Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog - Posts Tagged "las-vegas"
LADY IN THE DESERT (The True Story of the Flamingo as Told by Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel)
First off, don't call me Bugsy. Don't ever call me Bugsy. Not so I can hear anyway. It's Ben. Benny if you like. Thank you. As for the Flamingo, I'll tell you straight away that almost everything you've heard, seen in the movies and the like -- how it was first concieved; built; named; etcetera -- is strictly a fabrication. I'd use a stronger word but I'm a gentleman.
The Hollywood types would have you believe that it was I, Benjamin Siegel, who first hatched the idea to build an "oasis" in the desert; a palace rising outa the Mojave like a mirage; a vision imagined by some drunken goatherd whose brains had been fried by the sun -- and that it was me who named it the "Flamingo" in honor of my lady friend, Virginia Hill. While this makes for a great yarn it simply ain't so. Let it never be said that Benny Siegel didn't give credit where credit was due. The Flamingo was really the idea of a guy named Billy Wilkerson. Billy owned Ciro's, a joint in L.A.; a nightclub that all the Hollywood hotshots frequented: John Wayne; Marlene Dietrich. Even my old pal Georgie Raft. Anybody who was anybody hung out at Ciro's. I'd known Billy for years. We'd bend an elbow every now and again at The Stork Club in New York. Billy loved The Stork Club. It was his favorite joint in the entire world. He often told me how he wished his own place, Ciro's, could exude that kinda class -- that elegance you normally only got to see in Europe or on the French Riviera. Fuck John Wayne and Marlene Dietrich.
Like I say, Billy was an okay guy. Very personable. Always with a joke or story to tell. And very successful. Ciro's might not have been The Stork Club, but lemme tell ya it was a friggin' goldmine just the same. Excuse my French. Like most high fliers Billy had a fatal flaw. It's either booze, broads or gambling. For Billy it was gambling. If you pissed your pants Billy would bet on which leg it would run down. Billy would bet on everything from the ponies to prizefights. I even took some of his action. The thing Billy really loved though was all them sawdust joints along Fremont Street. He'd charter a plane and fly in from L.A.; spend the afternoon, sometimes the weekend. There were days Billy would fly outa Vegas 50 Gs lighter than when he arrived. Billy had the fever. And he had it bad.
One day a friend of Billy's said: "Billy, if you like gambling so much, why not own the house?"
This was how Billy got the idea for the Flamingo. Billy was a dreamer though. A guy who imagined things on a grand scale. Like yours truly. He wasn't just gonna build another cowboy joint like the dives on Fremont. He was gonna build The Stork Club right there in the middle of the Mojave desert. A place that would be every bit as elegant and glamorous as those joints on the French Riviera; where all them high rollers he catered to back home could come to drop a bundle. He even decided to call it the "Flamingo" so people would be reminded of The Stork Club. Flamingo. Stork. Both exotic birds. Capice? As Charlie Lucky would say. So much for the bit about me naming the place for Virginia Hill.
Let me set the record straight about me and Virginia. It wasn't exactly the great love affair Hollywood's made it out to be. Don't get me wrong. Virginia was a helluva kid. A real spitfire. Had a temper to match mine and then some. She was alotta fun to be around . . . most of the time. Knew what she was doin' in the sack too. Liked it a little rough but that was fine by me. Romeo and Juliet we weren't though. As for me naming the Flamingo for her 'cause she was long and leggy . . . well . . . Virginia was many things but long and leggy she wasn't. Virginia was short and buxom. "Rubenesque" as she liked me to say. A little fat in the can but nothing wrong with that. Actually the whole name thing was kinda ironic since Virginia hated flamingos. Was attacked by one while vacationing in the Caribbean. Go figure.
Anyway, gettin' back to Billy. He borrowed a ton of dough using Ciro's as collateral; bought a parcel of land from some crazy old broad living in a shack out on what's now The Strip -- and set about building the Flamingo. Had it more than half finished by the time I stepped in. Like I mentioned earlier, Billy had the fever. Had it in spades. He went and gambled away the money he needed to finish the place, and with Billy mortgaged to the eyeballs and his "problem" a topic of the rumor mill, there wasn't a bank outside of Timbuktu that'd lend him another nickle. That's when I heard opportunity knock. I got my old cronies Charlie Luciano and Meyer Lansky to pony up the cash and I became Billy's "partner."
I gotta admit, at first it was strictly all business. I thought Billy was really onto something. Not just a gambling joint but fine dining and cocktails; a lounge for top-notch acts like Lena Horne and Henny Youngman. And a hotel attached to it all. First-rate accomodations to match anything you'd find at The Plaza or Waldorf in New York. The Flamingo would have it all. I'd spare no expense. That's when I got the fever. What was supposed to cost a million turned into two million. Then three. Then four. Six million before it was all said and done. I was getting calls and telegrams from Meyer Lansky asking what the hell was going on. Six million dollars for a gambling joint in the middle of the desert? Had I flipped my stack? Charlie Luciano was foaming at the mouth. Where was all the dough going? For shit sakes put the brakes on. But I couldn't. Not even if I wanted to.
Not only was I spending money like a drunken Shiek, I was getting ripped off. Imagine me, Benny Siegel -- strong-arming pushcart operators when I was thirteen; cofounder of Murder Icorporated -- I was getting took. I'd have palm trees trucked in from California and at night the same guys who made the delivery would steal 'em back and sell 'em to me again. But I didn't know. Or maybe just didn't care. The only thing I cared about was the Flamingo. It was no longer Billy's dream. It was my dream. I forced Billy out. Gave him some dough. Told him it was his choice. He could either have the silver or the lead. He took the silver. Billy was no dope. The Flamingo was all mine.
I watched it grow, day by day. From a bunch of planks and beams and cement and plaster to a palace. It meant more to me than any dame. More than money. It meant more to me than my two daughters. God help me for saying it. It was beautiful. Majestic. The Flamingo was my lady. There would never be another. One night, shortly after it was finished, I stood watching it from a distance; all lit with neon. A thousand stars in the desert sky. Stars like I never seen sleeping on that fire escape back in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when I was a kid. Looking up at the night sky and dreaming I'd do something big. But nothing like this. A thousand stars in the desert sky but the Flamingo was the brightest. That was it. I'd done it. Benny Siegel had fulfilled his destiny. I knew it. Just like a part of me knew it was already over. I didn't see it when the end finally came. Never knew what hit me. That's all you can ask for in my business. Bye, bye Benny.
They tore it down eventually. Built an even bigger place. Bigger but not better. If you visit the Flamingo today, out back by the wedding chapel and the exotic bird habitat where they keep the African penguins and flamingos (Virginia would shit), you'll find a little memorial: a stone and plaque bearing my face and name. A memorial for Benjamin Siegel. The man who built the Flamingo. At least they didn't call me Bugsy.
*Author's Note*: Bugsy -- excuse me -- Benny Siegel's photo hangs on my wall right next to a matted and framed fragment of a legal document bearing his actual signature. I believe I was channeling him as I wrote this piece of fiction. Rest in peace Benny -- Quinn
The Hollywood types would have you believe that it was I, Benjamin Siegel, who first hatched the idea to build an "oasis" in the desert; a palace rising outa the Mojave like a mirage; a vision imagined by some drunken goatherd whose brains had been fried by the sun -- and that it was me who named it the "Flamingo" in honor of my lady friend, Virginia Hill. While this makes for a great yarn it simply ain't so. Let it never be said that Benny Siegel didn't give credit where credit was due. The Flamingo was really the idea of a guy named Billy Wilkerson. Billy owned Ciro's, a joint in L.A.; a nightclub that all the Hollywood hotshots frequented: John Wayne; Marlene Dietrich. Even my old pal Georgie Raft. Anybody who was anybody hung out at Ciro's. I'd known Billy for years. We'd bend an elbow every now and again at The Stork Club in New York. Billy loved The Stork Club. It was his favorite joint in the entire world. He often told me how he wished his own place, Ciro's, could exude that kinda class -- that elegance you normally only got to see in Europe or on the French Riviera. Fuck John Wayne and Marlene Dietrich.
Like I say, Billy was an okay guy. Very personable. Always with a joke or story to tell. And very successful. Ciro's might not have been The Stork Club, but lemme tell ya it was a friggin' goldmine just the same. Excuse my French. Like most high fliers Billy had a fatal flaw. It's either booze, broads or gambling. For Billy it was gambling. If you pissed your pants Billy would bet on which leg it would run down. Billy would bet on everything from the ponies to prizefights. I even took some of his action. The thing Billy really loved though was all them sawdust joints along Fremont Street. He'd charter a plane and fly in from L.A.; spend the afternoon, sometimes the weekend. There were days Billy would fly outa Vegas 50 Gs lighter than when he arrived. Billy had the fever. And he had it bad.
One day a friend of Billy's said: "Billy, if you like gambling so much, why not own the house?"
