First of all, if wanting to have sex with Ashley Judd is wrong, then I don't want to be right.
I don't suppose there's much to say about the trip here. Had a layover in Dallas. I think the humidity there was forty-six million percent. I arrived in Las Vegas at 3:00. This is much later than I usually get here, much later then I prefer to get here. I felt like I'd wasted the entire day before I had even started.
After the usual long wait for my luggage, and the very long line for a taxi, I got to The Venetian and checked in.
SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: This pen really sucks. I need to get a new one.
For the next several hours I searched The Venetian and some of the surrounding establishments for a decent beer place. All I found was a bar at TI with Newcastle on tap. This was not ideal because (a) it wasn't where I was staying, (b) it was served at 32.00001 degrees, and (c) Nevada's new anti-smoking laws made it impossible for me to enjoy two of my favorite vices at the same time. So I ended up leaving after two of the slushy Newcastles (5673), and I went back to The Venetian to sulk for a while.
After a dinner consisting of two giant pretzels with cheese (Nutrition First, I always say) I sat at this little bar on the casino floor, where I could smoke, and asked the bartender what bottled beers he had.
"Everything," he replied.
"Oh really?" I said. "I'd like a bottle of Alaskan Smoked Porter, please."
Hey, it was worth a shot.
"Never heard of it," the guy said.
So I ended up having a couple bottles of Fat Tire (447). It's a pretty good beer, and I began to feel a little less sorry for myself, and a little more optimistic that I might be able to enjoy myself this week.
At about 10:00, jet-lag kicked in so I retired for the night.