Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 9

GIMME SOME JESUS TO GO!

Have you heard the one about the guy who drove his car through a church? Happened right here in Vegas. While some might write the guy off as a disgruntled worshipper (to borrow one from the late, great George Carlin), I get what he was driving at (pardon the pun).

As I see it, the dude was just trying to keep things interesting. Bring a lil' of the thrill and excitement of NASCAR to his churchgoing experience. And who could blame him? Let's face it, religion is fuckin' boring! There. I said it -- and I haven't been turned into a pillar of salt!

Christianity's a drag. A 2,000 year old lie propagated by some guy named Saul of Tarsus; who hallucinated the whole thing after being thrown from his horse during an earthquake while on the road to Damascus. A lie spun into a vast real estate empire run by some ol' fart in Rome, who believes women are second-class citizens, and people should only fuck when they wanna reproduce (that means 4 times during your life if you're Catholic; 8 times if you're Mormon).

By the way, Pontiff, the Vatican isn't exactly a trip to Six Flags either. I mean I like frescoes of naked Italians as much as the next guy, but c'mon man! I can get the same effect at a Knight's of Columbus mixer in the men's room at Krave. Speaking of theme parks -- why the fuck not? How 'bout a "Vatican" theme park? Can't ya just see it? Why throw softballs at milk cans, when you can cast stones at that whore, Mary Magdalene? (Win a Jesus throw pillow for your double-wide!) . . . There's even a petting zoo! (Yeah kids, those are REAL lepers!)

And hey, isn't it time the "Prince of Peace" had a makeover? It worked for Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben. That halo and crown of thorns is so 32 A.D.! Time the Messiah had a look that's representative of his constituency. I'm thinkin' somethin' a lil' more Ted Nugent. How 'bout ol' J.C. rockin' a goatee and mullet? Maybe a pair of shades and NRA ball cap? Packin' an AR-15, and over his camouflage hunter khakis, sportin' a T-shirt that reads: DO UNTO OTHERS -- THEN SPLIT!!!

After all, Jesus didn't make all men equal -- Smith & Wesson did!

KEROUAC EXHUMED

BIOGRAPHY IS A BITCH. An exercise akin to diagnosing the condition of a man's prostate, by examining his shadow on the wall. Attempting to put flesh on the skeletal remains of any individual; to resurrect them purely via research, anecdote, or reminiscence of now senile childhood friend, is a daunting task. More daunting still, if the subject is the inscrutable "King of the Beats."

I owe an apology to Paul Maher, Jr. I once categorized his exhaustingly comprehensive tome, "Kerouac: His Life and Work," as, "Just another run-of-the-mill Kerouac bio." I was wrong. During a recent respite, I had a chance to revisit Mr. Maher's absorbingly detailed, blunderbuss of a book: bearing it like the weight of a rucksack as I wandered the latte shops of Vegas -- in much the same way Sal Paradise wandered that great ribbon of highway, searching for "Satori" in "On the Road."

Though it lacks the first-hand recollections of Kerouac's editor, Ellis Amburn's bio, "The Subterranean Kerouac" (such as a drunken Kerouac threatening to shove a pineapple up his editor's ass), Maher's work is a painstaking attempt to summon forth the ghost of a man who remains one of the least understood, and most undervalued figures in twentieth century American literature. Maher covers more ground than the series of rides ("borrowed" and hitched) that slingshotted Kerouac and Cassady from coast to coast and back again: Their legendary road trips that set the framework for "On the Road;" the genesis of the Beat movement begun by Kerouac and fellow Columbia University student Allen Ginsberg (a movement exploited and corrupted by Hollywood and Madison Avenue in the guise of bongo-playing, free verse spouting "Beatniks").

From little "Ti Jean" Kerouac who as a youth was more fluent in "Joual" (the bastardized French spoken by his Canadian forebears), than the English he would one day bend and elongate like the riffs of a Coltrane Jazz solo; to the bitter reactionary who disavowed the very literary movement he served as catalyst for -- out of print, broke and seemingly eclipsed by fellow Beats Ginsberg and Burroughs.