This was how Billy got the idea for the Flamingo. Billy was a dreamer though. A guy who imagined things on a grand scale. Like yours truly. He wasn't just gonna build another cowboy joint like the dives on Fremont. He was gonna build The Stork Club right there in the middle of the Mojave desert. A place that would be every bit as elegant and glamorous as those joints on the French Riviera; where all them high rollers he catered to back home could come to drop a bundle. He even decided to call it the "Flamingo" so people would be reminded of The Stork Club. Flamingo. Stork. Both exotic birds. Capice? As Charlie Lucky would say. So much for the bit about me naming the place for Virginia Hill.
Let me set the record straight about me and Virginia. It wasn't exactly the great love affair Hollywood's made it out to be. Don't get me wrong. Virginia was a helluva kid. A real spitfire. Had a temper to match mine and then some. She was alotta fun to be around . . . most of the time. Knew what she was doin' in the sack too. Liked it a little rough but that was fine by me. Romeo and Juliet we weren't though. As for me naming the Flamingo for her 'cause she was long and leggy . . . well . . . Virginia was many things but long and leggy she wasn't. Virginia was short and buxom. "Rubenesque" as she liked me to say. A little fat in the can but nothing wrong with that. Actually the whole name thing was kinda ironic since Virginia hated flamingos. Was attacked by one while vacationing in the Caribbean. Go figure.
Anyway, gettin' back to Billy. He borrowed a ton of dough using Ciro's as collateral; bought a parcel of land from some crazy old broad living in a shack out on what's now The Strip -- and set about building the Flamingo. Had it more than half finished by the time I stepped in. Like I mentioned earlier, Billy had the fever. Had it in spades. He went and gambled away the money he needed to finish the place, and with Billy mortgaged to the eyeballs and his "problem" a topic of the rumor mill, there wasn't a bank outside of Timbuktu that'd lend him another nickle. That's when I heard opportunity knock. I got my old cronies Charlie Luciano and Meyer Lansky to pony up the cash and I became Billy's "partner."
I gotta admit, at first it was strictly all business. I thought Billy was really onto something. Not just a gambling joint but fine dining and cocktails; a lounge for top-notch acts like Lena Horne and Henny Youngman. And a hotel attached to it all. First-rate accomodations to match anything you'd find at The Plaza or Waldorf in New York. The Flamingo would have it all. I'd spare no expense. That's when I got the fever. What was supposed to cost a million turned into two million. Then three. Then four. Six million before it was all said and done. I was getting calls and telegrams from Meyer Lansky asking what the hell was going on. Six million dollars for a gambling joint in the middle of the desert? Had I flipped my stack? Charlie Luciano was foaming at the mouth. Where was all the dough going? For shit sakes put the brakes on. But I couldn't. Not even if I wanted to.
Not only was I spending money like a drunken Shiek, I was getting ripped off. Imagine me, Benny Siegel -- strong-arming pushcart operators when I was thirteen; cofounder of Murder Icorporated -- I was getting took. I'd have palm trees trucked in from California and at night the same guys who made the delivery would steal 'em back and sell 'em to me again. But I didn't know. Or maybe just didn't care. The only thing I cared about was the Flamingo. It was no longer Billy's dream. It was my dream. I forced Billy out. Gave him some dough. Told him it was his choice. He could either have the silver or the lead. He took the silver. Billy was no dope. The Flamingo was all mine.
I watched it grow, day by day. From a bunch of planks and beams and cement and plaster to a palace. It meant more to me than any dame. More than money. It meant more to me than my two daughters. God help me for saying it. It was beautiful. Majestic. The Flamingo was my lady. There would never be another. One night, shortly after it was finished, I stood watching it from a distance; all lit with neon. A thousand stars in the desert sky. Stars like I never seen sleeping on that fire escape back in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when I was a kid. Looking up at the night sky and dreaming I'd do something big. But nothing like this. A thousand stars in the desert sky but the Flamingo was the brightest. That was it. I'd done it. Benny Siegel had fulfilled his destiny. I knew it. Just like a part of me knew it was already over. I didn't see it when the end finally came. Never knew what hit me. That's all you can ask for in my business. Bye, bye Benny.
They tore it down eventually. Built an even bigger place. Bigger but not better. If you visit the Flamingo today, out back by the wedding chapel and the exotic bird habitat where they keep the African penguins and flamingos (Virginia would shit), you'll find a little memorial: a stone and plaque bearing my face and name. A memorial for Benjamin Siegel. The man who built the Flamingo. At least they didn't call me Bugsy.
*Author's Note*: Bugsy -- excuse me -- Benny Siegel's photo hangs on my wall right next to a matted and framed fragment of a legal document bearing his actual signature. I believe I was channeling him as I wrote this piece of fiction. Rest in peace Benny -- Quinn
THE MAN WHO BUILT LAS VEGAS
My father was the unluckiest man who ever lived. I know that sounds like a bold statement, but it's true. To this day, there are Nazis who claim the only reason why Germany lost the war was because my old man bet on their side. My father never won a bet. Ever. He bet the Russians would win the Space Race, Kennedy would be a two-term president, and the Beatles would cut their hair and become a lounge act. He once lost twenty bucks to my Uncle Irving betting the sun would come up -- the day before a solar eclipse.
A horse player, my old man was even out-handicapped by Fred: the pet rooster of a local bookie who picked winners by leaving droppings on a copy of the Daily Racing Form. The bird was good. Not only was it an ace handicapper, it also picked Ali over Frazier in the "Thrilla in Manila," and Nixon over McGovern in the '72 presidential race. Never one to be outdone, my father began betting with the rooster. Two weeks later, a couple of the neighborhood cats found their way into Fred's pen and sent him to that big chicken coop in the sky -- another victim of the "Bufogle Curse."
My old man lost money on baseball, football, basketball . . . jai-alai, ice curling, women's volleyball . . . and -- in one particularly bizarre instance -- dog racing, when the greyhound he'd bet on copped a squat mere yards before the finish line. All this pales however, to the summer of my twelfth birthday. It was the summer my father booked a family trip to Las Vegas. He'd spent three months holed up in the basement, pouring over books on how to beat the odds at the casinos: crunching numbers; reviewing stats -- and he was ready. The scientists at the jet propulsion lab at NASA had put less thought into the moon landing, than my old man had into breaking the bank in Sin City. As it turned out, my father would've been better off buying a rooster.
No sooner had we touched down in Vegas than things began to go south. My old man had booked us a stay at the Desert Inn -- the hot property of the day. We arrived: my father dressed smartly in a Hawaiian shirt & Bermuda shorts; mom, sister and yours truly in tow, only to be told our reservation had been lost. Using his expert negotiating skills, my old man persuaded management to spring for two rooms at a nearby fleabag motel: complete with unsupervised swimming pool (in which I nearly drowned) and hot & cold running degenerates. Depositing us at the motel with $50 and four free vouchers for the $1 buffet, my father made a beeline for the Desert Inn casino. There he embarked upon the greatest losing streak in the history of Las Vegas. My old man's losing streak was the stuff of legend -- so much so that until they tore down the Desert Inn, there was a brass plaque next to one of the crap tables commemorating the afternoon he threw snake eyes twenty-two times in a row -- a record that still stands to this day.
Five days later my father returned to the motel: pale despite the 112 degree heat; wearing a haunted look and a shirt which read: "I LOST JUNIOR'S COLLEGE TUITION AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT." With exactly $12.63 in his pocket, he paid our cab fare back to the airport, and lost the remaining $5.63 during the plane ride back to New York; playing gin rummy with me, his twelve-year-old son. I still have the IOU.
And so it is with a lump in my throat and a knot in my colon, that I look out on the Las Vegas skyline and realize that it wasn't Ben Siegel, or Meyer Lansky, or Howard Hughes who built this city. It was men like my old man. Men who couldn't pick a Pygmy out of a lineup of Bavarian haus fraus, yet dared to dream; to believe that armed with little more than an unlimited line of credit, and a completely unjustified sense of self-confidence, they too could be winners. Thanks Dad.
A horse player, my old man was even out-handicapped by Fred: the pet rooster of a local bookie who picked winners by leaving droppings on a copy of the Daily Racing Form. The bird was good. Not only was it an ace handicapper, it also picked Ali over Frazier in the "Thrilla in Manila," and Nixon over McGovern in the '72 presidential race. Never one to be outdone, my father began betting with the rooster. Two weeks later, a couple of the neighborhood cats found their way into Fred's pen and sent him to that big chicken coop in the sky -- another victim of the "Bufogle Curse."
