Bally’s hotel and casino, whose property the utility pole is on, regularly and systematically sends someone out every two or three months to paint over the pole.  That totally pisses me off.

 

     The freaking Bally’s Hotel is supposed to be haunted, right?  Well I hope that the ghost of Tupac also shows up, haunts the place good and scares away all the customers.  “Huelga!  Huelga!”  Damn the Bally.  That’s cold of them to remove those memorials.  Just cold.  On that one forlorn utility pole, I wrote, “George Floyd, please watch for 2Pak when you get to heaven.”  Surely Tupac will show George around.

 

 

     And then I made a reservation for 6:00 pm tonight at Hell’s Kitchen.  Yay!  And then I finally found an In-N-Out Burger at the Flamingo-slash-LINQ mall.  Strawberry milkshakes!  And the burgers of course.  And their famous homemade fries.  Heavenly.  “Welcome to fabulous Las Vegas!”  Today has also been a most productive day — and even I had to admit that In-N-Out Burger’s fries definitely paled in comparison to Hell’s Kitchen’s “pureed potatoes”.  Although In-N-Out fries were one-tenth the price.

 

     So I splurged at Hell’s Kitchen.  So to shoot me.  Worth every penny in memories.  I got to eat Beef Wellington!  I got to eat sticky-toffee pudding.  I got to meet Chef Christina!  And I also got to take a selfie with her.  Her!  With me!  Perfect night.

 

     On the way home, I stopped by the Tupac memorial once again and talked to the homeless Black guy who apparently lives there.  “There’s about 5,000 homeless people in Berkeley,” I said.  “How many homeless people are there in Las Vegas?”

 

     “Around 6,000 in Las Vegas proper -– but about 8,000 in the area surrounding it.”  Yikes.

 

     I was intrigued by this homeless man because he was clean and obviously well-educated.  I can’t even imagine what his story could be.  He was just casually lounging there in the searing heat, reading Robert Ludlum.  “I also like James Patterson,” he added.

 

     “I gotta admit that they are really good at plotting their stories but they’re a bit too dark for me.  I like Janet Evanovich.”

 

     “I like her too,” replied the homeless guy, self-appointed guardian of the Tupac memorial.

 

     “Would you like to come swim the Tuscany pool?” I asked kindly.

 

     “No thanks.”

 

     So I went back to the hotel to watch reruns on TV.

 

June 5, 2020:   I knew it was too good to be true — that I was all on a roll and everything was going my way.  Off and on all through the night last night, like some cuckoo-clock banshee, a woman in the hallway near my door started screaming.  Every hour on the hour until at least 3:00 am.  Then apparently some first-responders came and dragged her away.

 

     But it was too late to keep my sleep cycle from being shattered.  I love sleep!  I hate it when my sleep is stolen.  Plus over-indulging on the sticky-toffee pudding didn’t help either.  No dreams.

 

     Now I gotta drag myself out of bed and go swimming.  Last chance.  No one is allowed to swim in Berkeley.  “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” now applies to swimming pools too?  It’s come to that?  But I did have the lap pool all to myself and it was perfect!  Plus I got a lot of thinking done about what to do next.  Always a plus.

 

     Boy does travel teach you patience and I learned a little bit more patience during my flight back to SFO — which basically consisted of one whole hour of bump and grind.  Terrifying.  So I started to compose a new will in my head.  Last will and testament.  Sure enough.  That took my mind off of dying.    

 

     Why?    

 

      Because I got so pissed off at the mere thought of having to mention various disrespectful family members in my will –- but I guess that they gotta be in there somewhere, according to State of California probate laws.