Kerouac re-emerges as the groundbreaking prose stylist who sent cultural seismic waves rumbling across the white picket fence landscape of late-fifties America -- influencing not only a generation of writers to follow (such as Hunter S. Thompson), but the likes of Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan, who proclaimed, "Kerouac IS rock 'n' roll!" Kerouac: His Life and Work

SEXUAL REPRESSION NEVER FELT SO GOOD: WELCOME TO THE AMISH GENTLEMAN'S CLUB

"WELCOME! I AM THY HOST, JETHRO. Hope thee enjoyed the complimentary transportation provided."

"Most clubs hook you up with a limo. I've never ridden in a horse and buggy before."

"The internal combustion engine is the Devil's handiwork."

"Hey, are these photos of your celebrity clientele?"

"Aye."

"Donny Osmond . . . Joel Osteen . . . Rick Santorum . . ."

"Aye. Brother Santorum's a nice guy, but a bit of a tight-ass."

"Dennis Rodman???"

"I'm afraid Mr. Rodman is no longer welcome in this establishment."

"Why's that?"

"An incident last week. One of our maidens was performing a spirited routine on the butter churn. Apparently Mr. Rodman has a dairy fetish; he imbibed too much buttermilk, then rushed the stage and attempted to fondle the young lady's curds."

"Okay, let's get the show on the road, Myles Standish! How 'bout a Tanqueray and tonic?"

"The Devil's libation! We serve only buttermilk."

"Whatever . . ."

"Perhaps thee would care for a lap dance? Our maiden, Sarah, is quite limber and possesses ample, child-bearing hips."

"Oh yeah! Tell Sarah Mr. DeMille called, and my face is ready for her close-up!"

"Very well . . ."

[A rather matronly woman wearing an ankle-length dress and bonnet waddles over.]

"Who's this???"

"Sarah. Would thee prefer she writhe to licentious jungle rhythms? . . . We have Glenn Beck's new Christian Rock CD."

"This chick is fully clothed! When do I get to see some skin?!"

"After a proper courtship followed by vows -- and a gift of oxen or other livestock has been proffered to he who sired her."

"I want some action NOW!"

"Does thou desire a topless dance?"

"Now you're talkin'!"

"For a modest gratuity, the maiden will remove her bonnet."

"I'm not sure you're gettin' the concept of a gentleman's club . . . Hey, what goes on in there?"

"Our V.I.P. room . . . For a sum to be negotiated, one of our maidens will read thee torrid passages from the Bible: Sodom and Gomorrah; Samson and Delilah . . ."

"And dudes actually pay for this?"

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Thy staff will be as rigid as the Law of Moses."

"Okay, fine . . . I'm game for anything."

[The patron enters the V.I.P. room with Sarah. Thirty minutes later . . .]

"Man that was wild!!! Jethro, you were right bro! Listening to some frumpy, old spinster wearing a burlap sack read Bible passages -- HOT!!! I never realized how tired I am of tits 'n' ass. Who knew sexual repression could feel so good?!"

"True dat."

"Next week my homies'll be in town for a bachelor party -- whattaya say ya hook us up?"

"It would be thy pleasure. Perhaps Miriam and her dual butter churns?"

"Oh yeah! Just make sure the buttermilk's flowin'! . . ."

INHUMAN RESOURCES: OR HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE DRONES

"So, what brings you to human resources today?"

"I'd like to file a harassment complaint against this company."

"Whoa, now -- that's a pretty serious charge! How are we defining 'harassment?'"

"You blew up my family with a predator drone."

"I see . . . did we get 'em all?"

"Wife, kids and little Pablo."

"Pablo? . . . The gardener?"

"Our Chihuahua."

"Ewww. That's bad. We'll be hearing from the folks at PETA . . . As I'm sure you're aware, 'The Corporate Drone Act of 2025,' permits us to use deadly force against any employee who poses a threat to the company."

"Threat???"

"You did make a rather serious accusation recently."

"I told my supervisor we were out of decaf in the break room."

"Falls under 'subversion' as defined in Article 17, Section C of the act."

"Subversion??? We ran out of coffee for Christ's sake!"

"A delicate matter which needs to be handled through our 32 step 'Employee Empowerment Process' -- and please don't take the Lord's name in vain. We adhere to Judeo-Christian principles at this company."