My old man lost money on baseball, football, basketball . . . jai-alai, ice curling, women's volleyball . . . and -- in one particularly bizarre instance -- dog racing, when the greyhound he'd bet on copped a squat mere yards before the finish line. All this pales however, to the summer of my twelfth birthday. It was the summer my father booked a family trip to Las Vegas. He'd spent three months holed up in the basement, pouring over books on how to beat the odds at the casinos: crunching numbers; reviewing stats -- and he was ready. The scientists at the jet propulsion lab at NASA had put less thought into the moon landing, than my old man had into breaking the bank in Sin City. As it turned out, my father would've been better off buying a rooster.
No sooner had we touched down in Vegas than things began to go south. My old man had booked us a stay at the Desert Inn -- the hot property of the day. We arrived: my father dressed smartly in a Hawaiian shirt & Bermuda shorts; mom, sister and yours truly in tow, only to be told our reservation had been lost. Using his expert negotiating skills, my old man persuaded management to spring for two rooms at a nearby fleabag motel: complete with unsupervised swimming pool (in which I nearly drowned) and hot & cold running degenerates. Depositing us at the motel with $50 and four free vouchers for the $1 buffet, my father made a beeline for the Desert Inn casino. There he embarked upon the greatest losing streak in the history of Las Vegas. My old man's losing streak was the stuff of legend -- so much so that until they tore down the Desert Inn, there was a brass plaque next to one of the crap tables commemorating the afternoon he threw snake eyes twenty-two times in a row -- a record that still stands to this day.
Five days later my father returned to the motel: pale despite the 112 degree heat; wearing a haunted look and a shirt which read: "I LOST JUNIOR'S COLLEGE TUITION AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT." With exactly $12.63 in his pocket, he paid our cab fare back to the airport, and lost the remaining $5.63 during the plane ride back to New York; playing gin rummy with me, his twelve-year-old son. I still have the IOU.
And so it is with a lump in my throat and a knot in my colon, that I look out on the Las Vegas skyline and realize that it wasn't Ben Siegel, or Meyer Lansky, or Howard Hughes who built this city. It was men like my old man. Men who couldn't pick a Pygmy out of a lineup of Bavarian haus fraus, yet dared to dream; to believe that armed with little more than an unlimited line of credit, and a completely unjustified sense of self-confidence, they too could be winners. Thanks Dad.
IN SEARCH OF THE GOLDEN BANANA
"So . . . you spent the entire night riding around on a bus with a bunch of drag queens? . . ."
Eddie nods and wolfs a bite of his Fatburger. It's been a while since our paths have crossed, so we're getting caught up over a couple XLs at the Fatburger over on Flamingo and Rainbow. Eduardo Ramirez-Marin is my good friend: a local artist who -- in the six years I've known him -- has proven to be a lightning rod for attracting oddballs of all sorts. He's telling me the story of how he was recently shanghaied by a busload of drag queens, searching for a mythical gay bar known as, "The Golden Banana." Like the imaginary Tibetan Utopia of Shangri-La (which, ironically, IS a gay bar), The Golden Banana, it would seem, simply doesn't exist -- at least so far as a bus full of gay men dressed like Celine Dion could ascertain.
Now, just to set the record straight (no pun intended), Eddie isn't a gay man. Given this fact, one might logically ask why a man who's not gay, would spend the evening riding around on a bus filled with drag queens searching for a place called "The Golden Banana?" Let's hold that question til the end -- shall we?
Apparently Eddie had been drinking at one of his regular haunts, when the drag queens rolled up in their bus.
"One guy was a dead ringer for Kirstie Alley." Eddie tells me. No doubt.
The queens were a raucus crew and immediately began buying shots for everyone in the establishment. Eddie -- already knee deep in tequila -- was swept up in the revelry. Next thing he knew riding a tour bus with Kirstie Alley: on a quest to find a non-existent gay bar.
The evening soon became a blur; Eddie busting out some of his old dance moves despite a trick knee -- the result of an old football injury (he once tripped over one while half in the bag).
"Man, don't know how many bars we hit . . . we had a blast."
"But no Golden Banana?"
"Nope. Don't think those queens really cared. Just wanted to have a good time -- and we did! Made a few new Facebook friends and even got a commission out of it. Great guys. At the end of the night they dropped me off at the bar where they picked me up."
I look out the window of the Fatburger; the sun slanted low in the desert sky. Another day draws to a close in Sin City. As I attempt to digest Eddie's story along with my burger, I have a sudden epiphany. This isn't just a tale of drag queens in search of a gay bar. No. The Golden Banana is merely a metaphor. A fundamental truth has been revealed unto me . . .
"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive."
We must all learn to travel hopefully. To enjoy the journey -- no matter where it may take us. For what is life but a journey? . . . Even if there is no Golden Banana at the end of the rainbow.
(Check out Eddie's awesome painting "TEQUILA" in my photos!)
Eddie nods and wolfs a bite of his Fatburger. It's been a while since our paths have crossed, so we're getting caught up over a couple XLs at the Fatburger over on Flamingo and Rainbow. Eduardo Ramirez-Marin is my good friend: a local artist who -- in the six years I've known him -- has proven to be a lightning rod for attracting oddballs of all sorts. He's telling me the story of how he was recently shanghaied by a busload of drag queens, searching for a mythical gay bar known as, "The Golden Banana." Like the imaginary Tibetan Utopia of Shangri-La (which, ironically, IS a gay bar), The Golden Banana, it would seem, simply doesn't exist -- at least so far as a bus full of gay men dressed like Celine Dion could ascertain.
Now, just to set the record straight (no pun intended), Eddie isn't a gay man. Given this fact, one might logically ask why a man who's not gay, would spend the evening riding around on a bus filled with drag queens searching for a place called "The Golden Banana?" Let's hold that question til the end -- shall we?
Apparently Eddie had been drinking at one of his regular haunts, when the drag queens rolled up in their bus.
"One guy was a dead ringer for Kirstie Alley." Eddie tells me. No doubt.
The queens were a raucus crew and immediately began buying shots for everyone in the establishment. Eddie -- already knee deep in tequila -- was swept up in the revelry. Next thing he knew riding a tour bus with Kirstie Alley: on a quest to find a non-existent gay bar.
The evening soon became a blur; Eddie busting out some of his old dance moves despite a trick knee -- the result of an old football injury (he once tripped over one while half in the bag).
"Man, don't know how many bars we hit . . . we had a blast."
"But no Golden Banana?"
"Nope. Don't think those queens really cared. Just wanted to have a good time -- and we did! Made a few new Facebook friends and even got a commission out of it. Great guys. At the end of the night they dropped me off at the bar where they picked me up."
I look out the window of the Fatburger; the sun slanted low in the desert sky. Another day draws to a close in Sin City. As I attempt to digest Eddie's story along with my burger, I have a sudden epiphany. This isn't just a tale of drag queens in search of a gay bar. No. The Golden Banana is merely a metaphor. A fundamental truth has been revealed unto me . . .
"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive."
We must all learn to travel hopefully. To enjoy the journey -- no matter where it may take us. For what is life but a journey? . . . Even if there is no Golden Banana at the end of the rainbow.
(Check out Eddie's awesome painting "TEQUILA" in my photos!)
FUTURE IMPERFECT (OR NOTHING SECEDES LIKE SUCCESS)
IT'S THE YEAR 2022. In her second term, President Hillary Clinton has lifted the nation to a new level of prosperity. There's a chicken in every pot. (And pot is legal!) Things are good.
Not so in the Independent Nation of Nevada, which seceded from the union shortly after the re-election of President Barack Obama.
With the state now under the iron-fisted rule of Sheldon Adelson and his minions, unions are a thing of the past, and the average hourly wage has dipped below that of a fluffer in a Bangkok brothel . . .
"Mr. Adelson? Mr. Trump is here to see you."
"Again Karl? Can't you put him off?"
"Sorry, sir. He insisted."
"OK, OK. Send him in -- then give it 10 minutes and call me on your cell. I'll pretend it's Mitt threatening to jump again."
Rove smiled. "You're the best."
Trump was ushered into Adelson's palatial office at the Venetian, where the mogul, seated on a throne, held court. The years hadn't been kind to The Donald. After the Democrats took over, "The Apprentice" plummeted in the ratings and was cancelled. Now operating out of a refrigerator box, the once-proud real estate tycoon hustled Trump-brand silk ties on the Strip . . .
Read the complete article:
http://lasvegascitylife.com/blog/town...
Not so in the Independent Nation of Nevada, which seceded from the union shortly after the re-election of President Barack Obama.
With the state now under the iron-fisted rule of Sheldon Adelson and his minions, unions are a thing of the past, and the average hourly wage has dipped below that of a fluffer in a Bangkok brothel . . .
"Mr. Adelson? Mr. Trump is here to see you."
"Again Karl? Can't you put him off?"
"Sorry, sir. He insisted."
"OK, OK. Send him in -- then give it 10 minutes and call me on your cell. I'll pretend it's Mitt threatening to jump again."
Rove smiled. "You're the best."
