Prologue: Today at the airport I bought myself a little notebook. This entry is a transcription of what I wrote in that notebook tonight at the Tilted Kilt.
Another Rogue (48). I forgot to order an unfrosted glass so I'm letting it sit for a while. Fucking frosted glasses. I hate them so much.
There are an awful lot of what my friend Mike used to call "goat ropers" around. But I guess these are real cowboys because there's some rodeo thingy in town.
I like Las Vegas. There's so much opulence here - it's a city built upon the rubble of broken dreams after all - but that opulence, that glitz and glamour, it's not pretentious at all.
There are two fuckers sitting at the table in front of me. They're wearing fucking leisure suits and drinking fucking martinis. They clearly think that they're better than anyone else here. They suck. But Las Vegas doesn't do that, it doesn't put on airs. It doesn't judge and it doesn't cater. It just is, and it will take my money just as readily as it will take the money of these George Hamilton wannabes sitting in front of me.
For all its fakery and all its posing and its pretty wrappings, Las Vegas is still one of the most honest places I've ever been.
To my right is a guy in a cowboy hat being hit on by this fat rodeo groupie. I guess she figures that he's used to riding livestock, so what the hell. He's ridden worse. Maybe.
I deleted her number from my phone back in June. I'm sure I had a good reason for that.
Five assholes just sat at the table to my left. I bet they order a bunch of Coronas.
Four Coronas and one Jack & Coke. I guess I know which one of them will be playing the man at their orgy tonight.
OMG one of them just told a joke or said something funny and now they all high-fived each other. High-fiving white guys really piss me off.
I wonder what happened to the girl from the plane.
I'm drinking too fast, but this is fucking yummy. I order another Rogue Chocolate Stout (64).
The cowboy and the heifer just left together. Maybe I should buy myself a cowboy hat.
The assholes are taking pictures. They're passing the camera around, and each of them is taking a picture of the other four.
Now they've got the waitress taking a picture of all five of them.
I'm thinking about how different this night could have been if I wasn't a dumbass.
Two hot girls just sat at the table behind me. I can't look without being obvious.
I wonder how yeast would deal with Sucralose or some other fake sugar substitute.
The Jack & Coke guy is the only one smoking cigarettes. The others must limit their smoking to cocks.
The girls are from St. Louis and they just asked me what I'm writing. That's all the opening I need. I'm going in.
I'm back out. They're tired. That's okay though. I'll be here for a week.
I'm tired too. My body is telling me that it's 2:24 in the morning. I'm allowed to be tired.