"This is insane! My entire family has been wiped out! You would've gotten me too if I hadn't been called into work at the last minute!"

"The arbitration agreement you signed indemnifies us against any potential legal action resulting from collateral damage."

"I never signed an arbitration agreement."

"It's printed on the back of your paycheck."

"But I can't cash my check unless I sign the back . . ."

"Really, sir, are you going to hold us accountable for some ridiculous regulation imposed by the banking industry?"

"I'd like to file my complaint now."

"That's certainly your right, sir. If you'll just fill out these forms in triplicate; have your signature notarized, then return them with a copy of your long-form birth certificate, dental records and DNA sample, we can get the ball rolling."

"You're just trying to stonewall me with needless red tape! Here's a 'cease and desist' letter from my attorney -- if you don't call off your drones, I'm going to take the matter to the Supreme Court!"

Slamming the letter down on the H.R. rep's desk, the man storms out in a huff. Thirty seconds later, the office is rocked by an explosion from the parking lot. The rep picks up the letter and calmly tears it into pieces . . .

"Got him."

THE DAY THE WORLD ALMOST ENDED

ON SEPTEMBER 26th, 1983 THE WORLD ALMOST ENDED. Soviet officer Stanislav Petrov had just witnessed the unthinkable. Five distinct blips of light, each like the point of a dagger, suddenly appeared on his radar monitor. Five missiles launched by the United States of America, were headed for the U.S.S.R.

Stanislav Petrov did not pray. He didn't seek the divine guidance of a supreme being. Directly in front of him a red button flashed. If pushed, it would initiate a chain of events possibly resulting in global thermonuclear war. Despite the iron-like indoctrination of two decades of Soviet military service, Petrov correctly reasoned that the incoming warheads were an anomaly; not nuclear armageddon unleashed by an old Cold War nemesis, but a glitch in the Soviet early-warning system.

Choosing reason, Petrov derailed the nuclear train careening out of control; calling a dead halt to an escalation of events that could've obliterated all life on this planet. Turns out he was right. The incident was triggered by a confused Soviet satellite, erroneously identifying sunlight reflected from clouds, as a spate of incoming missiles.

I first learned of Stanislav Petrov -- and our close brush with nuclear annihilation -- on a segment of C-SPAN's Book TV. An author was giving a sobering, though disturbing presentation on the inevitability of a nuclear mishap. The thing that really sent a chill down my spine, was the author's query: "What if it were up to Michele Bachmann to decide whether or not to push the button?"

Michele Bachmann -- who unabashedly told the world that despite strong feelings to the contrary -- heeded Jesus Christ's command to marry her husband and become a tax attorney. Religion vs. reason?

After a sleepless night, I posted the following on my Facebook page . . .

I want an avowed atheist in the White House. When time comes to push that button, I want whoever's making the decision to understand that once it's pushed, it's over. Finito. They're not gonna have lunch with Jesus. Won't be deflowering 72 virgins on the great shag carpet of eternity, or reincarnated as a cow. I want someone making that decision who believes life on this Earth isn't just a dress rehearsal for something better -- but the only shot we get.

Are you comfortable with the idea of someone who believes they receive career advice directly from Jesus Christ having access to the nuclear launch codes? What if the connection proved to be fuzzy? Someone who doesn't believe in evolution, but does believe in the biblical prophecy of Armageddon -- and that THEY might just be God's "chosen one" to kick things off?

How about the fact that the only country ever to use nuclear weapons to incinerate other human beings was the most homogenously Christian: the United States of America, lead by Harry Truman?

Truman, the son of devout Southern Baptists, used not one, but two atomic bombs to vaporize civilians in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, despite Japan's repeated attempts to negotiate a surrender.

Religious fanaticism was the catalyst for the 9/11 attack, resulting in two wars, hundreds of thousands killed or wounded, and nearly two trillion in spending. And oh yeah, how about the prospect of a nuclear Iran? As the late Chris Hitchens once asked, "Would you prefer a Middle East that's Muslim, or atheist?"

Next time that red button is flashing, would you prefer reason to prevail -- or should we all just say a prayer and hope for the best?

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...

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!!!!!!!!!

THERE IS NO FREE LUNCH (UNLESS YOUR NAME IS ROMNEY!)