Trump was ushered into Adelson's palatial office at the Venetian, where the mogul, seated on a throne, held court. The years hadn't been kind to The Donald. After the Democrats took over, "The Apprentice" plummeted in the ratings and was cancelled. Now operating out of a refrigerator box, the once-proud real estate tycoon hustled Trump-brand silk ties on the Strip . . .
Read the complete article:
http://lasvegascitylife.com/blog/town...
A CHRISTMAS CAROL, VEGAS STYLE (2.0)
Jim was po'd: as po'd as a dwarf in a crowded elevator car at an all-male nudist colony -- of that there was no doubt. It was Christmas Eve, and Jim (a buffet cook at a Strip hotel) was scheduled to work swing shift Christmas Day.
Jim hated working holidays; Christmas especially: mom and dad and the kiddies all gorging themselves on the feast he'd slaved to prepare: turkey with chestnut stuffing; candied yams; green beans almondine . . . not to mention the pecan pie. There'd be no feast for him. The menu in the employee dining room was always the same -- Christmas or no: cheese enchiladas and lime Jell-O with whipped cream. Enough to gag a maggot.
What a life! Another year gone. Another -- equally as disappointing -- soon to begin. How had things gone so wrong? In his youth, Jim had dreamed of becoming a world famous chef; opening his own restaurant where he'd greet celebrities eager to shower praise upon him for his culinary prowess: movie stars; athletes; models in slinky, low-cut dresses. Here he was, crowding sixty; working at a lousy buffet and living in a crummy, rundown apartment complex on the outskirts of town: his neighbors misfits and rejects; the flotsam & jetsam of the Vegas backwash -- like him.
He'd dozed off on the sofa with a can of beer while watching TV. Suddenly he was awakened by a violent pounding. At first he thought it was the old guy in the apartment upstairs. Always that infernal clopping sound overhead -- as if the old boy was doing step aerobics in weighted diving boots. The front door was thrown open, and there before him, stood the ghost of Shorty Bimstein -- a former cook at the hotel. He was dragging a bunch of saute pans fixed to a chain, and wore a colander on his head.
"Shorty . . . is it really you?"
"Yeah, it's me. Y'know anyone else useta wear a colander on his head?"
"You always were a card . . . but Shorty, what are you doin' here -- why have you come back?"
"Because we were such close friends and colleagues in life, I come ta bring ya a warnin' from the udder side."
"But we weren't close friends. I couldn't stand you."
"We sat together in the lunch room every day for twenty-five years."
"Yeah -- but only because you let me have the whipped cream from your Jell-O. You were lactose intolerant -- remember?"
"Be that as it may, I come ta tell ya that tanight you'll be visited by tree ghosts: Elvis, Liberace, and Frank Sinatra."
"NO SHIT!!!"
Shorty's ghost guffawed and rattled his saute pans.
"Nah! I'm just bustin' on ya! . . . It's only me."
"Now I rememeber why I couldn't stand you."
"Alright, so's we weren't pals. But I come back anyways to save you from my wretched fate . . . to warn you if ya don't clean up yer act -- stop bein' a turd in the punch bowl -- you'll be draggin' saute pans an' wearin' a colander on yer head."
"But Shorty, life sucks and I hate Christmas. Whattaya want me to do? Run around hollerin' 'HO, HO, HO' like I got a thumb stuck up my ass?"
"Ever occur ta you that maybe yer so miserable cuz ya only think a yerself? Why doncha try bein' nice ta yer neighbor upstairs, 'stead a complainin' ta the manager 'bout 'im alla time?"
"You try sleepin' with that racket. Besides, I'm sure he does it on purpose."
"The ol' guy's got a wooden leg and a overactive bladder. That racket ya hear is him hobblin' back 'n' forth ta the john all night."
"Shorty, you sure have changed since you dropped dead. I remember the way you useta cuss out the servers -- you were a real terror!"
"Yeah, an' look what it got me. I'm warnin' ya, if ya don't turn the leaf, start appreaciatin' the beauty a life, you're doomed -- just like yours truly."
"Maybe you're right, Shorty. Know what? I'm gonna call out sick tomorrow. Take the day off. Get me onea those microwave turkey dinners at Walgreens -- maybe a frozen pumpkin pie . . . and a mini, plug-in Christmas tree . . . yeah! They're showin' 'A Christmas Carol' all day on onea the cable stations -- I love that flick!"
"That's the spirit! Look, I gotta be pushin' along now -- I still gotta drop in on Donald Trump. You take care Jim, and have a merry Christmas!"
"You too Shorty -- and thanks!"
Jim watched Shorty's ghost float out the door and disappear into the dark chill of the Las Vegas night. A light snow was falling, and the moon winked from behind a passing cloud. Life sure was beautiful!
Back inside, Jim cranked up the fireplace and cracked open another beer. Tomorrow he'd buy two microwave turkey dinners and invite ol' peg leg down for Christmas. Why not?!
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!!!!!!
Jim hated working holidays; Christmas especially: mom and dad and the kiddies all gorging themselves on the feast he'd slaved to prepare: turkey with chestnut stuffing; candied yams; green beans almondine . . . not to mention the pecan pie. There'd be no feast for him. The menu in the employee dining room was always the same -- Christmas or no: cheese enchiladas and lime Jell-O with whipped cream. Enough to gag a maggot.
What a life! Another year gone. Another -- equally as disappointing -- soon to begin. How had things gone so wrong? In his youth, Jim had dreamed of becoming a world famous chef; opening his own restaurant where he'd greet celebrities eager to shower praise upon him for his culinary prowess: movie stars; athletes; models in slinky, low-cut dresses. Here he was, crowding sixty; working at a lousy buffet and living in a crummy, rundown apartment complex on the outskirts of town: his neighbors misfits and rejects; the flotsam & jetsam of the Vegas backwash -- like him.
He'd dozed off on the sofa with a can of beer while watching TV. Suddenly he was awakened by a violent pounding. At first he thought it was the old guy in the apartment upstairs. Always that infernal clopping sound overhead -- as if the old boy was doing step aerobics in weighted diving boots. The front door was thrown open, and there before him, stood the ghost of Shorty Bimstein -- a former cook at the hotel. He was dragging a bunch of saute pans fixed to a chain, and wore a colander on his head.
"Shorty . . . is it really you?"
"Yeah, it's me. Y'know anyone else useta wear a colander on his head?"
"You always were a card . . . but Shorty, what are you doin' here -- why have you come back?"
"Because we were such close friends and colleagues in life, I come ta bring ya a warnin' from the udder side."
"But we weren't close friends. I couldn't stand you."
"We sat together in the lunch room every day for twenty-five years."
"Yeah -- but only because you let me have the whipped cream from your Jell-O. You were lactose intolerant -- remember?"
"Be that as it may, I come ta tell ya that tanight you'll be visited by tree ghosts: Elvis, Liberace, and Frank Sinatra."
"NO SHIT!!!"
Shorty's ghost guffawed and rattled his saute pans.
"Nah! I'm just bustin' on ya! . . . It's only me."
"Now I rememeber why I couldn't stand you."
"Alright, so's we weren't pals. But I come back anyways to save you from my wretched fate . . . to warn you if ya don't clean up yer act -- stop bein' a turd in the punch bowl -- you'll be draggin' saute pans an' wearin' a colander on yer head."
"But Shorty, life sucks and I hate Christmas. Whattaya want me to do? Run around hollerin' 'HO, HO, HO' like I got a thumb stuck up my ass?"
"Ever occur ta you that maybe yer so miserable cuz ya only think a yerself? Why doncha try bein' nice ta yer neighbor upstairs, 'stead a complainin' ta the manager 'bout 'im alla time?"
"You try sleepin' with that racket. Besides, I'm sure he does it on purpose."
"The ol' guy's got a wooden leg and a overactive bladder. That racket ya hear is him hobblin' back 'n' forth ta the john all night."
"Shorty, you sure have changed since you dropped dead. I remember the way you useta cuss out the servers -- you were a real terror!"
"Yeah, an' look what it got me. I'm warnin' ya, if ya don't turn the leaf, start appreaciatin' the beauty a life, you're doomed -- just like yours truly."
"Maybe you're right, Shorty. Know what? I'm gonna call out sick tomorrow. Take the day off. Get me onea those microwave turkey dinners at Walgreens -- maybe a frozen pumpkin pie . . . and a mini, plug-in Christmas tree . . . yeah! They're showin' 'A Christmas Carol' all day on onea the cable stations -- I love that flick!"
"That's the spirit! Look, I gotta be pushin' along now -- I still gotta drop in on Donald Trump. You take care Jim, and have a merry Christmas!"
"You too Shorty -- and thanks!"
Jim watched Shorty's ghost float out the door and disappear into the dark chill of the Las Vegas night. A light snow was falling, and the moon winked from behind a passing cloud. Life sure was beautiful!
