Deeper and Deeper

Friday night I found myself swallowed in the seedy subterranean underbelly of Las Vegas. Like my own edited-for-television version of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I was exposed to characters and places I had no idea existed. My dizzying mini-adventure started innocently enough, but all that was needed was one miscalculation and everything changed. I was going to go get my nerd on at Dr. Who night (shut up, he's awesome) but when I arrived at the Sci-Fi Center (shut up it's awesome) the doors were locked and my Who fest was cancelled! Waaaht waaah...so I called my friend Mike (referred to from here out as MLaw) to see what was shaken'. He invited me to join him down the street at the Onyx Theater for "Balloon Master Comedy."

I had never been to such a place or heard of such a thing, however the idea of a comedy act centered around balloons was too delightful to resist. I imagined a comedian not unlike Carrot Top creating hilarious balloons, such as doggies but with tiny heads or maybe some sort of balloon sculpture of Lady Gaga tripping over some of those giant shoes she wears from time to time.

A dead giveaway that I was in for something much different should have been the fact that the Onyx Theater is located in a sex shop. A sex shop. I should have pivoted on my sandaled foot and left immediately. However, I know times are tough and real estate is costly, so perhaps this theater took residence in a sex shop because it was paying off student loans or had a sick grandma to take care of. I gave Onyx the benefit of the doubt. How wrong I was. Dead giveaway number two should have been that all the empty seats were occupied by large balloon shaped...uh...penises. Did we once determine that the plural or penis is peni? Not, I guess not. Anyway, I would have left right then but MLaw beckoned me sit next to him on the front row. Mistake number 3 - when entering a theater and show of questionable content, always sit on the back row. The BACK ROW. Near a door. Great for a quick exit. Leave it to MLaw to put his wide-eyed Mormon friend on the front row for an evening of debauchery the likes she has never seen. Everyone knows you can't walk out on a show when you're on the front row. That's a recipe for getting forced on stage while people put needles in your body. No, that didn't happen to me. But one other fellow, though he was a willing participant for an act that forced me to close my eyes and bury my head in MLaw's shoulder for what felt like an eternity. The act, known as "Freaks for Hire" consists of a woman well nigh 6 feet tall, tattooed and pierced from head to toe named Genocide and her partner, Danger. Genocide asks the audience to yell out body parts and then she will stick said body parts with needles and such. When someone in the crowd shouted "Balls!" was when my eyes squeezed shut never to open again until they left the stage. I tried not to hear what was going on, but I know there was blood, needles, rock salt, and male anatomy involved. I remember thinking to myself, oh so ashamed "I am in Hell. I am in Hell and I'm too afraid to just get up and walk out because I fear what they will do to me more than I fear the Hell."

If you think that's all the night was, there was so much more. A quick nutshell account - aside from needles and body parts, there was a dance off between burlesque dancers, a game called "Black C*ck, White C*ck, Green C*ck," a scary man breaking a cinderblock on another man's privates after he had been knocked unconscious from the sleeper hold, and a professional dominatrix woman who yelled at audience members while they downed corn dogs.

The night didn't stop there, but I take full responsibility for the next portion of the evening's strangeness. However, this entry has rattled on long enough. To be continued...

Why Huckleberry?

I had a truly liberating experience the other night at work. I met the vilest human being in existence, was forced to interact with him, and survived. He didn't even make me cry. Perhaps I'm finally developing one of those "tough skins" I've heard so much about. Working in a casino, I've been punched by a guest, shoved against a slot machine, propositioned, and threatened but none of those experiences compared to dealing with the likes of a guest named Huckleberry. Indeed that is his first name, and I shall omit his last name as I fear he is the type to google his own name and scour the internets for any information about his vile self.

Huckleberry is a professional poker player. Anybody who has worked in the casino industry will tell you, professional poker players are simply awful. Their success has been earned through cold, ruthless behavior and they have chosen a career that thrives on the defeat of others. Naturally, this strips away at a person until all that is left of their soul is a withering flicker of light, no larger than the poker chips they toss in their careless hands. To say I don't like poker players would have been an understatement before I met Huckleberry. However, after paying him a few jackpots I found myself praising other poker players for not being nearly as bad as the insidious entity that loomed over the video poker progressive that fateful evening. In fact, Huck makes other poker players look like pretty decent fellows.

Huck is always followed by friends who sit patiently by while he abuses employees. Oft times they look uncomfortable with his behavior but say nothing. Also, my management sits idly by while their staff (me) sits and takes whatever the loathsome creature feels like dishing out. Verbal abuse, spilling water on me, etc. I of course, smile and do my job for fear of write-ups or terminations. Which led me to contemplate the following: how responsible is everyone else for Huck's bad behavior? If his entourage of yes-men and well-meaning casino staff would only tell him "no" occasionally, would that change him at all?

If casinos were more apt to encourage guests to behave like civil human beings and treat the staff as people and not mud-spattered peasants from Lord and Surf times, how much better off would everyone be? I for one, feel better when I'm kind to others. Perhaps the miserable wretches laden down with the burden of wealth would feel better too if only they made eye contact and spoke a friendly word from time to time.

I guess the point of this whole post is, its nice to be nice.