Shannon, Jeff and I decided to make a local roadtrip up to Ridge Vineyards today. It's only a short trip up into the foothills from the peninsula, but it seems like I only make it once every few years.
When we got there, the small tasting room was a bit crowded, but we slipped in at the end of the counter. They started us off with a 2004 Santa Cruz Mountains Chardonnay, and then quickly got into the reds. Our second wine was a 2003 Cabernet/Merlot blend which wasn't as nice as I had hoped, but Ridge redeemed itself with tis 2003 York Creek Zinfandel. The Zin had a hint of spice, and it was nice. But our next wine, the 2003 independence School Zinfandel provided some extra character.
The initial tastings were free, but afterwards we elected to try the supplemental tastings for $5. The 2004 Buchignani Ranch promoted itself as "quaffing" wine. Jeff wondered what a "quaffing" wine was. Shannon wasn't sure, but said that whatever it was, it "sounded dirty."
Our server informed us that a quaffing wine was a bistro wine, or table wine that would go well with spaghetti & meatballs and other pasta.In other words, a quaffing wine is an everyday wine.
We moved on to our final tasting, the 2004 Lytton Springs Zinfandel, and then it was time to decide what to buy.
I elected to purchase two bottles of the 2004 Lytton Springs Zin, two bottles of the independence School, a bottle of the 2002 Paso Robles Zin and one bottle of Ridge's flagship Monte Bello Cabernet Sauvignon. The '99 Cab was expensive, but I thought I'd cellar it with some other keepers I have.
The purchase of the Monte Bello Cab made me think back to one of my favorite recent movies, Sideways. There's a scene where Miles gives a intricate, long-winded description of why he enjoys Pinot Noir so much. Then he asks Maya why she's into wine, and she gives a classic reply:
I like to think about the life of wine. How it's a living thing.
I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing. How the sun was shining. If it rained?
I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes. And if it's an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now.
I like to think about how wine continues to evolve. Like if I opened a bottle of wine today, it would taste different than if I'd opened it on any other day.
Because a bottle of wine is actually alive... And it's constantly evolving and gaining complexity. And that's until it peaks. Then it begins its steady inevitable decline.
And it tastes so fucking good.
So when I buy a nice bottle of wine that I know I will cellar for a while, I think to the future. When will I drink this bottle of wine? How old will I be? Where will I be? Who will I be with? I have a few bottles of Silver Oak begging those very questions. And now a 1999 Ridge Monte Bello Cabernet Sauvignon.
Ahhh, finally my chance to get back what was rightfully mine...
I took the third base seat a $25 Black Jack table and bought in for $500. I won a few and lost a few. Then I noticed a shiny gold Caesar's medallion hanging from the dealer's neck.
"How do I get one of those," I said, pointing to the medallion.
"Show me $1000 and I'll give you one," he said.
Knowing a challenge when I hear one, I started getting a little more bold with my bets. Soon I had $700 on the table. Then $800. Then $900. I was winning pretty good. And I was counting my money closely.
Just as I reached $1025, I stacked my chips in nice neat little piles and asked the dealer for my Caesar's medallion.
"I'll get it for you in a minute," said the dealer.
Shortly thereafter, the dealer left for a break. My roll continued. I was now up to $1500 and counting, well over my breakeven point. By the time the dealer came back, I had $2000 on the table.
"So, did you get my medallion when you were on break?" I asked.
"Oh, we don't have any," the dealer said.
"What?" I asked.
"We're out," he said.
"Hey, you challenged me to get $1000 on the table, and I've more than doubled that," I said. "You owe me a medallion."
By this time, the pit boss was watching me pretty closely and came over. Feeling a bit cocky, I told the pit boss what was going on. He also looked for a medallion, but no luck. I was bummed. I wanted my souvenir.
About that time a bunch of new guys sat down at my table and started making some idiotic moves, so I decided it was time to go and colored up my chips. I had $2500 from my $500 buy in. That was a $2000 take on the night, and that gave me an upside over well over $1000 on the trip.
I headed over to the cashier window and decided to cash-in $1000 of my chips. Then I found a $100 table and sat down with my remaining $1500 in chips. This was make-it or break-it time, and knew it.