Back inside, Jim cranked up the fireplace and cracked open another beer. Tomorrow he'd buy two microwave turkey dinners and invite ol' peg leg down for Christmas. Why not?!
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!!!!!!
PLAYING VEGAS
" . . . A FREELANCE WRITER; BLOGGER; NOVELIST . . . OCCASIONAL CITYLIFE CONTRIBUTOR, AND A 'VERY' FUNNY GUY -- QUENTIN R. BUFOGLE . . ."
Sweet Jesus! Did he actually just tell all these people I'm a 'VERY' funny guy??? It was like being introduced to the girl of your dreams with the words, "Hey, meet my friend -- he has a REALLY big penis!" The bar had been set too high. I was doomed to go down in flames.
Mind numb, I took the stage to lukewarm applause. Seated next to editor Scott Dickensheets; the man who'd graciously chosen to include me in the new Las Vegas anthology, "WISH YOU WERE HERE," I wondered if I'd made a terrible mistake -- or he had. We'd gathered -- Scott, myself and the other seven Wish You Were Here authors -- at the Clark County Library Theater to discuss writing the volume. We'd talk a bit; read a bit of what we'd written; sign a few books. Easy.
Let me set the record straight. I certainly don't blame Scott, or his introduction, for my lackluster performance -- one in which I displayed all the charm and magnetism of Tom Waits on bath salts.
My feeling about my work is simple: DON'T ASK! If I really wanted to talk about it, I wouldn't have bothered to write it all down! TALK about writing??? It's an oxymoron for fuck's sake! One doesn't talk about writing -- one simply writes. Good lord. What had I gotten myself into?
Oh, I believed I could pull it off. I'd talk about how my story (about a washed-up boxer, a Hollywood starlet and Bugsy Siegel) was inspired by Bernard Malamud's sensational first novel, "The Natural." How I'd hoped my characters, Packy Wyman and Venus Versailles, would have that same wonderfully quirky, almost cartoonish quality, yet still engage the reader's empathy. Anticipating the other stories & essays in the anthology would be sharp, contemporary and edgy, I wanted my contribution to be a Runyonesque throwback to an era of gangsters and pugs -- of beautiful "dames" and colorful '40s slang. Of course, I said none of this.
The other authors on the panel were brilliant: funny, engaging and insightful in fielding the softballs moderator Dickensheets lobbed at them. Then it was my turn . . .
"So, Quentin . . . You wrote what I'd describe as a humorous historical piece . . . Why?"
Did Dickensheets just ask me why I'm funny??? Back to that again? Why not ask why I'm high-strung and Italian . . . Or why the swallows return to Capistrano, or salmon spawn upstream? Had the guy suddenly gone all Zen on me? How 'bout the sound of one hand clapping in the woods?
How could I possibly answer such a question? In my existential angst, I babbled something about Bugsy Siegel's gamble on Las Vegas -- as in the title of my story, "SOMETIMES IT PAYS TO GAMBLE." Mercifully, Scott moved on. I managed to get through the reading with only a minor stumble, then signed some books.
"How'd I do?" I asked my friend Eddie, who spent most of the signing hitting on one of my fellow authors. Eddie was incorrigible. He once tried to pick up Hilary Swank by telling her she looked like a movie star.
"Not bad. You seemed a little agitated -- like you were gonna swallow your microphone. And you drank way too much water."
"Yeah? So I finished my bottle of water."
"You finished everyone's."
Some constructive criticism. Exactly what was needed. I really had to layoff the H2O. The event concluded, I thanked Scott; honored to be included amongst the cream of Vegas's literary crop. On behalf of my fellow authors, I urge you to pick up a copy of, "Wish You Were Here." You won't be disappointed! . . .
www.amazon.com/wish-you-were-here-ebo...
Sweet Jesus! Did he actually just tell all these people I'm a 'VERY' funny guy??? It was like being introduced to the girl of your dreams with the words, "Hey, meet my friend -- he has a REALLY big penis!" The bar had been set too high. I was doomed to go down in flames.
Mind numb, I took the stage to lukewarm applause. Seated next to editor Scott Dickensheets; the man who'd graciously chosen to include me in the new Las Vegas anthology, "WISH YOU WERE HERE," I wondered if I'd made a terrible mistake -- or he had. We'd gathered -- Scott, myself and the other seven Wish You Were Here authors -- at the Clark County Library Theater to discuss writing the volume. We'd talk a bit; read a bit of what we'd written; sign a few books. Easy.
Let me set the record straight. I certainly don't blame Scott, or his introduction, for my lackluster performance -- one in which I displayed all the charm and magnetism of Tom Waits on bath salts.
My feeling about my work is simple: DON'T ASK! If I really wanted to talk about it, I wouldn't have bothered to write it all down! TALK about writing??? It's an oxymoron for fuck's sake! One doesn't talk about writing -- one simply writes. Good lord. What had I gotten myself into?
Oh, I believed I could pull it off. I'd talk about how my story (about a washed-up boxer, a Hollywood starlet and Bugsy Siegel) was inspired by Bernard Malamud's sensational first novel, "The Natural." How I'd hoped my characters, Packy Wyman and Venus Versailles, would have that same wonderfully quirky, almost cartoonish quality, yet still engage the reader's empathy. Anticipating the other stories & essays in the anthology would be sharp, contemporary and edgy, I wanted my contribution to be a Runyonesque throwback to an era of gangsters and pugs -- of beautiful "dames" and colorful '40s slang. Of course, I said none of this.
The other authors on the panel were brilliant: funny, engaging and insightful in fielding the softballs moderator Dickensheets lobbed at them. Then it was my turn . . .
"So, Quentin . . . You wrote what I'd describe as a humorous historical piece . . . Why?"
Did Dickensheets just ask me why I'm funny??? Back to that again? Why not ask why I'm high-strung and Italian . . . Or why the swallows return to Capistrano, or salmon spawn upstream? Had the guy suddenly gone all Zen on me? How 'bout the sound of one hand clapping in the woods?
How could I possibly answer such a question? In my existential angst, I babbled something about Bugsy Siegel's gamble on Las Vegas -- as in the title of my story, "SOMETIMES IT PAYS TO GAMBLE." Mercifully, Scott moved on. I managed to get through the reading with only a minor stumble, then signed some books.
"How'd I do?" I asked my friend Eddie, who spent most of the signing hitting on one of my fellow authors. Eddie was incorrigible. He once tried to pick up Hilary Swank by telling her she looked like a movie star.
"Not bad. You seemed a little agitated -- like you were gonna swallow your microphone. And you drank way too much water."
"Yeah? So I finished my bottle of water."
"You finished everyone's."
Some constructive criticism. Exactly what was needed. I really had to layoff the H2O. The event concluded, I thanked Scott; honored to be included amongst the cream of Vegas's literary crop. On behalf of my fellow authors, I urge you to pick up a copy of, "Wish You Were Here." You won't be disappointed! . . .
www.amazon.com/wish-you-were-here-ebo...
THE PHANTOM OF CAESARS PALACE
Scarred by an exploding jalapeno popper while working a deep fryer, a deranged cook now terrorizes the venerable Las Vegas property. As our story opens, a caped figure wearing a chef's hat -- face hidden by an Emeril Lagasse mask -- hauls an abducted cocktail waitress to his sub-basement lair ...
"Do not fear my child, no one will harm you! I have brought you here to the peace and tranquility of my underground lake, which lies deep below the wickedness above!"
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Speak, my child. While others fear the wrath of the Phantom, you are safe."
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Delicate flower, have you been stricken mute?"
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Perhaps if I remove your gag? There. Now, speak!"
"Oh, my goodness! I've been kidnapped by Emeril Lagasse!"
"This is but a mask I wear to hide the evil men have done me. It is I -- THE PHANTOM!"
"That nut who's been harassing everyone on the property?"
"NUT?! I was destined to become the greatest chef in all of Las Vegas -- but they were jealous! Executive Chef Pierre LaPierre and his boss, Harry Manlove. They stole my recipe for beef Wellington and stuck me on that lousy deep fryer!"
"But why have you brought me here? What is it you want?"
"I am going to teach you to cook. I will make you the greatest chef in Vegas! Only then will I be vindicated!"
"But I hate cooking. Can't we just order room service?"
"SILENCE! Now for your first lesson."
The Phantom draws back a curtain, revealing Chef LaPierre and Caesars CEO Manlove lying on a stainless-steel prep table -- each peering from a cocoon of pastry dough.
"Chef LaPierre and Harry Manlove! What will you do with them?"
"Not I, but you, my sweet. You're going to place them in my giant pizza oven and bake them like beef Wellington!"
"You fiend! You want me to bake them alive?"
"Just until they're golden-brown and flaky."
LaPierre speaks up. "You are a monster, monsieur!"
"Why, LaPierre? Because I'm going to bake you alive?"
"No! Because you didn't properly season us first!"
