Per usual during the Vegas run up, it’s time to ask the question.
Are we there yet?
Less than 60 hours to go, 30 of which will be spent working, sort of. I’ve determined that I’ll be doing as little as possible this week as there are other, infinitely more important things to be thinking about.
There are the questions that get asked every trip. Questions like, “How can I tweak my drunken gambling strategy to maximize my chances of hitting the world’s most unlikely big money slot jackpot?”
Still haven’t hit on a definitive answer for that one, but I suspect it’s something along the lines of…Turn 70. Spend all money and free time sitting before the intoxicating reels until one of the following occurs: a) Death b) Jackpot (to be used to buy a few more years sitting some in front of said intoxicating reels).
Then there are the trip specific questions like, “Will my room at the Excal smell like someone spent a week and two days roasting elephant shit?”
Being a superstitious bastard, this is a big question. The last (and only) time I stayed at the Excal, Mrs. Head and I were dating. It was a spur of the moment proposition, one that couldn’t realistically be turned down, what with all of the underlying and oft unspoken “you snooze, you lose” pressure to perform in the dating arena. The happiness of our arrival was somewhat overshadowed by fact that it smelled as though someone shoved a diarrhea-afflicted baby in the air duct of our room and turned up the heat. I had some good gambling luck and some great love luck that came out of that trip. Five years later, this is what I wonder:
If my room at the Excal doesn’t smell like shit, should I be worried that there will be no luck? Can room odor accurately predict something that many would argue may not even exist? (I suppose that if I determine it truly should smell like shit and that I just won’t be happy until it does, it’s a problem I can easily correct without calling upon hotel staff)
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World Cup was nothing more than a giant disappointment this past weekend. Thankfully, exhaustion was such that I forgot to put any money on the games—which would have been money lost.
I’d like to know what the hell was going through Rooney’s mind. Also, someone should inform Ronaldo that just because he now holds the record for goals scored does not mean that it’s time to just stop playing. And where the fuck was Ronaldinho? It was as though the field swallowed him; one hardly even noticed he was playing. Both games had me searching out spare supplies of anti-depressants, even though it was obvious that both teams fully deserved to lose (which pissed me off even more because I’m bordering-on-vociferous anti-Portugal).
Germany and France is going to make a great final. If Zidane performs as well as he did in the Brazil game, Germany is going to have a rough ninety minutes. Of course, this is all running on the assumption that they will make it to the final. If Germany fails to triumph over Italy, I’m going to be in a seriously rotten mood for at least 48 hours.
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