Having hardly adjusted to the premature dismantling of the roving stripper mobile, Las Vegas is dealt yet another serious blow.  I’m not talking about Obama’s gaffe: I, the Great Bald One, can no longer support the porn industry, or the people who attend these adult entertainment expos.  It all started when the Daily Discord’s CEO, Pierce Winslow, insisted I attend the annual AEE at The Sands Expo Center.  Normally you would never find me anywhere near such smut, unless I have a roll of singles.  Luckily, as a cabby…

Each year, early January in Vegas is a twisted variation of some Revenge of the Nerds movie played out citywide.  Every computer and electronics geek is in for the Consumer Electronic Show and every horny jock is in town for the porn expo.  The reason for this unusual open marriage is the porn industry always stays ‘on top of’ the latest technologies, from Betamax to Debbie Does HiDef.  And, yours truly, typically has to drive all the jocks and nerds to their respective destinations.  While I experience considerable angst handling the passenger’s gift bags from these events, I was always thankful not to be working in housekeeping that week.

It’s a well known Vegas fact amongst the service industry that porn workers and fans are very loose with their money, while the computer and technology geeks, um…not so much   Thus the old Las Vegas saying: the Consumer Electronic Show attendees come to town with a clean shirt and a twenty dollar bill, and they don’t change either.

Low and behold, I would have the day off from my transportation duties this year, because the Daily Discord is insisting I cover the porn expo.  Heartless bastards…   My mother would be so proud.   On the bright side, Winslow is taking care of my lodging and transportation—of which I need neither.  I sent him the receipt for the admission and he sent me back a generic Thank You card and a note…shit, he’s making me cover the damn Star Trek convention at the Hilton next month.  Bastard.

This picture, above, was taken directly after I had to watch porn star Madison Parker expertly devour a vanilla frozen yogurt.  (I’m not kidding).  I asked none of Winslow’s prearranged questions, but I am including them here so you understand why:

Have you ever considered giving up porn for the fake news industry?

When did you first here the calling to become an adult entertainer, and was it Divine intervention?

Was Divine a transvestite or transgendered and how did he/she die?

Sorry, Pierce.  I only asked her two questions: what flavor was that frozen yogurt and did you just suck on that thing in front of me to rub it in?  What I should have asked her was this: when did you decide to provide your services for free to bald Las Vegas cab drivers?

Here’s the best part:  after taking the picture, Winslow wanted me to write an article entitled: 

Revealing Bald Tony/Madison Parker/John Edwards Sex Tape Released!

What a lousy rag I work for.  Did you know most of the stories on the Daily Discord aren’t true?  And the pictures are Photoshopped!  Except the Blue Man Group one.  As a longtime Vegas resident, I think that really happened.

By the way, Zano comes out to review this article and immediately causes a scene in my favorite coffee shop.  This Marx Brothers comedy routine transpires as he tries to find an outlet by involving as many of the pretty baristas and patrons as possible.  They all end up climbing over and under furniture in his maniacal Ahab-like quest for electrons i.e. he isn’t much of a help, Winslow!

Ah, well, things should be picking up in Vegas, as the second ‘vertical pole challenge’ is on the horizon for the Palms Hotel and Casino in late February (Hairy Palms joke omitted by Winslow).  Well, I’d better beam over to the Hilton.

Bastards…

Live Long and Pornstar.

This short lived mobile meat phenomenon brought new meaning to the phrase Las Vegas Strip.  The article in today’s Las Vegas Review Journal ‘Mobile Strippers Derailed’ has me both gladdened and sadden.  It is nice to see Sin City has its limits, but on the other hand Live Mobile Strippers!  Damn, I’m sorry to see them go-go.  As a Las Vegas cabbie, I can tell you, the last few weeks the meter wasn’t the only thing going up.  These mobile pleasure palaces brought myself—as well as other cab drivers, pedestrians, tourists, and everyone else in Vegas for that matter—to near Nirvana and to near death experiences.

No matter where the fare wanted to go, I seemed to aimlessly follow the pole dancing darlings (PDDs)—sometimes to the delight of passengers, sometimes to their chagrin.  It was exceptionally awkward when there was a group of nuns in town for an ethics convention.

“Forgive me sister for I have wood.  My thoughts are impure and I…just get the fuck out of the cab!”

Then there was that time “hey we’re late for our flight, where are you going, dude?  Oh…Never mind…follow those girls.”

More than once I heard, “Hey cabbie!  Both hands on the wheel!”

“Sorry, Sister.”

It helps to remind people there are always flights out of Vegas and I usually add, “Where you’re from probably sucks anyway.”

I realized the trick was to get the fare to think it was their idea.  Starting off with a “Wow, would you look at that!” and then guide the conversation and the taxi toward the semi-clad mobile hooters, swinging around poles on the back of a plexiglass enclosed flatbed truck.

For a few great weeks, while it lasted, it was all tits, tips, and traffic—all the while on the books.  Longer fares and longer…er, other things.  The only downside was my tips were being directed towards the PDDs.  Fortunately the childproof locks on the rear cab doors and the sealed Plexiglas around the lovelies kept the tips where they belonged–with me.  No matter your view on stripping, you have to be impressed with women who can dance in heels and bikinis on the back of those trucks amidst LV traffic. It impresses even a cabbie like myself…in more ways than one. As it turns out, the PDDs are legal passengers, so they had to wear seatbelts, which may have saved lives but they sucked as stripper tools (much too restrictive, unless you’re promoting a bondage club).