"ENOUGH! The hour of my revenge is at hand!"
Just then, a voice cuts through the din.
"STOP! STOP AT ONCE! I'M SHUTTING YOU DOWN!"
The waitress gasps. "Gordon Ramsay?!"
"That's right my darling. I've come to rescue you from this madman!"
"Chef Ramsay!" The Phantom says. "Finally we meet! How I've yearned for this moment. I have a question for you ..."
"Go on."
"Three years ago I auditioned for 'Hell's Kitchen' and never got a call back -- what's up with that?"
"No wonder! You call yourself a chef? About to pop these two old sots into the oven -- without even a brush of clarified butter?!"
"But chef --"
"SHUT UP! Do you know there's moldy blue cheese in your fridge?"
"But bleu cheese is supposed to be moldy ..."
"SHUT UP! This kitchen -- it's filthy!"
"Why, did you find rat droppings?"
"No. I had to bring my own." He paused. "And take off that ridiculous Emeril mask!"
Ramsay wrestles the mask from the Phantom, revealing a curiously unscarred mug.
"I thought you were horribly burned in a kitchen accident?"
"Well, I did have a blister ..."
"The jig is up, bub," Ramsay says. "I'm turning you in for crimes against the culinary world."
The Phantom turns to the waitress. "Will you wait for me?"
"Why not? It's hard to meet a nice guy in Vegas."
Ramsay claps the Phantom on the shoulder. "I'll be waiting, too. You're so deranged, so pathological, so evil -- you simply must be my new executive chef!"
"Not so fast, Ramsay!" Manlove barks. "He still works for me -- I see a musical ..."
(From the 2013 Valentine's Day issue of Las Vegas CityLife)
"Do not fear my child, no one will harm you! I have brought you here to the peace and tranquility of my underground lake, which lies deep below the wickedness above!"
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Speak, my child. While others fear the wrath of the Phantom, you are safe."
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Delicate flower, have you been stricken mute?"
"AAAAARRRRGHHH!"
"Perhaps if I remove your gag? There. Now, speak!"
"Oh, my goodness! I've been kidnapped by Emeril Lagasse!"
"This is but a mask I wear to hide the evil men have done me. It is I -- THE PHANTOM!"
"That nut who's been harassing everyone on the property?"
"NUT?! I was destined to become the greatest chef in all of Las Vegas -- but they were jealous! Executive Chef Pierre LaPierre and his boss, Harry Manlove. They stole my recipe for beef Wellington and stuck me on that lousy deep fryer!"
"But why have you brought me here? What is it you want?"
"I am going to teach you to cook. I will make you the greatest chef in Vegas! Only then will I be vindicated!"
"But I hate cooking. Can't we just order room service?"
"SILENCE! Now for your first lesson."
The Phantom draws back a curtain, revealing Chef LaPierre and Caesars CEO Manlove lying on a stainless-steel prep table -- each peering from a cocoon of pastry dough.
"Chef LaPierre and Harry Manlove! What will you do with them?"
"Not I, but you, my sweet. You're going to place them in my giant pizza oven and bake them like beef Wellington!"
"You fiend! You want me to bake them alive?"
"Just until they're golden-brown and flaky."
LaPierre speaks up. "You are a monster, monsieur!"
"Why, LaPierre? Because I'm going to bake you alive?"
"No! Because you didn't properly season us first!"
"ENOUGH! The hour of my revenge is at hand!"
Just then, a voice cuts through the din.
"STOP! STOP AT ONCE! I'M SHUTTING YOU DOWN!"
The waitress gasps. "Gordon Ramsay?!"
"That's right my darling. I've come to rescue you from this madman!"
"Chef Ramsay!" The Phantom says. "Finally we meet! How I've yearned for this moment. I have a question for you ..."
"Go on."
"Three years ago I auditioned for 'Hell's Kitchen' and never got a call back -- what's up with that?"
"No wonder! You call yourself a chef? About to pop these two old sots into the oven -- without even a brush of clarified butter?!"
"But chef --"
"SHUT UP! Do you know there's moldy blue cheese in your fridge?"
"But bleu cheese is supposed to be moldy ..."
"SHUT UP! This kitchen -- it's filthy!"
"Why, did you find rat droppings?"
"No. I had to bring my own." He paused. "And take off that ridiculous Emeril mask!"
Ramsay wrestles the mask from the Phantom, revealing a curiously unscarred mug.
"I thought you were horribly burned in a kitchen accident?"
"Well, I did have a blister ..."
"The jig is up, bub," Ramsay says. "I'm turning you in for crimes against the culinary world."
The Phantom turns to the waitress. "Will you wait for me?"
"Why not? It's hard to meet a nice guy in Vegas."
Ramsay claps the Phantom on the shoulder. "I'll be waiting, too. You're so deranged, so pathological, so evil -- you simply must be my new executive chef!"
"Not so fast, Ramsay!" Manlove barks. "He still works for me -- I see a musical ..."
(From the 2013 Valentine's Day issue of Las Vegas CityLife)
THE DONALD GETS TRUMPED
It's the year 2022. In her second term, President Hillary Clinton has lifted the nation to a new level of prosperity. There's a chicken in every pot. (And pot is legal!) Things are good.
Not so in the Independent Nation of Nevada, which seceded from the union shortly after the re-election of President Barack Obama.
With the state now under the iron-fisted rule of Sheldon Adelson and his minions, unions are a thing of the past, and the average hourly wage has dipped below that of a fluffer in a Bangkok brothel ...
"Mr. Adelson? Mr. Trump is here to see you."
"Again, Karl? Can't you put him off?"
"Sorry, sir. He insisted."
"OK, OK. Send him in -- then give it 10 minutes and call me on your cell. I'll pretend it's Mitt threatening to jump again."
Rove smiled. "You're the best."
Trump was ushered into Adelson's palatial office at the Venetian, where the mogul, seated on a throne, held court. The years hadn't been kind to The Donald. After the Democrats took over, "The Apprentice" plummeted in the ratings and was cancelled. Now operating out of a discarded refrigerator crate, the once-proud real estate tycoon hustled Trump-brand silk ties on the Strip.
"Shel, thanks for seeing me -- ya look fantastic! Mind if I don't genuflect and kiss your ring? I've been on my feet all day and the knees are killin' me."
"Donald, no need to stand on ceremony. We're old friends -- and it's 'Mr. Adelson.'"
"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Adelson," Rove said, "I have an important phone call to make."
Adelson winked. "The sooner, the better."
"Hey," Trump said once Rove had left, "Karl looks like he's dropped a few pounds."
"Yeah. I keep him pretty busy around here.'
"The 'consigliere' thing?"
"That, and I have him fill in whenever someone calls out sick."
"Are you serious?"
"Sure. Takes an awful long time to work off $53 million at $6.50 an hour! Yesterday I had him deal blackjack. Night before he worked a shift for a fry cook in the coffee shop. Tonight he'll be filling in for a cocktail waitress who's having bunion surgery."
"Shel, I like your style!"
"It's 'Mr. Adelson.' By the way, how's business?"
"Not bad. Sold six ties today. Even thinking of expanding! Got a guy with a refrigerator crate outside the Fashion Show Mall who wants to franchise. Speaking of business, I'll get right to the point. The Donald is ready for a comeback -- Trump-style! All I need is 50 or 60 mil to get me rollin' again ..."
"A loan? Are you pulling my leg?"
"Shel ... er, Mr. Adelson, we go back a long way. You know I'm good for it."
"Out of the question."
"But you gave 50 million to Rove and that idiot Romney!"
"Really, Donald ... I'd like to help, but times are tough. I'm shelling out $6.50 an hour to run this place. This isn't China, y'know ..."
Adelson's telephone rang. "Hello? Oh, Mitt! How're things? Mitt, Mitt, I KNOW he was born in Kenya, but that election's over ..." He turned to Trump. "Look, Donald, it's Romney. He's off his meds again. I'm gonna have to take this. We'll talk soon!"
"Nice work, Karl," Adelson said once Trump was out of earshot. "I thought I was gonna have to call security to get rid of him. By the way, make sure you're on time for your cocktail shift tonight -- and easy on the lipstick and mascara. It makes you look cheap ..."
(Originally appeared under the title "Future Imperfect." Las Vegas CityLife blog, 11-14-12)
Not so in the Independent Nation of Nevada, which seceded from the union shortly after the re-election of President Barack Obama.
With the state now under the iron-fisted rule of Sheldon Adelson and his minions, unions are a thing of the past, and the average hourly wage has dipped below that of a fluffer in a Bangkok brothel ...
"Mr. Adelson? Mr. Trump is here to see you."
"Again, Karl? Can't you put him off?"
"Sorry, sir. He insisted."
"OK, OK. Send him in -- then give it 10 minutes and call me on your cell. I'll pretend it's Mitt threatening to jump again."
Rove smiled. "You're the best."