I put out $100 chip, and the dealer dealt. There was no one else at the table, so we were playing one-on-one.
As usual, I win. I loose. I win, I loose. Then the dealer starts talking to me.
"You were doing pretty well at that table over there, weren't you?" she asked.
"Yes, I was."
"Why did you move?" she asked.
"Oh, a couple of rookies sat down and were taking some bad cards," I said.
"Oh," she said, after quickly taking five consecutive hands.
My chips were going quick. So I bet $300, always a wise move when you are on a cold streak.
I lost. We seesawed back and fourth a bit. Then the dealer got hot again and finished off the $1500 in chips I brought to the table.
"That didn't take long," I said. She smiled.
Now I was pissed. Not only did I miss out on my gold Caesars medallion, I just lost all of my profits, and then some. It was now 2:30 a.m., but I decided to give it one more try.
I found a $50 table with two young ladies and a guy playing, all from Alberta, Canada. The guy was in for one $1000 marker and betting pretty healthy. Then he bought a second one. Now I wasn't feeling so bad, even with my skimpy $50 bets.
Before you knew it, the Canadian guy was on a roll. He had a $300 bet out and gets a pair of 4s against a dealer's 5. I was holding on my 19. The Canadian puts out another $300 and splits his 4s. His first hit card? A 4. He puts out another $300 and splits his hand again. The dealer gives him a ten, giving him 14 on his first hand. He hits the second hand. Another 4. He puts out another $300 and splits his hand now four ways, the table max for splitting. He pulls slop on all hands but wisely holds, hoping for a dealer bust. The dealer turns over her hole card. Sure enough, it's a 10. Then she hits with a 9, for a total of 24. That's a bust if I've ever seen one. The Canadian wins $1200 on his 4x4 split.
From there on we were cruising. I was back to $100 bets and felt the momentum returning. Just about then a large man wearing lots of gold stumbled up to our table and placed five $100 bills on the table. The dealer took them to convert them to chips and the mans said, "No, I want to play them." He lost.
I've seen this before, I though to myself. Or had I?
He pulled out another $500.
"Paper plays," the dealer announced to the pit boss.
The man won. Now he had some chips.
Suddenly, the hot streak was back, and we had a new participant. But the new guy wasn't so polite, and was dropping F-bombs every other word.
"I'm a fucking bounty hunter," he said. "Well, a bail bondsman, really."
He continued to bet big, and win big. So did the Canadian. I stayed cool with my $100 wagers.
Before I knew it, the bondsman was throwing $100 chips at the dealer, and the Canadians. The dealer was happy to take his tips, but she warned him again about his mouth. I saw the pit boss and security eyeing our table.
Being that I was almost back to my previous high, I decided to color-up and leave the table before it got ugly.
After I took a wiz, I cashed out my chips at the cashier window. Then I tried to remember the way out of the casino.
As I walked toward what I though was the exit, I was again approached by a beautiful woman. Mind you, it's now 4 a.m. -- and I have over $2000 in my wallet.
"Hey, where you going?" asked the girl.
"Just trying to find the taxi line," I said.
"Oh, that's over here," she points.
I walk with her in the direction she pointed.
"So, where are you going?" she asked again.
"Oh, the Renaissance hotel," I said.
"What's going on at the Renaissance?"she asked.
"Not much, just going home," I said.
"Want some company?" she asked.
"Ohh...," I said, giving her a look up and down. "Uhh..., naw... just need to get some sleep," I said, biting my tongue.
"Aw, you're no fun," said the hottie ho.
"Sorry," I said. "So where's that taxi stand?"
"Oh, I lied to you," she says. "It's really over there."
"Well at least you are honest," I said.
We said good-bye and walked our separate ways.
She was indeed beautiful. But I didn't want to pay for my souvenir.
Tonight was the big night. The last night. And there was a big party over at the Thomas & Mack Center on the UNLV campus. How could we miss that?
