Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 12

CROCODILE ELVIS

Elvis drew a bead on the television set. Squeezed one off from his pearl-handled .44 and sent it straight to that big repair shop in the sky -- vacuum tubes and all. The shot reverberated through the large suite of rooms, causing the Jamaican housekeeper to drop an armful of clean linen and hit the deck. She ran screaming from the room wailing, "Sweet muddah a Jeezus!," flopping and jiggling in places that a woman shouldn't have. Those Jamaican girls sure could run. Even the big ones.

Elvis was staying at the International while filming his new movie, "Viva Las Vegas." Elvis really didn't wanna do the movie, but Colonel Parker had insisted, had talked him into doing this latest bit of schlock by explaining just how many new Cadillacs his paycheck would buy -- and the fact that "that lil' ol' poontang" Ann-Margret would be his co-star. Ann-Margret. That was some girl. She looked like a preacher's daughter but drank and smoked and cussed like a colonel from Kentucky -- and her bottom was smooth and white as a catfish belly. Oh lordy! She gave Elvis the creepin' night sweats. Day after day watching her wiggling her tail on the set in them get-ups: leotrads and skimpy little shorts. Elvis hadda take a lotta cold showers (he hated cold showers). Each day he prayed to Jesus and the spirit of his mama to give him strength so as not to stray from 'Cilla, his child bride-to-be, and commit fornication . . . but it was rough. When shooting wrapped for the day, he'd hole up in his suite of rooms at the Hilton: practicing his karate on the bellhops, or looking for something good to shoot on the television.

There was a knock at the door. Oh lordy! Ann-Margret! Just the other day she came knocking at his door and Elvis pretended to be asleep. The woman sure was persistent.

"Go 'way, Ann! I just ate some green bananas room service sent up an' I ain't feelin' so well." Elvis just loved peanut butter and banana sandwiches, deep-fried in hog fat. He ordered them for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It drove the room service chef crazy.

"Elvis! Open the dang door! It's Colonel Parker!"

Elvis opened the door, and The Colonel burst into the room. He was smoking a five-dollar cigar and smelled like sauerkraut . . .


Read the complete story:

www.lasvegasweekly.com/news/2009/nov/...

CHARLIE! . . . THEY TOOK MY DIGITS MAN!

You may recall Eric Roberts whining to Mickey Rourke about his severed thumb in, "The Pope of Greenwich Village." Well, I recently lost a digit. Three actually: "1-0-1." The unit number on my condo. I'd still be none the wiser, had I not received a frantic, and nigh unto incomprehensible phone call from a pizza delivery man.

"I think I'm outside your building." Said the delivery man, in an accent I couldn't quite distinguish, "But there's no number!"

I'd been waiting nearly two hours for the pizza; stomach shriveled to the size of a desiccated prune, and in no mood for such malarkey. Half mad from hunger, my Italian blood simmering like my Aunt Katie's Sunday gravy, I stormed over to the front door, flung it open, and lambasted my tormentor.

"No number!!! What the hell is this then???" I snapped, thrusting my finger at what I suddenly realized was a blank spot on the stucco wall.

Cell phone still pressed to his ear, the delivery man eyed me as if he were an orthodox moyle, confronting a methamphetamine-crazed, face painted Mel Gibson with the prospect of circumcision. It took several minutes for me to convince the guy I wasn't dangerous. Finally, I was able to coax him from his car with the promise of a sizeable tip. It wasn't until I'd devoured six slices of the "Little Italy Special" (meatballs; anchovies; extra cheese), and my blood sugar level returned to normal, that I was able to focus on the mystery of the missing digits.

Who the hell would swipe the number from someone's condo? Was I being pranked by the neighbor's kids? Perhaps the digits were lifted by a bizarre cult of numerologists, and used in some unholy mathematical sex ritual involving single-digit devisors? Vegas was crawling with freaks. Anything was possible. Only one thing to do: contact the Home Owners Association. For those of you blissfully unaware, HOAs are a lot like al-Qaeda: they operate under a cover of secrecy, and are merciless, unyielding and fanatical in enforcing their rules. Not something I looked forward to. The following afternoon, before leaving the complex, I stopped by the office and laid it on them . . .

"I've got one you've probably never heard before . . ." I said, attempting levity.