Trump was ushered into Adelson's palatial office at the Venetian, where the mogul, seated on a throne, held court. The years hadn't been kind to The Donald. After the Democrats took over, "The Apprentice" plummeted in the ratings and was cancelled. Now operating out of a discarded refrigerator crate, the once-proud real estate tycoon hustled Trump-brand silk ties on the Strip.
"Shel, thanks for seeing me -- ya look fantastic! Mind if I don't genuflect and kiss your ring? I've been on my feet all day and the knees are killin' me."
"Donald, no need to stand on ceremony. We're old friends -- and it's 'Mr. Adelson.'"
"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Adelson," Rove said, "I have an important phone call to make."
Adelson winked. "The sooner, the better."
"Hey," Trump said once Rove had left, "Karl looks like he's dropped a few pounds."
"Yeah. I keep him pretty busy around here.'
"The 'consigliere' thing?"
"That, and I have him fill in whenever someone calls out sick."
"Are you serious?"
"Sure. Takes an awful long time to work off $53 million at $6.50 an hour! Yesterday I had him deal blackjack. Night before he worked a shift for a fry cook in the coffee shop. Tonight he'll be filling in for a cocktail waitress who's having bunion surgery."
"Shel, I like your style!"
"It's 'Mr. Adelson.' By the way, how's business?"
"Not bad. Sold six ties today. Even thinking of expanding! Got a guy with a refrigerator crate outside the Fashion Show Mall who wants to franchise. Speaking of business, I'll get right to the point. The Donald is ready for a comeback -- Trump-style! All I need is 50 or 60 mil to get me rollin' again ..."
"A loan? Are you pulling my leg?"
"Shel ... er, Mr. Adelson, we go back a long way. You know I'm good for it."
"Out of the question."
"But you gave 50 million to Rove and that idiot Romney!"
"Really, Donald ... I'd like to help, but times are tough. I'm shelling out $6.50 an hour to run this place. This isn't China, y'know ..."
Adelson's telephone rang. "Hello? Oh, Mitt! How're things? Mitt, Mitt, I KNOW he was born in Kenya, but that election's over ..." He turned to Trump. "Look, Donald, it's Romney. He's off his meds again. I'm gonna have to take this. We'll talk soon!"
"Nice work, Karl," Adelson said once Trump was out of earshot. "I thought I was gonna have to call security to get rid of him. By the way, make sure you're on time for your cocktail shift tonight -- and easy on the lipstick and mascara. It makes you look cheap ..."
(Originally appeared under the title "Future Imperfect." Las Vegas CityLife blog, 11-14-12)
CONFESSIONS OF A LAS VEGAS CHEF
I’M IN HELL. It’s an hour into dinner service and the shit is really hitting the fan.
“Two more surf ‘n’ turf – six all day!” Willie, the broiler cook, barks at me.
With more than half a dozen steaks sizzling away on the grill, Willie is the only other cook on the line as slammed as I am.
Almost instinctively, my left hand snatches a couple foil pie pans from the shelving above my stove. Moving quickly, I fill each about halfway with water from my station’s utility sink. Without looking, I reach into the upper compartment of my highboy and grab two lobster tails from a hotel pan of three dozen I prepped earlier today. I hit the tails with a brush of clarified butter and a toss of salt and pepper I keep pre-mixed in a stainless steel sixth pan on my station. Into the oven they go.
Mis en place! Although the phrase literally translates to “everything in its place,” “misenplace” actually refers to the painstaking set up and prep work which must be performed daily by each cook for each station in anticipation of the onslaught of battle – of the living hell that is dinner service.
From coarsely chopped parsley for garnish, to splitting three dozen lobster tails, removing the meat and placing it artfully atop each shell (remember: presentation – presentation!); to preparing the saffron cream sauce for the ever-popular seafood linguine I push out of my station (a dish that really flies on the weekends), to the twenty pounds of potatoes I must boil and hand mash with copious amounts of butter, heated cream and sauteed garlic. Not to mention the trays of escargot appetizers, hand-cut fries tossed with truffle oil, twice-baked potatoes, pre-blanched risotto and all the other various components of the dishes and sides I’m responsible for on my station. More than two and a half hours of back breaking work that must be done each day before the first diner even walks through the door.
I hear the clatter of the printer as it spits out more tickets. It’s a sound I’ve come to hate. Truly horrible. At times, I even hear it in my sleep.
“Two salmon, one sole!” I call to the tall, dour looking Columbian dude working the fish station.
He shoots me a pissy look – as if I’m the one ordering the friggin’ fish. In addition to being blessed with the busiest station on the line (in the entire goddamn hotel), I’m also saddled with being this guy’s personal “wheelman” – calling off orders for him which for some unbeknownst reason materialize from my printer.
The printer spits another ticket at me. A four top: two crab leg and escargot appetizers followed by four entrees: two Serrano ham wrapped chicken breasts, vegetable risotto and a seafood linguine. All the entrees must hit the window at the exact same time. I need to get the chicken working right away – even before I fire the appetizers.
I pull two airline chicken breasts (legs still attached) from the bottom of my highboy (raw chicken is always stored on the bottom shelf). I quickly hit them with some seasoning, wrap them in the Serrano ham I sliced earlier, and place them both in a single sauté pan. There’s almost no room in my small oven. Fortunately, four of the lobster tails I’ve fired for Willie’s surf ‘n’ turfs are ready to go. I yank the pie pans they’re sitting in out of the oven with a pair of tongs and set them on the shelving above my stove where Willie can grab them.
“Lobster tails, up!”
Once the chicken is working, I hastily wash and dry my hands to avoid cross contamination, turning my attention to the appetizers. Grabbing a dozen crab legs from a 600 pan inside my highboy, I arrange them six each in two separate pie pans before popping them into a tall, multi-tiered steamer just to the left of the deep fryer on my station.
The escargot is easy. I’ve already prepped a dozen orders prior to service: gently sautéing the snails in garlic, shallots and oil before placing them in the little cup-like holders of the cast iron serving plates -- then covering each in a blanket of herb butter. All I need do now is heat them over a low flame using the burners on my stove until the herb butter is melted.
It's Saturday night and the dining room of Steakhouse 46 located inside the Fabulous Flamingo Las Vegas is packed. Former Heavyweight Champ, Mike Tyson, is posing for a picture with some of the front of the house staff. Mike is a local and drops in from time to time for dinner, as do a number of other celebs both major and minor. More tickets. I call off the entrees for the fish cook, then check to see what I’ve got. Just as I feared. Whole main lobster. SHIT!!! Grabbing a hotel 200 pan from the stack beneath my prep table and a wooden tool used to pull live lobsters from the tank, I bolt for the exit door located at the back of my station. Hanging a sharp U-turn, I reenter the restaurant through the rear door of the dining room.
The live lobster Tank is located up front in the restaurant’s waiting area next to the reservation desk. Moving as quickly as I can without drawing any undue attention or clotheslining a slow-moving server, I make a beeline for the lobster tank.
Tactfully shooing away the crowd of diners – both children and adults alike – from the massive hundred-gallon tank, I zero in on a nice two pounder that appears to be dozing off in the corner. As soon as the wooden tool breaks surface, the lobsters scatter. The critters ain’t dumb. They know a trip to the steamer’s in store for one of them.
The tool I’m using is nothing more than a long, narrow wooden handle with a broader, shorter piece of wood forming a ninety-degree angle at the base. Similar to the wooden “rozell” used to spread crepes, it’s not exactly state-of-the-art for snaring a fleeing lobster.
Proceeding stealthily, I’m able to catch the snoozing lobster off guard, trapping it in the corner. Just as I attempt to pull the critter from the tank, “John Gotti” comes barreling to the rescue.
John is the group’s “alpha lobster” – a massive four and a half pounder who’s somehow managed to evade capture and has now grown to a size and weight beyond most diner’s pocketbooks. As I grapple with the smaller lobster – now in full fight or flight mode – John attempts to intervene. Though he wears rubber claw bands, the “Capo di Tutti Capi” flings himself bodily against the wooden tool in a wild frenzy – hoping to thwart my attempt on his imperiled fellow crustacean.
Both the children and their parents seem amused by the spectacle. Laughing gleefully as if it’s all a show – part of the fine dining experience. I silently curse the brute, vowing to return on my next day off; plunk down the requisite three bills to purchase, and personally shove his little, overgrown lobster ass into the steamer …
From a work in progress ...✍️ #food #finedining #steakhouse #lasvegas #flamingohotel #hautecuisines #culinaryarts #culinary #restaurant #chef #chefdepartie #linecook #linecooklife #misenplace #miketyson
“Two more surf ‘n’ turf – six all day!” Willie, the broiler cook, barks at me.
With more than half a dozen steaks sizzling away on the grill, Willie is the only other cook on the line as slammed as I am.