We boarded the bus from our hotel and arrived in short order. The Thomas & Mack parking lot had been converted to fairgrounds of sorts, complete with beer trucks, county fair rides, food booths and a huge stage with a live band where people were singing karaoke. People were taking advantage of it, too, as our first tune was Madonna's "Like a Virgin" being sung by an out-of-tune, middle-aged techno geek. Classic stuff.
After catching that act and a couple of cold brews, we headed inside the arena building to see robot wars. In case you were wondering, the little robot outsmarted the big burly robot and won. While taking a lap around the arena and scouting the food available, we again made our way outside and took a table.
Soon enough, we had our fill of the geek party and again boarded a bus, this time heading over to Caesars. Chris wanted to check out the Shadow Bar. The Shadow bar proved harder to find than we thought, so we spent some time walking through the resort.
As we walked, I suddenly heard someone say "hi!" to me. It was loud and clear and definately directed toward me. I looked over and saw a beautiful woman. "Where are you going?" she continued.
Wow, this girl is hot, I thought to myself. And she's talking to me.
"Um, I think we're heading up to the Shadow Bar," I said.
"Do you want some company?" she asked. Then I noticed two other hot hotties standing nearby also looking and Chris and me.
Oh, I thought. Now I get it. These are girls for hire. Not your garden-varietyhos, however, these girls were high class.
Not knowing quite how to respond, I looked at my watch, saw that it was 10:30 and said "It's a little early, maybe later."
Chris laughed. The girl shrugged. We continued to walk. After a few more minutes we still had not found the Shadow Bar and we were back near where we had seen the girls. Chris decicded to ask one of them for directions. She pointed us in the right direction. There's something to be said for cheap thrills.
Our encounter provided for some good conversation at the bar, but since it was still early by Las Vegas standards, we headed over to the Roulette table. After about an hour and $100 later, we decided to hit Pure. The line had finally died down, so we got right to the front. We presented our free VIP passes and the bouncer gave us a look over. Then he pointed to Chris' shoes and said, "We have a dress code, no sneakers."
It was now midnight, so Chris decided to call it a night, especially since he had a 8:00 a.m. flight to New York on Friday. But I still had an itch to scratch. I said good-bye to Chris and headed over to the Black Jack pit.
We got most of gang together for dinner tonight at the Corsa Cucina restaurant at the Wynn for some Italian dining. As dinner began to wind down, Chris made a motion that it was time to head over to the Bellagio again to see about last-minute tickets to tonight's 10:30 "O" show. Chris was determined to see a Las Vegas show before he left. Since Chris and I were the only ones of the group who hadn't seen the show, I volunteered to go with Chris as the others stayed to settle the tab.
We got to the Bellagio and there was a line already forming for unclaimed tickets. At 10:30 -- showtime -- we're still waiting in line. Then finally it moved and amazingly we got tickets, but at a whopping $150 each.
Then we walked to enter the theater and noticed a line and a big sign outside the doors. Apparently the show had already started and we needed to wait for "an appropriate break" to be admitted. Ten minutes later we were escorted to our seats.
We had great seats, I have to admit. We were dead center, about half-way up the rows. When we walked in you could see performers hanging from the ceiling, then diving into water, with action coming from all directions. Then just a few minutes later, the water theater was completely changed to solid ground, with performers contorting themselves into positions that have made Cirque du Soliel so famous.
I'm not sure there was a plot to all of this, but the performance was amazing. And the theater was spectacular. Just not sure it was worth $150.
After the show, we called it a day and headed back to the hotel. Surprisingly, I had no itch to gamble tonight. Besides, tomorrow is the last night of the trip and I need my energy.
I wasn't feeling quite right when we got back to the hotel from the Bellagio. I felt like I had been raped, and I didn't even see Cirque du Soleil. I could tell it was going to be tough to sleep on this one, so I decided to head over to the Wynn to see if I could change my luck.
I bellied-up to a nice $25 table with some veteran players. The Wynn knows how to do it, no funky endless shoes or crappy odds here, just good ol' fashioned gambling.
I was on a strict schedule, I needed to get out by 1:00 a.m., I told myself. So I bought in for $500 right off the bat.
I won a hand. I lost a hand. I won. I lost. I didn't have time for this...