Resembling an exhibit at Madame Tussaud's, a woman, rigid and and stone-faced, regarded me unblinkingly from behind her pc monitor.

"I've heard it all. Take your best shot."

"Someone swiped the unit number off my condo."

Apparently she hadn't heard it all.

"Someone stole your unit number? Are you certain?"

"Yes. I have a witness. A pizza delivery man."

The woman shook her head, "I've never heard that before."

"I did warn you."

"Well . . . since the incident involves a theft, I'm going to have to fill out a report."

"Are you joking?"

She wasn't joking.

"Look, this is serious. We can't have residents running around stealing other residents unit numbers. What if word got out? Who'd want to live here?"

"Can't you just put up some new numbers?"

This will only take a minute . . . now, can you describe these numbers?"

"Yes. A one. Followed by a zero. Followed by another one."

"No, no . . . I mean what style were they -- the pre-renovation Roman Gothic, or the new Urban Classic?"

"I'm not sure. They just looked like numbers."

There was that head shake again, "We're probably going to have to order something. Might take a few weeks. Maybe longer."

"I'm sorry. I really don't mean to put you to all this trouble. Look, I have a friend who's a graffiti artist. Why don't I have him stop by and throw something up -- some gigantic, flaming numerals that'll be easy for the pizza guy to spot. Maybe even a Chairman Mao-style mural of Puffy Combs. Have a nice day . . ."

Well, I'm pleased to report that two days later, my missing unit number was back; just as mysteriously as it had vanished. Too bad though. Another day or so and I would've had the coolest lookin' condo in Vegas.

PARADISE BY THE FLUORESCENT LIGHT (MY 3 AM TRIP TO WALGREENS)

Groovin' to the sound of Norman Greenbaum's "Spirit in the Sky," I carefully scope the contents of the reach-in freezer. Through the glass smudged with fingerprint residue of shoppers come before, I spot them. There on the top shelf, half-hidden behind a box of ham & cheese filled Hot Pockets. The veritable Holy Grail of late-night, convenience store munchables: a six pack of White Castle cheeseburgers. Yes. Those miniature slabs of cryogenically frozen mystery meat; five holes punched symmetrically through each square patty (presumably to cut down on wind resistance). And what's this? Twins! A second package of "Murder Burgers" (as they're affectionately referred to by true connoisseurs). I can hardly stand it. I can almost hear my arteries hardening as I imagine sucking down the entire dozen -- each topped with a gob of ketchup from the packets I've been hording in my fridge (the ones I inherited from the previous tenant). This is truly a score -- on par with the night I snatched a copy of the German silent horror classic, "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari," from the dollar DVD bin. Unable to contain myself, I high-five the night manager, who pulls a Chris Angel behind the photo pick up counter (maybe a kiss on both cheeks was pushing it).

I love Walgreens. There. I said it. I love the sound of classic rock 'n' roll. The pale wash of fluorescent bulbs -- like sunlight reflected from the surface of the moon. I love the designer cough syrup. The $10 printer cartridge refills. That cool machine allowing you to transfer a Facebook photo of your girlfriend's cleavage onto a pillowcase. I love the shelves of garish, cheaply produced crap with which only a somnambulist, or a recent graduate of the Ratso Rizzo School of Interior Design, would deign to decorate their hovel. I'm just a Walgreens kinda guy.

I buzz the office supply/paper goods aisle. A man rides a Zamboni-like floor polishing apparatus; its giant, whirring brushes competing with the jagged guitar riff (DAH-DAH-DAH-DUP . . . DAH-DUP) of The Kingsmen's "Louie, Louie" piped in over the sound system. A quick detour through foot care, where I snag a 2 for 1 on designer diabetic socks. (Don't suffer from diabetes, but who's gonna know?) The shaving/cologne aisle: still plenty of room in my basket. Like to score some blades for my Gillette Fusion Mach somethin'-or-other, but the suckers are kept under lock & key. Easier to purchase Plutonium on the Black Market, than razors at 3 am. An extra roll of toilet paper (never know when company might drop in); some cheapo shades that look like authentic Von Zippers; an over-sized coffee mug that could double as Verne Troyer's chamber pot (perfect for staying caffeinated while working on my new novel). Basket's beginning to fill, but ain't through yet . . .

