rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

they should stop all forms of transportation leaving Las Vegas and delouse any and all travelers. I feel so fucking grimy after getting out of that city, it’s not even funny.
not that I didn’t have a good time. Neil is my boy, and I love seeing him. and yeah, even in his own way, I like hanging out with Pat every once in a while. he and I, we speak different languages, but he’s still a good guy. he talks a big game, he plays up to this “living the MTV dream in Southern California,” but in the end, he’s from Indiana and he isn’t a complete tool. this part of him surfaces at strange moments.

I got pretty drunk last night, which can make a casino strip fun, but I suggest that if you go to Las Vegas, you take the time and spend money get a nice room, plan on going out, know where you’re going. dress for the occasion. or, completely cash in to whatever situation you’re in. I mean, I slept on the floor underneath the sink in a motel off of I-15 last night, for about five hours, and my back is fucking killing me. that was after I spent most of the night wandering aimlessly around the strip, while Pat’s buddy played blackjack in a string of wildly dissimilar establishments. my idea of a good time isn’t walking a mile or two between these different places to blow ten spot after ten spot. pick someplace and hunker down. or go your seperate ways. it’s not like I need to see the whole fucking strip every time I come to town.
with all that aside, I had a good time. highlights: losing petty cash to the “spin the wheel game”; Pat getting told off by the girl who caught him taking a picture of her ass on the down-low; talking about current events in east Africa with an Ethiopian cabbie; eating Burger King at 4 a.m. with Mr. Evans; and winning the petty cash back by putting ten on Georgetown. Roy Hibbert is a fucking beast. and I picked them to win the tournament, so hopefully they stay hot. regardless, that was a sick game, even with out money on it.