In the monotony of it all, I started looking around the room. It didn't take me long to spot a prostitute across the pit. How did I know she was a prostitute? Well, I referred to a simple checklist.
Relatively hot? Check.
Fake tits? Check.
Was she gambling? No. Check.
Fat slob next to her drooling? Check.
He had obviously invested in her for the evening, but you could tell she couldn't stand the sight of him. You could see she wanted to be elsewhere.
All of a sudden, my game of 21 picks up. I can't believe it, I'm winning. But it's getting close to my self-imposed curfew. I bet $100 and double down. I lose. I color-up my chips. I won $300 back.
Being from Australia, Chris needed to satisfy his hunger for Mexican. Therefore, we headed over to Diego in the MGM Grand.
We ordered a few cocktails, then dinner. Those $12 Margaritas must have added up quickly, because the tab was $180 for only four of us. Outrageous!
Chris had a few more items to cross off his list while in Las Vegas -- including a Vegas show. I told him a trip to Sapphire would fit the bill, but he said he wanted a real Vegas show. Then I told him he could see a show and satisfy his craving for Mexican at Sapphire. He still wouldn't budge.
At that point we headed over to the Bellagio to see if we could get tickets to O. Wouldn't you know it, we got to the box office 10 minutes after it closed. We'll have to try back tomorrow.
While we were there, we surveyed the scene. There were a lot of gaming tables, but all of the Black Jack had those endless shoes. You know what I mean, they throw the cards back into this automatic shuffler and they never ever shuffle -- or even cut the cards. It's what you'd call an advantage for the house. Like the Hard Rock, it's obvious to me that the Bellagio does not cater to the serious card player, or they wouldn't get away with those rules.
Foolishly, we had a gamble anyway.I bought in for $200 then $300. Terry bought in for $60. Chris and Erin stayed out a watched. That was smart, too, because Terry and I had only a short go of it. Then we cabbed it back to the Renaissance Hotel.
After catching dinner at the Mirage, we headed over to the Hard Rock. Erin has some connections and thought she could get us into the popular Body English nightclub. The only problem was that we arrived a little early and Body English didn't open until 10:30 p.m. What better way to kill some time than gaming and boozing?
Chris and I bellied up to the Black Jack table while the girls played video poker at the bar. It took us a while to find a good table, though, as the Hard Rock obviously caters to the young-ins. All the single-deck 21 tables only paid even money on a Black Jack, and the double-deck paid 6-5. Therefore, we settled on a shoe game so we at least got paid 3-2 on a Black Jack, plus we had more splitting and double-down options.
Just my luck though, my cold streak continued from the night before. Chris was on a bit of a roll though, quickly doubling his $100 buy-in. But after about an hour of play, I was down $200 on the night and Chris was happy to quit at break-even. Once the girls came by, we made a quick stop at the Pink Taco and then we all walked over to Body English.
Erin soon found her bouncer friends and before we knew it, we were paying our $30 cover charge (only $20 for the women) and on our way in the club.
Okay, I'm a bit old to be clubbin' so I don't do it much, but I quickly saw what I've been missing. Body English was very cool. It was dark, there were many levels and there were beautiful women everywhere. The girls working the place were the most incredible, and I couldn't help but notice the consistent theme of attire -- short plaid skirts with slinky white tops. It wasn't until I checked the Body English calendar behind the bar that I noticed that every Sunday was "Sunday School," and thus all of the hired help wore their Catholic Girl outfits. Positively stunning. Who ever was running this place was a genius.
We all got some drinks and toured around the joint. Although we got in early, Body English filed up quickly. If I were ever to experiment with ecstasy, this would have been the night.
Girls danced with girls on the dance floor. One provocative duet had all they could do to keep their tops on. Pasties required.
We mingled, grabbed and fondled. Too bad work was waiting for us early Monday morning.
After landing in Las Vegas around 3:30, I grabbed my bags and took a taxi over to the Resaissance Hotel near the Convention Center. After I analyzed the lay of the land and got cleaned-up, I headed over to the new Las Vegas monorail to start my evening.