At checkout, I grab a few last-minute impulse items: an ab crunch exerciser, a family-size sack of Cajun pork rinds, a Venus Fly Trap (Genuine insect-munching houseplant -- sweet!) and a "Flags of the World" wall calendar. Only one other shopper ahead of me at the register. Thank Heaven it's not expired-coupon-I-wanna-speak-to-a-manager lady; just some dude buying cigarettes. The kid manning the register smiles when he sees me. We're old friends, tho his name I know not. Slightly poindexter-ish: hair neatly parted on the side; heavy, black-rimmed Mr. Peepers style glasses; a frieze of rosacea pimples crowning his forehead. (I resist the urge to tell him there's something for that in the skin care/jock itch aisle.)

"Good evening sir." He says warmly, "Find everything okay?"

It's a rhetorical question. I smile -- my overflowing shopping basket providing the answer. He rings me up, somehow managing to fit everything (except the Fly Trap and ab exerciser) into two double plastic bags.

"Please come again." He says, his voice betraying not a hint of irony -- tho a more ironic statement I can't imagine. Consummate professional, this kid.

I step through the automatic sliding doors into the tepid, early-morning air. Not a bad haul; especially since I just stopped in to pick up some batteries for the remote. But such is the voodoo that is Walgreens. They not only know what you need -- they know what you want. 24/7.

NIETZSCHE AT THE CARVING STATION

I wait patiently at the seafood bar as a woman inspects the crawfish; I mean each one of the li'l critters individually. Is it dinner, or is she looking to adopt? Damn things are so ugly they have to be blindfolded to reproduce, and she's searching for the cute one.

Not only is the all-you-can-eat buffet a great place to sample different cuisines at a reasonable price, or gorge yourself after a night of partying, but, as Freud would undoubtedly say (were he in line behind you at the dessert station), it's a fascinating petri dish in which to observe the foibles, neuroses and compulsions of human nature.

Today I'm lunching at a buffet in one of Vegas' most historic properties. The crowd is predominantly what I've come to refer to as "Nouveau Vegas." I'm talking thirty-something couples (usually with a rugrat or two in tow): him wearing shorts, sandals and a "CSI: LAS VEGAS" T-shirt; her wearing matching shorts and an "I'M WITH STUPID" T-shirt. I also notice an inordinate number of warm-up style tracksuits, as if they might pull a hamstring racing to the burrito station . . .


Read the complete story:

www.lasvegascitylife.com/articles/201...

I'D LIKE MY BRAIN MEDIUM-RARE PLEASE

Today at Red Lobster, I spent an hour listening to a guy who looked like Ted Nugent, moan to someone on the other end of his iPhone that HE really invented the Internet. OK. So maybe he had the idea. I once had an idea for a computer program that would allow me to engage in a virtual love sandwich with Kim Kardashian and the reigning Playmate of the Month -- but I never actually sat down and hashed out the specifics. Point is, my personal space had been invaded. For an entire hour, I was forced to listen to the psychotic ramblings of some dude who looked as if he'd been home schooled in a trailer park by Mike Huckabee. People, it's gotta stop!

Look, I get it. You've got that iPhone and the insuppressible urge to tell EVERYONE that your Uncle Roy, the retired Teamster, is now out of the closet and dating a Republican senator . . . or that gnarly infection you got from having your nipples pierced is finally clearing up . . . but please . . . suppress that urge! I mean it. It's more information than we need. Talking on your cell phone is like most things: just 'cause ya can, don't mean ya should. For the love of God, show some discretion! Think of the captive audience all around. Cast your memory back to a time when technology didn't allow you to instantly communicate every random brain fart that popped into your head.

Why don't we try this . . . why not see if we can all go a week without talking on our cell phones? (No texting either.) Why not? let's see if the Earth spins off its axis and crashes into the Sun; pigs fly; your significant other runs off with that slightly androgynous, vegan pilates instructor; or Glenn Beck shocks the world by announcing he's the illegitimate love child of Angela Davis and a disgraced 1960s game show host? I'll bet everything'll be just fine. Who knows? Maybe we'll learn something about ourselves? Notice the person sitting next to us on the bus -- or that MILF at the gym who does step aerobics without a sports bra. Maybe even realize how good it feels NOT to have a device perpetually pressed to our craniums, that over the course of a year, emits enough microwave radiation to cook a medium-rare hamburger. Whattaya say? Let's give it a shot. Oh, and one more thing . . . you first.

