From the Crow’s Nest
by CLINT YOUNTS
For the past couple of years, I’ve been writing these informative and occasionally mind-blowing columns from the peaceful sanctuary of my back deck, dubbed the Crow’s Nest for the frequent sightings of an Old Crow. A few columns were scribed with my toes in the sand of Port Aransas, often in the company of my old friends Jose Cuervo and Pepe Lopez who have contributed tremendously to my dissertations of dementia.
The serenity and libations of both locations have attributed to the convoluted concoctions of my literary mind, and these enlightening news columns subsequently appear in your local newspapers. How crazy is that? And what really blows my mind is that “A View from the Crow’s Nest” still appears in your paper after all these years. Now, I’ve known for years that I’ve never had a full box of crayons when my sanity is in question, that my sense of humor is as twisted as a double-jointed pretzel, but as long as you folks out there keep reading this nonsense, I reckon it’s my duty to keep the information highway full of litter. So here’s my view from a new locale: Las Vegas.
I just returned from a very long weekend in Sin City with my family, and let me tell ya, that place is crazier than the women’s department at Kohl’s on Black Friday. As soon as you step off the airplane, lunacy greets you at the gate. After taking a few dozen steps on Nevada soil, slot machines block your path to baggage claim, their mysterious forces drawing you and your wallet into their deadly grasp. Before you know it, you’ve lost twenty bucks and you haven’t even gotten your land legs yet.
Don’t get me wrong – I really enjoy going to Las Vegas. It’s like an adult Disney World, and it costs just about the same. I’m not a big gambler, but I do like to try my hand at video poker, dancing with Lady Luck. Unfortunately, Lady Luck was out with the flu, so I danced with her ugly sister, Miss Fortune. I can’t figure out how I can play poker so well on my home computer, but lose a day’s pay on the same game in Caesar’s Palace.
My favorite thing to do in Vegas is attending the fine buffets that will fill your gut about as fast as the slots empty your wallet. Good gravy, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so much in my life. Good thing I was wearing my old drawers with the busted elastic waistband. I managed a ninth trip to the buffet line before my family called for an intervention.
Now being a semi-professional news columnist, I made several observations about life on the Las Vegas Strip that may interest some of you. A few of you out there may have a trip to Vegas planned for this summer, and I’m sure you will appreciate some helpful tidbits of advice from this well-traveled reporter. Sure, there are travel magazines and cable TV shows with lots of information on Las Vegas, but wouldn’t you rather take advice from the guy who warned you of dog poop buried in the sands of Port Aransas and chupacabras living in the hills of Blanco County?
The thing most women want to know before packing their bags for their trip to Vegas is “What should I wear?” Let me tell ya! After an intense study of the female population of the Vegas Strip, I believe the current fashion is “Skank”. Many women (no way would I refer to them as ladies) of all shapes and sizes were crammed into skin-tight, short black dresses, stumbling down the sidewalks in stiletto-heeled shoes. I observed more cleavage than you’d find in a Kansas City meat market. I’m not sure what these gals were shopping for along the Strip, but I bet it wasn’t an All-You-Can–Eat buffet. I kept expecting Superfly to drive his Cadillac up to the curb to carry some of these girls back to his stable.
I also noticed that there’s an abundance of, umm, hefty folks perched on stools in front of slot machines and sprawled over tables at buffets. Some wide-loads had luggage with them at the buffet. I don’t know if they were camped out at the restaurant or were using their Samsonite as doggie bags. I’m not going to criticize these overeaters since somewhere between plate six and my first helping of peach cobbler, the button on my Wranglers shot across the room and cold-cocked a busboy.
Another observation I made was that there are a mess of Central Americans paid measly wages to stand on the sidewalk and thrust advertisements for certain services that are illegal in 49 other states. I hope these poor men and women, slapping and waving the fliers for Lord-knows-what, don’t think this is the American Dream. The Strip would be a lot nicer without these solicitors of slut cluttering up the walkways. Besides, if I have a beer in one hand and a mango daiquiri in the other, how the heck am I supposed to take one of their brochures?
If cigarette smoke bothers you, then you may want to avoid the Las Vegas casinos. I guess losing a wad of money makes smokers want to light up. If this is the case, then there were thousands of losers in the Flamingo. No wonder I kept losing at poker; I couldn’t read the cards through all the smoke.
All in all, I enjoyed our visit to Vegas, but after three days of losing my money and my slim waist, three days of riding elevators with smelly, lard-filled strangers and three days of trying to figure out how those anorexic, silicone-enhanced floozies kept from toppling over, this poor country boy was ready to get back to Texas where the air is clean and the nights are dark and quiet. And here in Texas, when I put money in a machine, I get something back, like a Moon Pie and a root beer.