I grabbed a quick bite over in Bally's hotel, then made my way over to the casino at Paris, a destination at which I had gamed before.
Paris gives the illusion that you are outdoors in its namesake city, but actually you are indoors with a faux sky that makes you feel that its twilight. This effect especially messes with your mind when you walk out of the Casino at 4:00 a.m., but I had no plans to do that tonight.
I bellied up to a blackjack table and threw out $200. The dealer quickly snapped up my bills and gave me the equivalent in chips. Before I knew it, I had lost my first seven consecutive $25 hands and was almost out of chips. Then I was dealt and ace and a four -- a soft 15 -- and the dealer was showing a six. This was a classic double-down scenario, so I pulled another $100 bill from my wallet and laid it down. The dealer gave me more chips, and I doubled my bet. Wouldn't you know it, the dealer throws me a ten and my fifteen was now hard (reaaally!). Luckily things happened the way they should and the dealer broke. That hand helped me in the short term, but the long term was a different story. Soon enough my $300 was gone. Then $200 more. Then $400 more. After falling $900 down for the night, I caught the monorail to the Flamingo/Caesar's station.
My intent was to make my way to Caesars', but the walk was just too far. Therefore I settled for the Casino at the Flamingo, an establishment I'd never tried. After about 1 1/2 hours of a sea-saw battle, I found a short hot streak and got half of my money back. I headed back to my hotel around 1:00 a.m.
The last time I flew out of the San Jose Airport I swore I'd never park there again. Getting from the long term parking lot to the terminal building can take 45 minutes or more on a bad day. Therefore, when planning my trip to Las Vegas, I decided to fly out of San Francisco.
When I arrived at SFO this morning, I quickly learned that the old long term parking lot had been closed and they opened a new parking structure. When I tried to park, I could not find a spot. This wasn't even long weekend. It looks like they've decreased the airport parking capacity.
As I pulled out of the lot and informed the attendant there were no spots available, he said I could park in the hourly lot at long term prices, and gave me a voucher confirming so.
I can only imagine what this parking lot will be like come Thanksgiving.
After ten months of contract work, my employer finally gave me a full-time gig. Then they throw me a challenge -- they send me to Las Vegas for a week.
Do they know about my gambling problem? My drinking problem? The Crazy Horse Too? This is the ultimate test. I need to stay on my bestest behavior in the face of constant temptation.
This trip may only be a week, but it's going to seem like eternity.
So United States forces dropped two 500-pound bombs on a Iraqi house in which insurgent leader Abu Musab al-Zarqawi was staying. Then it was reported that an Iraqi man saw US soldiers beating al-Zarqawi shortly after he was pulled -- alive -- from the rubble.
U.S. General George Casey said that claim was "baloney." Casey went on to say that al-Zarqawi "died while American soldiers were attempting to save his life."
I find it interesting that the U.S. would drop two bombs on the man's hideout and then try to resuscitate him.
And now because of the bad press regarding the alleged beating, the US has flown in two military forensic specialists to determine how al-Zarqawi died.
Does it really matter? The United Sates government wanted this man dead and they killed him one way or another.
Seems as though the U.S. government has learned from Saddam Hussein that these unsavory characters are move valuable dead than alive.
It was only a few minutes after I met Goldie when we could see Joel putting meat on the BBQ.
"Oh, he has hot dogs. I'm going to have a hot dog. I love hot dogs," said Goldie.
"Yeah, they make them a lot better these days," I said. "Now they have Louisiana hot links and a lot of other varieties. They are a lot better than the plain old hot dogs."
We were sitting down the left field line when San Francisco Giants pitcher Matt Cain uncorked one of his trademark 95 mph fastballs. Pittsburgh Pirates hitter Nate McLouth swung and drove the ball right at us. Jeff was clearly not interested in this souvenir and jockeyed for a position outside the path of the ball. I leaned toward the ball, but at the last second it curved a few rows in front of us. After bouncing in and out of a few fans' hands, the ball found its way to me. The crowd was impressed with my skills. And the best part -- there were no cute little kids around to force me to surrender my prize.
After seven seasons as a San Francisco Giants season ticket holder, I finally got a ball.
