Slotservations

Being a slot attendant is a pretty demanding job both physically and mentally speaking. Walking for 8 hours a night is bound to take a toll on the ol' bones, and the constant exposure to cigarette smoke leaves the longs with a constant burn. I look forward with fond anticipation of a time when I will no longer have such working conditions and I'm confidant my body will make a full recovery.

What concerns me are the mental effects that I fear will remain forever. For example, I was at the airport waiting to take a leisurely jaunt to Texas to scope out the Longhorn State when I decided the time could not be more perfect for a sandwich of some sort. I settled down with a sandwich and my laptop hoping for some inspiration when I saw someone waving their arms a few tables away. That's when I experienced the following knee-jerk reaction: dread. Surely that person waving their arms was after me! The wanted me to bring them a cocktail server, or maybe they needed change. Or worse, maybe...maybe their player's club card wasn't working - AGAIN - thus giving them license to yell at me for twenty minutes over something I have no control of whatsoever. A full minute passed by (okay, maybe more like 2 seconds) before I realized the fellow waving his arms was not trying to catch my attention but that of his traveling companions. Furthermore, I wasn't at work and if anyone did wave their arms at me I had every right to pretend I didn't see them. What a relief! And yet...what a disturbing realization that I've been so shell shocked by the simple motion of arms waving. *Sigh*

In a continuing attempt to not let the "man get me down," here is a delightful song by Kermit the Frog and Flight of the Concords's Bret McKenzie.
Anyone who is sad after listening to this is already lost...as lost as a casino patron waving their arms at me because they can't find the bathroom.

Celibacy in the City: The Disappointed

One of the greatest bands of the 80s (and overall, in my opinion) XTC summed up my love life in their song The Disappointed. One of the most disheartening aspects of a failed relationship is the disappointment...complete and utter disappointment. Disappointment in myself for failing to keep him interested, disappointed in him for being so typical, disappointment that once again things have not worked out to the full of their potential.

Once again, I have been disappointed. Such is life and I worry that mine is a life that will be a cylindrical whirl of one let down after another. Optimism is getting more and more difficult to maintain or even feign. I feel myself slipping into cynicism, one jaded moment at a time.

Take it away, XTC.

Slotservations

Pacing an entire night on a casino floor clad in brown polyester can bring really bring you down - if you let it. To pass the time and stave off cigarette-scented waves of depression, I'm starting a new blog segment called Slotservations. (Mike the Tech slaps his forehead in disgust at this poor mishmash of a pun)

Slotservations are tasty nuggets that I've been gathering like so many nuts for winter to make me feel better about myself and my situation.

Here's a few to get the ball rolling.

Far too many women wear white pants these days. I'm not talking crisp, white, respectable pants either. The offending pants I refer to are of a more spandex-like nature, and are often worn by heavier women with some form of halter top.

I find little old Asian women who wear thick, white socks with sandals completely adorable and endearing. I find strapping young black men who wear thick, white socks with sandals incredibly irritating. I don't know why this is. Is it age or race that makes the difference, and what does it say about me that I put so much stock in the socks of others?

There must be an unspoken rule that all poker players simply must represent the lowest forms of humanity possible.

I've never met a Texan I didn't like.

European men find me attractive despite my brown suit. American men find me attractive despite my brown suit, but only once they're roaring drunk. So drink up says I! *Sigh*

October, I barely knew ye.

I'm bitterly disappointed in my October. Bitterly! Halloween is the most magical time of year for me. I get to hide who I am behind a glorious costume, block out reality with bad horror movies, and feast on the culinary delights of the season.

Somehow this month flew by without my doing anything significantly Halloween-ie. I have yet to go through a haunted house or don a costume. I haven't watched any scary movies - with the exception of Stephen King's Carrie which disappointed me by being for more disturbing than I remember. I don't want to be disturbed. I want to be thoroughly creeped out whilst I watch, but not as such that the feeling lingers after the glow of the TV has faded and I'm all alone under the covers.

Determined to get some sort of Halloween thrill before the month was over, I went to see a live production of Evil Dead the Musical. While a poorly written script, the actual production turned out to be quite amusing and since my very good friend MLaw played a Deadite, that added to the fun. After, I took my picture with the actor who played Ash and he let me touch his "boom stick." Tee hee. If you don't get that reference, you're already lost. The crew I went with seemed to enjoy themselves and a good time was had by all.

But it isn't enough. I'm not satisfied. I must find more to do and I've only a week to do it! Cramming a month's worth of Halloween satisfaction is challenging enough for the everyman, but add to this the fact that I work nights! Really, my last two nights to get my Halloween on are next Thursday and Friday.

Hold on to your trick or treat bags, this is either going to get really crazy...or I'm just going to give up and it's going to get really boring.

Stay tuned...

If you dare...

Unfinished.

I realize I may have left all of my readers (okay so I don't have any readers) dangling with the tease of a conclusion to my night of Las Vegas debauchery. All I have to say to that is, you knew what I was when you picked me up. I have a tendency not to finish things. Two part blogs, sandwiches, relationships...I guess you could say my life is one blob of of incomplete tidbits of possibility mashed together. I shudder to think what that would look like were it a literal reference. I imagine something like what Chet was turned into on the movie Weird Science:



Anyway, as I've begun the process of applying to graduate school something remarkable has happened: I'm finishing things. I used to never finish stories. I'd start a lovely tale and then halfway through get bored or frustrated or inspired by a new idea. However, when applying to get into MFA writing programs, incomplete works don't really impress the folks on the review board. In the past 6 months, I've not left a single story dangling in the cosmos. No matter how bad I hate the story I'm writing, I finish it. Better to have it over and done with than floating about in the limbo of my mind right? I'm finishing projects too! I've taken a few stabs at sewing before, and usually have ended with a few scraps of fabric stitched together, no finished product, and me vowing never to attempt to sew again. However, this summer with my newfound lust for completion I have finished the following sewing projects:
3 tank tops for me
1 tank top for Michi
1 tank top for Coco
5 pair of Halloween pajama bottoms for the youngsters
3 pillow cases
A tunic (complete with pockets and a zipper. A ZIPPER!)
A skirt

Look out world! Suzy is finishing the things she starts!

So without further delay, here is the long anticipated (ha ha) conclusion to my night of debauchery in Las Vegas.

After the freaky comedy show, I felt MLaw owed me a safe activity so we made our way back to the sci-fi center where the owner had mentioned some sort of sci-fi musical was being performed. Well, I had to see what was so important as to result in the cancellation of Dr. Who night so we went.

Turns out the "musical" was a sort of Rocky Horror type production where a film is played on a screen whilst live actors lip synch and act it out on a stage in front. The film/play was called "Repo Man: A Genetic Musical." Set in a future where companies have a right to repossess organs if a payment is missed, this strange production gave me little comfort after seeing strippers and "adult" balloons. However, as I watched the mishmash of people performing and saw how much they enjoyed their craft I did get a warm feeling knowing that these people have a place. They have a little niche and a creative outlet. Sure, I may not approve. Acting out grisly horror scenes or dressing like a slutty nurse may not be my cup of tea, but it works for them. They have found their island of misfit toys and for that, I give them a hearty thumbs up. I've got my sewing, they've got their showing. This is not a bad world at all.

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.