POOR MITT ROMNEY. Much like one of those Make-A-Wish kids, he finally got to live out a lifelong fantasy: having lunch in the Oval Office. Of course it was bittersweet; his role somewhat different than the one he'd imagined. Sort of like losing that Swedish exchange student (rumored to have had a brief career in German porn) to your college roommate -- then being asked to drive the happy couple to Rite Aide, to pick up some chloroform and boner pills.

President Obama graciously kept his promise to invite Mitt over after trouncing him in the election. So while the POTUS lunched on Southwestern chicken salad, Mitt ate his crow (skin removed) and humble pie, and everyone pretended there was some actual point to it all. Perhaps Obama had a plan for Romney? A project? Something to do? Maybe after lunch, he'd have Mitt run outside and measure all the cracks in Pennsylvania Avenue?

When I was a teenager, I used to measure all the cracks in the parking lot of the Staten Island Mall. Did it every summer. While measuring cracks in Staten Island may sound like a good time to some, I can assure you it wasn't as glamorous as it sounds.

My father owned a small paving company. Each year he dutifully sealed all the cracks in the Mall's asphalt with a viscous, foul-smelling, tar-like substance known as "A.C." To make me feel useful (and keep me out of trouble), he assigned me the task of of measuring each crack. Equipped with a wheel-like device fitted to a retractable handle, I'd simply roll it over the cracks. Every hundred feet it made a "dinging" sound, which I checked off on a piece of paper. Just somethin' to do.

I hope that President Obama will find something useful for Mitt to do. Whether it's measuring cracks, or advising him on Latin American affairs. Everyone deserves the dignity of work. And an occasional free lunch.

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...

WISH YOU WERE HERE

A BELLHOP SHOWED THEM TO THEIR SUITE. When Morty offered a two-bit tip, the kid declined. They were guests of Mr. Siegel, and their money was no good.

"What was that nonsense in the car?" Morty demanded, once the kid had taken a powder.

"What nonsense?" Packy asked, his eyes glued to the swimming pool below their window.

"You know what I mean. Makin' like John Garfield with that hood. Did Curly McFadden knock one of your screws loose? These are Benny's guys. I don't need you causin' any trouble!"

"He called me a pug."

"You are a pug! What should he call you? The Queen of England?"

Morty screwed his eyes on Packy, giving him a look that could've turned wine into vinegar.

"You listen and listen good. You're gonna treat that hood like he's your bubbie from Bensonhurst, got it? An' one more thing -- hands off this Venus dame. Rumor has it Benny's already diddling her. Unless you want him to make like a mohel an' take a paring knife to your schmeckle, mind your manners."

"Think I'll catch a little sun by the pool," Packy said. "See ya later."

Packy loved the water. Growing up in Brooklyn, he'd often squire one of the neighborhood beauties to Coney Island for a dip in the surf. Ben Siegel must've loved the water as well. The Flamingo's swimming pool was a sight to behold: Its water the same turquoise as the ocean Packy had seen in pictures of the Hawaiian Islands. Packy took a seat on one of the chaise lounges neatly arranged around its perimeter. It was just opposite him, exiting a cabana, that he spotted her.

Cloaked in a white robe, face obscured by a large floppy hat and sunglasses, a tiny poodle cradled in her arms. She handed the poodle to a cabana boy, then shed robe, hat, sunglasses. For a moment she stood by the edge of the pool, statuesque: Venus Versailles. There before him in the dazzling Mojave sunlight stood a goddess. Wearing a black swimsuit that not only clung to, but coveted each curve; her platinum tresses collected atop her head. She held her nose and dove into the pool. Before she hit the water, Packy was in love . . .

An excerpt from my story, "SOMETIMES IT PAYS TO GAMBLE" featured in the new Las Vegas anthology, "WISH YOU WERE HERE: STORIES AND ESSAYS INSPIRED BY FABULOUS LAS VEGAS POSTCARDS" -- a washed-up fighter, a Hollywood starlet and a guy nicknamed "Bugsy" take a gamble on Las Vegas. Available on Amazon Kindle now, or pre-order the paperback and save 33%:


www.amazon.com/Wish-You-Were-Here-ebo...