Almost instinctively, my left hand snatches a couple foil pie pans from the shelving above my stove. Moving quickly, I fill each about halfway with water from my station’s utility sink. Without looking, I reach into the upper compartment of my highboy and grab two lobster tails from a hotel pan of three dozen I prepped earlier today. I hit the tails with a brush of clarified butter and a toss of salt and pepper I keep pre-mixed in a stainless steel sixth pan on my station. Into the oven they go.
Mis en place! Although the phrase literally translates to “everything in its place,” “misenplace” actually refers to the painstaking set up and prep work which must be performed daily by each cook for each station in anticipation of the onslaught of battle – of the living hell that is dinner service.
From coarsely chopped parsley for garnish, to splitting three dozen lobster tails, removing the meat and placing it artfully atop each shell (remember: presentation – presentation!); to preparing the saffron cream sauce for the ever-popular seafood linguine I push out of my station (a dish that really flies on the weekends), to the twenty pounds of potatoes I must boil and hand mash with copious amounts of butter, heated cream and sauteed garlic. Not to mention the trays of escargot appetizers, hand-cut fries tossed with truffle oil, twice-baked potatoes, pre-blanched risotto and all the other various components of the dishes and sides I’m responsible for on my station. More than two and a half hours of back breaking work that must be done each day before the first diner even walks through the door.
I hear the clatter of the printer as it spits out more tickets. It’s a sound I’ve come to hate. Truly horrible. At times, I even hear it in my sleep.
“Two salmon, one sole!” I call to the tall, dour looking Columbian dude working the fish station.
He shoots me a pissy look – as if I’m the one ordering the friggin’ fish. In addition to being blessed with the busiest station on the line (in the entire goddamn hotel), I’m also saddled with being this guy’s personal “wheelman” – calling off orders for him which for some unbeknownst reason materialize from my printer.
The printer spits another ticket at me. A four top: two crab leg and escargot appetizers followed by four entrees: two Serrano ham wrapped chicken breasts, vegetable risotto and a seafood linguine. All the entrees must hit the window at the exact same time. I need to get the chicken working right away – even before I fire the appetizers.
I pull two airline chicken breasts (legs still attached) from the bottom of my highboy (raw chicken is always stored on the bottom shelf). I quickly hit them with some seasoning, wrap them in the Serrano ham I sliced earlier, and place them both in a single sauté pan. There’s almost no room in my small oven. Fortunately, four of the lobster tails I’ve fired for Willie’s surf ‘n’ turfs are ready to go. I yank the pie pans they’re sitting in out of the oven with a pair of tongs and set them on the shelving above my stove where Willie can grab them.
“Lobster tails, up!”
Once the chicken is working, I hastily wash and dry my hands to avoid cross contamination, turning my attention to the appetizers. Grabbing a dozen crab legs from a 600 pan inside my highboy, I arrange them six each in two separate pie pans before popping them into a tall, multi-tiered steamer just to the left of the deep fryer on my station.
The escargot is easy. I’ve already prepped a dozen orders prior to service: gently sautéing the snails in garlic, shallots and oil before placing them in the little cup-like holders of the cast iron serving plates -- then covering each in a blanket of herb butter. All I need do now is heat them over a low flame using the burners on my stove until the herb butter is melted.
It's Saturday night and the dining room of Steakhouse 46 located inside the Fabulous Flamingo Las Vegas is packed. Former Heavyweight Champ, Mike Tyson, is posing for a picture with some of the front of the house staff. Mike is a local and drops in from time to time for dinner, as do a number of other celebs both major and minor. More tickets. I call off the entrees for the fish cook, then check to see what I’ve got. Just as I feared. Whole main lobster. SHIT!!! Grabbing a hotel 200 pan from the stack beneath my prep table and a wooden tool used to pull live lobsters from the tank, I bolt for the exit door located at the back of my station. Hanging a sharp U-turn, I reenter the restaurant through the rear door of the dining room.
The live lobster Tank is located up front in the restaurant’s waiting area next to the reservation desk. Moving as quickly as I can without drawing any undue attention or clotheslining a slow-moving server, I make a beeline for the lobster tank.
Tactfully shooing away the crowd of diners – both children and adults alike – from the massive hundred-gallon tank, I zero in on a nice two pounder that appears to be dozing off in the corner. As soon as the wooden tool breaks surface, the lobsters scatter. The critters ain’t dumb. They know a trip to the steamer’s in store for one of them.
The tool I’m using is nothing more than a long, narrow wooden handle with a broader, shorter piece of wood forming a ninety-degree angle at the base. Similar to the wooden “rozell” used to spread crepes, it’s not exactly state-of-the-art for snaring a fleeing lobster.
Proceeding stealthily, I’m able to catch the snoozing lobster off guard, trapping it in the corner. Just as I attempt to pull the critter from the tank, “John Gotti” comes barreling to the rescue.
John is the group’s “alpha lobster” – a massive four and a half pounder who’s somehow managed to evade capture and has now grown to a size and weight beyond most diner’s pocketbooks. As I grapple with the smaller lobster – now in full fight or flight mode – John attempts to intervene. Though he wears rubber claw bands, the “Capo di Tutti Capi” flings himself bodily against the wooden tool in a wild frenzy – hoping to thwart my attempt on his imperiled fellow crustacean.
Both the children and their parents seem amused by the spectacle. Laughing gleefully as if it’s all a show – part of the fine dining experience. I silently curse the brute, vowing to return on my next day off; plunk down the requisite three bills to purchase, and personally shove his little, overgrown lobster ass into the steamer …
From a work in progress ...✍️ #food #finedining #steakhouse #lasvegas #flamingohotel #hautecuisines #culinaryarts #culinary #restaurant #chef #chefdepartie #linecook #linecooklife #misenplace #miketyson
WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS
Exactly 22 years ago today, I stepped off a Greyhound bus into the sweltering Las Vegas heat with little more than the clothes on my back and a manuscript titled "Horse Latitudes" crammed into an old gym bag.
At 42, the future looked bleak to say the least. While staying at a sleazy, low-rent motel behind the Stardust, I was fortunate enough to cross paths with a crazy Texan drinking beer and chain smoking Marlboros out by the pool.
Mark owned a commercial AC repair business back home and had recently expanded operations to include Vegas as well as several locations in neighboring Arizona.
Although I made it clear that I had absolutely no experience in the field, Mark immediately put me to work and began training me as a tech -- thereby saving my near-destitute ass.
By July 5th, I found myself on the roof of a Pep Boys over on Jones & Flamingo changing AC filters and swapping out condenser fan motors. We spent a couple weeks at the location performing routine maintenace and making sure all the units were up to snuff.
Whenever we'd break for lunch, I'd head over to a Wendy's across the street for a burger. There was a little kiosk outside filled with copies of Las Vegas Weekly -- a ubiquitous local publication that covered everything from arts & entertainment to clubs, restaurants and the local nightlife scene.
Each day when I'd pass that kiosk, I'd make a silent promise to myself that just as soon as I managed to get back on my feet, I'd start writing again.
It turned out to be a long, slow, grueling climb out of the crater I found myself in. It took more than 6 years, but eventually I did put pen to paper again. I began contributing pieces to both Las Vegas Weekly and its formidable competitor, Las Vegas CityLife -- in time, becoming something of a well-regarded local scribe. Finally, I was a writer.
What a difference 20 years makes ... ✍
https://lasvegasweekly.com/news/2010/...
At 42, the future looked bleak to say the least. While staying at a sleazy, low-rent motel behind the Stardust, I was fortunate enough to cross paths with a crazy Texan drinking beer and chain smoking Marlboros out by the pool.
Mark owned a commercial AC repair business back home and had recently expanded operations to include Vegas as well as several locations in neighboring Arizona.
Although I made it clear that I had absolutely no experience in the field, Mark immediately put me to work and began training me as a tech -- thereby saving my near-destitute ass.
By July 5th, I found myself on the roof of a Pep Boys over on Jones & Flamingo changing AC filters and swapping out condenser fan motors. We spent a couple weeks at the location performing routine maintenace and making sure all the units were up to snuff.
Whenever we'd break for lunch, I'd head over to a Wendy's across the street for a burger. There was a little kiosk outside filled with copies of Las Vegas Weekly -- a ubiquitous local publication that covered everything from arts & entertainment to clubs, restaurants and the local nightlife scene.
Each day when I'd pass that kiosk, I'd make a silent promise to myself that just as soon as I managed to get back on my feet, I'd start writing again.
It turned out to be a long, slow, grueling climb out of the crater I found myself in. It took more than 6 years, but eventually I did put pen to paper again. I began contributing pieces to both Las Vegas Weekly and its formidable competitor, Las Vegas CityLife -- in time, becoming something of a well-regarded local scribe. Finally, I was a writer.
What a difference 20 years makes ... ✍
https://lasvegasweekly.com/news/2010/...