I WAS CLONED AT AREA 51!

It was my editor's idea. Just for the record. Like a crazed Charles Foster Kane, he'd ordered me to get the straight dope on Area 51. Lately there was no pleasing the man. Simple slice-of-life pieces just weren't good enough. Seized by a mania that bordered on the pathological, he wanted sensational, headline-grabbers: urging me to go undercover as Michele Bachmann's Mambo instructor; or write a first-hand expose on the sordid subculture of male genital piercing.

"The Weekly's running a shock piece, 'When Bikini Waxing Goes Horribly Wrong' . . . We need a real ball-grabber!" He snapped, "Either bring back that feature on Area 51, or Monday morning clean out your desk!"

The fact that I had no desk hardly mattered. The message was clear: it was "GO" time.


Night had wrapped itself around the Mojave like a star-bedazzled Snuggie when I rolled up outside the Groom Lake complex in my rent-a-car. A strange mist crept in on cat's paws, and the scent of danger hung in the air like the stench from a week-old bowl of Brussels sprouts. I wondered if it was too late to do that piece on male genital piercing? . . . WHA -- WHATWASSAT?? . . . Above me: a giant, silver disk hovering like a bird of prey . . . a blinding flash of light . . . NO! . . . NO! . . . ARRRRRGH! ....................

When I regained consciousness, I found myself in an expansive, metallic pod-like enclosure.

"We mean you no harm Earthling." Said an alien, brandishing what appeared to be an oversized turkey baster.

A bizarre bunch these aliens. Unisex -- all wearing bouffant hairdos, designer gowns, and vaguely resembling Joan Rivers with 5 o'clock shadow. They'd set up shop at Area 51 and were cloning randomly selected specimens. The clones were being used for dissection and study, while the "specimens" were being released unharmed.

"Look, the whole thing sounds kinda cool in an Ed Wood sorta way -- but are there any side effects?"

"A slight webbing of the fingers and toes," Said the alien, "And in some cases, a small amount of brain damage."

"What if I refuse?"

The alien pointed his turkey baster at me, "I'm afraid I'll have to vaporize you."

"When you say 'brain damage,' are we talkin' Gary Busey or Sarah Palin?"

I scanned the pod-like enclosure. A group of clones were engrossed in a heated game of poker.

"Hey, is that a George Bush clone?"

The alien seemed slightly embarassed, "No. That's the real George Bush. We released his clone by accident."

"Really? How long's he been here?"

"Almost ten years."

"That explains plenty."

"Yeah. We can't get him to leave. He's bonded with a couple of the clones. They're poker buddies."

"I see. Leonard Nimoy and Pete Rose. Who'd a thought?"

Lunging for the turkey baster, I vaporized the alien who disappeared in a curl of smoke. As I squeezed through a portal in the side of the alien craft, the group of clones loudly protested -- insisting I sit in for a hand of poker (all except George Bush, who asked me to bring back a six pack and bag of nachos). I managed to make my escape seconds before the craft vanished in a brilliant swirl of light. I'd come within a Klingon's hair of being cloned; nearly vaporized, but what a story! . . .


"You expect me to believe this garbage?" My editor snarled, "Reads like the plot of some crappy, 50s sci-fi flick . . . clones . . . unisex aliens . . . Pete Rose. Who's gonna buy this?"

"But it's true! . . . It really happened!"

The big guy waved dismissively, "Look, if you're gonna go all Clifford Irving, at least make it sound plausible . . . YEEEEESH!"

"Sorry, Chief. Mind if I ask a silly question? Why are you wearing a catcher's mitt on your head?"

"Issat what that is? I thought it was a new hat style?"

"Did it come with the chinstrap, or did you purchase it separately?"

"Can't recall."

"Are you sure you're ok?"

"I dunno. Been feeling a bit strange lately. Yesterday someone asked what I'd been reading and I drew a complete blank -- then this morning it took me an hour and a half to figure out how to turn on my sonic toothbrush."