Oh, and they even had microphones, so you would hear things like “follow us to the strip club” and “tell your friends” and, “Hey, cabbie, both hands on the wheel.  Freak!”

In the end, the stripper mobile went bust (sorry).  With mounting pressure from county commissioners, the strip club finally stopped the mobile flesh parade. Wasn’t that a Doors album?  It was a sad, sad day in Sin City when the axe came down.  The neon does not seem to glow as brightly as it once did, the Bellagio fountains seem not to soar as high, and the Mirage Volcano seems to spew less lava (and several other bad Las Vegas impotency metaphors).

But for a few uplifting weeks, the Las Vegas Strip really was the Las Vegas strip.

Thank you for visiting Fabulous Las Vegas.

One hundred and fifty miles northwest of Las Vegas, amidst the barren wasteland of Central Nevada, sits one of the most controversial areas in our country (besides Michael Vick’s Animal Shelter).  I’m talking, of course, about Rachel, Nevada, a one mailbox town so devoid of life it didn’t even appear on my GPS (and it really only has one mailbox, which also did not appear on my GPS).  The nearest real town to Rachel is sixty miles to the south.  There is no cell phone service and no gas station in or around Rachel.  The town motto is ‘Don’t Run Out of Gas in Rachel.’   They’re not kidding.  To accentuate that point, there is a sign next to the town motto that says, ‘We’re Not Kidding!’

In order to get to Rachel, Frank from CA, Greg from MD, and the Great Bald One himself trekked along the Extra Terrestrial Highway (speed limit warp 3).  It’s really named that.  Along with legalized gambling and prostitution, the state of Nevada apparently has a sense of humor.  It is so desolate on State Route 375 (ET Hwy), we drove 45 minutes without seeing another vehicle (at least on the ground).  The skies above were littered with strange discs, saucers, and mallowmar shaped spacecrafts (damn shame we never looked up).  In the middle of town sits a tow truck towing a UFO.  This oddity is the stuff of legend, or, as the Rachelinians like to call it, bullshit. 

The only commercial building in Rachel is the A’Le’Inn, where I and my weary traveling companion feasted on the house special, the Alien Burger, with secret Alien sauce (possibly Heinz 51).  It was the best burger for miles…speaking of gas.  The A’Le’Inn has one television, forever tuned to the Sci-fi channel.  While waiting for the replicator to prepare our Borg-ers, we scoured the adjacent gift shop, and perused the memorabilia-filled walls covered with newspaper clippings and interesting photographs of Men in Black, stealth fighters, and other military spooks.  Similar to other alien close encounters, we seemed to have lost several hours at the A’Le’Inn—after we consumed a few too many Martian Mojitos.  The anal probes arrived courtesy of Cleetus the tow truck driver and his rocketeering roofies.  OK, that never happened.  We hope.  After the grub and grog our intrepid explorers meandered, Mojito meandered, towards the elusive Area 51. 

As most of you know, Area 51 is located literally in the middle of nowhere.  But, until you drive out there in the dead of night, it’s really tough to appreciate just how smack dab in the middle of nowhere this place is.   From the A’Le’Inn it was 25 minutes of twists and turns on gravel and dirt roads with no signage to speak of.  It was so dark, at one point we decided to turn off all the car lights, and we could not see our hand in front of our face.  Of course, I never lifted mine, where’s the fun in that?  I took Frank and Greg’s word for it.  As we rounded a small bend our headlights lit up two Men in Black.  They were in a dark SUV parked at the top of the nearest rise.  The SUV may not have been black (it was possibly grey) and the men may have only been in denim, but it was a dark, menacing denim.  The men spied at us warily as we spied at them warily in some sort of warily staring stare off.  A laser fight ensued…well, in the LucasFilm version of this article anyway.

At the gate we took many pictures of the signs and places that clearly warned about any such photography.  Try as we might, we could not find one sign that read: permission to use deadly force.  We waved causally at the Men in Dark Denim (click, click).  They ignored the pleasant gesture.  We did not see any UFOs on our journey, but we did see the strangest small red lights swerving around our chests every time the Men in Denim were about.

Just as the realization hit this old gate was about all she wrote, nature called.  One too many Martian Mojitos, I suppose.  As soon as the sound of unzipping commenced, my friend called over in a hushed whisper, “Hold it.  At least until we’re out of sight of those MIBs.”  The thought of men with night vision goggles and high powered rifles allowed me to contain the contents of my bladder for a few more miles (until a suitable bush could be found).

The funny thing is; we were never really anywhere near Area 51.  The actual base is 12 miles from the barbed wire gates.  One thing is for sure, this place is more guarded than Bernie Madoff’s ATM card.  If we couldn’t get in with our combined expertise, no one can.  After slowly and carefully finding our way back to a paved road, we headed back to Sin City, with just enough gas to breakout of the grasp of that gasless desert trap, Rachel, Nevada.

Word to the wise: stay away from the secret alien sauce…and Cleetus and his rocketeering roofies, of course.