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  -- And this was just the baggage claim! July 10, 2003 - From Hartford To Hell In More Than 24 Hours Flying With Frizzle There are dozens of flights from Hartford to Chicago every day, undoubtedly over many different airlines, yet I can't figure over any of the others available that we would have met a couple like the one we crossed paths with this day. We only really noticed them because they were sitting in our seats when we boarded -- a not impossible error, given they were just one row off their own -- but I'm quite thankful we did. Well, I did. Charlie's mature enough that these sorts of things don't fascinate him. The man wasn't all that notable -- kind of like David Gest to Liza Minelli, if Gest wasn't made out of plastic and a suspected homosexual. Though he did open a discussion about Queer Eye For The Straight Guy -- which he described as "a guy who goes out with five gay guys who teach him how to dress and eat" -- but Charlie quickly assured me it was a TV show and not the man's darkest fantasy. But then there was his companion ... a frightening picture of what awaits Ms. Frizzle if she stops dyeing her hair. As I mentioned, the pair were in our seats, having misread the rows by one. It wasn't a problem to just take their seats, but it was a matter of not asking them to move -- the woman had one of these large canvas bags that you could store a whole week's clothing in. They couldn't have been in the plane for more than five minutes, but they looked like they were setting up a base camp. Somewhat fitting, as she was dressed like a wispy field ... top covered with moons and stars, hair somewhat unkempt in a nest-like style, and much as I hate to say it, smelling a bit like a vagrant. Smells were among the running theme for the trip. Stemming from more than the obvious, the last thing I did before I left my house was take a second shower ... given the heat we were going to, and just the general stink that collects when flying, it seemed the best idea for everyone. Well, Charlie scoffed at it. Legitimately scoffed. Thus, he was said to stink like ass for the rest of the journey. Though my Frizzle friend was absolutely no comparison to Scott of CC fame -- we never actually communicated like he and I blissfully did -- she had those traits that jerkoffs like myself feel the need to comment about. It could have just been nerves from flying, but she spent much of the flight laughing way too loud at things that weren't that funny. She began tapping the beat to a song that wasn't playing on the back of my seat ... course maybe it was the 45-minute long prologue to Frank Sinatra's song about Chicago, which the pair felt the need to sing throughout the landing process. Eh, it could have been a lot worse ... she could have made me try to buy her Hustler. Our time in Chicago was brief, but while there, I picked up a copy of the vaunted RedEye, the Chicago Tribune's youth-skewed publication that I previously chastised or stupid or whatever.
But enough about all that, friends. Because, well, Vegas. Really, what can you say? It's feeling like the middle of the night to our East Coast bodies, and yet, you can't help but notice the energy of the plane perk up when after all that darkness, the outside lights like a Christmas tree. Heads perk up, and start peering out the windows. CD players get turned off, just so people can stare. Though my flight had none of the freaks in their glittered hats and ugly Hawaiian shirts, you could definitely feel the anticipation and the relief that the travel was over. If you don't know the geography of Las Vegas, McCarran International sits essentially next to The Strip. So there's though few moments on approach when you wonder, "I wonder what I'll be able to see from here," then suddenly the humongous green-glowing MGM Grand comes into view. And immediately, you know you're in Vegas on touchdown ... because I can't think of anywhere else where the flight attendants tell you: are well inside the terminal. Good luck!" -- Well, that and the fact that at 11 p.m., it's more than 100 degrees.  Forty steps into the terminal, and yes I did count, I saw my first bank of slot machines. From there, as we proceeded down into a humongous marble bowl with neon signs blinking above us, the true theme for the trip was established. All the signs, the smooth monorail system, the 16-carousel baggage claim with video monitors, neon and Lord knows what else. we're seeing was built on people's shattered dreams." Retirement funds. Tax refunds. Birthday money. Investment returns. It's mind boggling to think about how much money changes hands in Las Vegas daily ... how much disappears into tables and slots. Now that I'm gone, it's funny. Course when I was there, it was how much of it was mine. Long story short, it was about three hours from when we landed before Shawn and Laura got us to check-in at the MGM -- thanks to the folks at Dollar Rent-A-Car for not only running a single shuttle, but underfilling it and lying about lines at the off-airport location. We were one of only five in the "Porte Cochere" when we got there, which both made check-in quick and allowed us to marvel at the immense size as gawkily as possible.  -- The Carrot Top on the video wall made the whole evening, I tell you. Offered the chance to upgrade to a room with two beds for $10/night, bearing in mind that Charlie (to keep with the story) smelled like rotting bananas at this point, we took it. Maybe it would have been free if I'd given the gent an extra $10 before, but hey, so be it. The room was on the 28th floor, looking across The Strip to NYNY, down to Mandalay and up as far the Monte Carlo. We duly took lots of pictures, being who we are, but also being who we are, it was time to get a few hours of sleep. | ||||||||||||||||||
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