"You probably just need a vacation. Anyway, I'd better get crackin' on that rewrite. Hard for me to type with these."

I held up my hands so he could see the web-like membrane enveloping my fingers.

"Funny, I got that same thing happening with my toes. Must be something goin' around?"

"Uh-huh."

"Hey Q, on your way out would you ask the intern to bring me a pot of coffee? I need to water my laptop."

"Sure thing."

Poor wretch. The job was really getting to him. Tough racket we were in. If only I could remember what it was?

WRITING IS LIKE . . .

I've been asked to elaborate. I'll forgo the simile for the metaphor: writing is the best of times; the worst of times. Writing is a curse, a blessing, a calling; a vocation, a way of life, an escape hatch from life. Writing is the dragon that lives underneath my floorboards. The one I incessantly feed for fear it may turn and devour my ass. Writing is the friend who doesn't return my phone calls; the itch I'm unable to scratch; a dinner invitation from a cannibal; elevator music for a narcoleptic. Writing is the hope of lifting all boats by pissing in the ocean. Writing isn't something that makes me happy like a good cup of coffee. It's just something I do because not writing, as I've found, is so much worse.

LAS VEGAS CITYLIFE: THE BARD OF DUNKIN' DONUTS

The line is six deep at Dunkin' Donuts, and the natives are getting restless. Some old lady can't make up her mind: the Bavarian kreme twist, or the double chocolate glazed? The ol' girl is quite a sight. A septuagenarian if a day, she's decked out like a holdover from a B-52s video: peroxide blonde hair, cheesy Walmart shades and a pair of shocking pink Spandex knee pants I'm certain can be seen from the moon. Think Lina Wertmuller meets Lady Gaga, lightly dusted with Blanche Dubois.

My fellow caffein addicts and I roll our eyes and cast withering looks in her direction, but the ol' girl is unfazed. Finally she makes her selection, pays and moves on. Thank God! The rest of the line moves quickly. These folks are hardcore Dunkin'-ites. No nancy-boy flatbread and egg-white breakfast sandwiches. Just caffeine and plenty of it . . .


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www.lasvegascitylife.com/articles/201...

STEWART TO O'REILLY: DEBATE "THIS"

Dear Jon --

Thank you for cleaning Bill O's clock in your recent debate over rapper Common's visit to the White House. Hard to believe (NOT!) O'Reilly simply couldn't wrap his pointed head around the fact that Common is merely advocating the innocence of two people he believes were unjusltly convicted of killing police officers -- not "promoting" the killing of police officers: a subtle tho important distinction (pardon my sarcasm). Oh well.

After the debate, O'Reilly's fellow Fox News blowhard, Bernie Goldberg, obtusely remarked that had someone defended convicted assassin James Earl Ray in such a fashion (no race-baiting intended), the "Left-Wing Media" would've been all over their ass. (NOT!) Next time you see him, you might mention to Bernie that in 1997, Dexter King, the son of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., publicly stated that he didn't believe Ray killed his father. There was no outcry from the media, and no one accused him of "promoting" his father's murder. (That's another one for our side Bernie -- but who's counting??) Thanks again for setting the record straight.

Quinn

ON THE SCENE: NEW NONFICTION IN LAS VEGAS CITYLIFE

I'm making my way along the Strip, heading north from Tropicana. I'm searching for a piece of my childhood. A motel, specifically -- one that in all probability no longer exists. It's a perfect day for walking the Strip. The mercury hovers somewhere in the low 80s. The sky is cloudless, a deep, uniform blue that can only be found in the desert, or a landscape by Cezanne.

Across from CityCenter, I pass a group of young Turks hustling their self-released rap CD.

"No, no, no my brothers!" I joke as I hurry by. "Stuff's way too hardcore for me . . . maybe some Tone-Loc or Will Smith."

I hit a snarl of people outside Margaritaville, cross over to O'Sheas, where a pint-size gentleman dressed as a leprechaun barks drink specials through a bullhorn. Ah! This is the Vegas I love! Eclectic. Ever-evolving. A work-in-progress. But it's not the Vegas I'm looking for. I'm trying to find the Vegas of the summer of my 12th birthday . . .

Read the complete story:

www.lasvegascitylife.com/articles/201...