I met my friend Jeff on Caltrain on our way up to the Giants-Pirates game tonight. As I prepared to sit down in the seat next to Jeff, I pointed to the stain that outlined the seat and shrugged to suggest we sit somewhere else.
"Ah, they're all like that," said Jeff.
"What, people can't control themselves and piss in their pants on the train?" I said.
"Yes," said Jeff. "They tell you the reason they banned drinking on the trains after games is because there were too many fights, but it's really because of this."
It was in late 2004 when I discovered my old friend Holly's blog. She's been writing it for years, and it's one of the best I've seen. While Holly and I used to regularly converse via email in the early 1990s while killing our days at Wired magazine, I never truly understood her abilities as a writer until I was introduced to her blog a decade later.
Back in 2004, I had thought about starting a blog of my own and reading Holly's gave me the motivation. Could I write as well as Holly? No. Did I have the stories she had? No. But I have my own stories, and my own writing style -- complete with incorrect grammar and spelling errors! After all, like a wise man once said, "I yam what I yam."
As many Walking Papers readers know, this blog was born when I saw my life heading toward a crossroads. I wanted to record my final days at a dying job that I'd had for over eight years, as well as the adventures of my soon-to-be post-job life. But I always knew unemployment (unfortunately) wouldn't last for ever, and I'd need to decide whether or not I should write about work in my blog.
Holly uses her employment as regular source of content in her blog and she does it quite well. I, on the other hand, am a bit more hesitant to do so. Actually, I made bogging about work an unofficial "don't" excluding, of course, my old job that was so unceremoniously ending.
So when I began working again, I treated work as an off limits topic. I even went so fas as to make another rule; no one I work with gets to know about my blog. I felt it was better to separate church from state, so to speak. After all, how could any of my personal indiscretions be beneficial to my fellow employees?
Well, I held tight to my rules for fairly long time. However, a couple months ago, a fellow employee -- who I think I know fairly well -- asked me if I knew anything about blogs. Seems as though she needed to brush up on the subject in order to consider it as a marketing tool.
"I have a blog," I said.
"You do?", she said. "You are such a geek."
I took that insult as a complement. But I was hesitant to reveal the URL of my blog. After all, I had my rules.
After some prodding, I caved-in and gave the Walking Papers URL to my friend. However, I made her swear over a bottle of Jagermeister that she would reveal it to no one at work. And she didn't. For a while.
As time passed, my friend forgot about her promise, and she gave this URL to another mutual co-worker friend, a.k.a. Love Sponge. When I learned of this I was both flattered and distressed. I was flattered that my fiend found Walking Papers entertaining enough to pass along, even if she was just reading it to learn was a geek I am. I was also a bit distressed, though, as I am fully aware that Walking Papers doesn't always paint the best picture of me, given the not so occasional references to booze and gambling. At least booze and gambling are legal, and you have to look harder to find more incriminating stories.
Because I was concerned that my lifestyle didn't always conform to my employers expectations, I asked Love Sponge to also keep a lid on my blog. I even went as far as to name names, and I asked her not to show it so Soandso because he lives such a clean lifestyle. The only thing I didn't realize is that I may have been too late. Soandso may have already read Walking Papers.
I thought about this a lot this weekend. Why do I care so much about who reads my blog? After all, it is fairly clean. And even people who live differently from me might find it entertaining. As a matter of fact, I would read a blog about prison life or suicide bombers, yet I have no interest in living those types of lifestyles.People are always interested, or entertained, by how others live.
Therefore, I've changed my rules. While it is unlikely that I will ever write about work (due to the threat of possible law suits), I don't care if people at work read it. If my blog gives people a taste of who I am -- even if it's from another view they might not ordinarily see or expect -- that's fine with me. After all, I yam what I yam, and I'm not ashamed of it (most of the time).
So co-workers, read on guilt-free. Rules are meant to be broken.
After catching that act and a couple of cold brews, we headed inside the arena building to see robot wars. In case you were wondering, the little robot outsmarted the big burly robot and won. While taking a lap around the arena and scouting the food available, we again made our way outside and took a table.
