As if waking from a coma I suddenly realized that there was no dream, and that I was once again back on the unwavering asphalt path to Las Vegas. Jesus Christ, how the hell did I ever end up back here? The stark reality of the triple-digit temperatures, the monotonous hum of the tires speeding across the pavement, and the impending sense of doom pressed its way through the fog, as I gradually began to see colors again. Sensing my return to consciousness, Eggs opened a beer and pressed it into my hand, which instinctively grabbed a hold of it and brought it to my lips. Oh, not to worry – I was sitting in the very back row of a rented piece of sh1t Chrysler mini-van, and I had about another 90 minutes to get sloppy drunk before we pulled in to the Ballys parking lot.

Vegas again. What had I done to deserve yet another perverse weekend of banal excess and crowds of gawking hausfraus and posturing mullets?

Oh yeah, the wedding.

See, back in the end of July, Duende had decided that it was high time he made an honest woman of Scarlett, and he invited his posse (consisting of me & the Lady Monkey, Eggs, and a sweet ol’ gal we lovingly referred to as Tex) on a trip to Las Vegas, so they could be wed by some fat, inebriated Elvis impersonator at the Graceland Wedding Chapel. How could anyone say no to that? I mean, Las Vegas … Elvis impersonators … betting on football games … strippers … guayaveras and fezzes … it all seemed like a recurring wet dream of mine (only without the mermaids, soy sauce, and trampolines).

The problem was, this really wasn’t Duende’s wedding. It was Scarlett’s, and as soon as she caught wind of our plans, well, let’s just say funding for the project was frozen until such time as the specifics could be modified to suit the prevailing criteria. Of course, none of us were aware of this shift in plan. As far as Eggs, Tex, the Lady Monkey and I knew, things were purring along right on schedule, with all of us strapped into a rocket whose trajectory would lead straight to planet Fat Vegas Elvis!

Have I mixed enough metaphors for you yet?

Anyway, the point is, up to the day of the trip ... Friday, 28 Sep. 2001, we were all under the impression that the weekend was to be more about fun and getting a bit silly than anything else. Looking back, I can now see how Duende’s last minute call to tell me to pack a suit “just in case” was a bright red flag, but then again hindsight is 20/20, innit? As we pulled onto the Santa Monica Freeway (Interstate 10, for you non-locals) heading eastbound to downtown Los Angeles we were made aware of a few slight changes to our itinerary. As we merged into traffic, Scarlett basically dropped trou and squatted over the weekend, letting loose a steamer that killed our fun. She explained how Elvis would not be marrying them, but how a real “minister” would be. How the wedding would not be held on midnight Friday, but at 1PM Saturday. How we were not going to spend Saturday night commandeering a blackjack or craps table to try and win a honeymoon, but how we were going to walk around the strip, checking out such tourist attractions as (and I kid you not): the volcano show and the white tigers at the Mirage, the pirate show at the Treasure Island, the Eiffel Tower at Paris, the fountains at the Bellagio, and other such amazingly awful things which only slack-jawed yokels and easily impressed neophytes would find entertaining. But then again, she does hail from Virginny, so I guess I shouldn't be all that surprised.

After that bomb the minivan was entombed in stunned silence, with only the hacking of the engine and the rush of wind audible. I finally had to speak up, and in retrospect maybe I should have used different words. I simply said: “You have got to be f*cking joking.” Duende, who was driving, looked at me through the rear-view mirror with eyes that indicated there was no joke, while simultaneously begging for forgiveness. That was when I went into my coma.

The next two hours of driving were tense, to say the least. Nobody spoke, aside from asking for something to snack on, or to request a pull-over in Baker (“you’re in BunBoy country!”) in order to return some nitrogen to the ecosystem. Eventually we arrived at our hotel, and thankfully I was nice and heated.

That night we had a horrible meal at the Ballys' boofay, and went off to do a bit of gambling. Well, all except for Duende & Scarlett, who had to get their marriage license and “discuss” the event. We visited several casinos near Ballys and I lost about $100 at blackjack, and made several bets on the next day’s college football games, taking $20 action each on Cal at +17 against Washington, Ucla –3 against Oregon State, Stanfurd +2 against (p)U$C, Oregon at –16 ½ against Utah, and Arizona +2 against Washington State, as well as parlaying them with a $10 bet on a separate card. We finally crashed at around 3AM.

The next day we awoke to the sound of a pack of asþhole frat boys whooping it up in the hallway. We gathered in Duende’s room to work out the logistics of the wedding. Their service was scheduled for 1PM at the Little Church of the West, just west of the Strip, near the Glass Pool Motel (the only motel in Vegas with a pool you can look into!). No kidding people, I am not nearly creative enough to make this stuff up. As it was near 11AM we had enough time for breakfast and maybe a bit of screwing around before we had to get serious, so we all went off in search of a Denny’s or something for a casual breakfast. All except Scarlett, as she was far too nervous to eat, and had to try on each of her 7 wedding dresses a few more times before she settled on which one to wear. We drove up and down the Strip looking for a Denny’s and found many – but each was packed lips-to-asþ so there would be no way we would make the wedding. By the time we reached downtown it was about 12:15. We were screwed. Taking a few back-routes we rushed back to the hotel, stopping at a local Quickie Mart for some really awful hot dogs and nachos. That was Duende’s pre-wedding meal, and it was a good portent of things to come.

Evidently, as we each changed into our wedding clothes, Duende & Scarlett had another discussion, during which time, unbeknownst to the rest of us, they came this close (squeezing thumb & forefinger very very close to one another) to calling the whole thing off. None of us knows for sure what happened or what was said, but suffice it to say that both of their rather chequered pasts were likely brought to light. Still, somehow they managed to avert the abort, and we were off.

As we reached the Little Church of the West one thing became abundantly clear to us all. It was freaking hot outside. I mean it was hot … close to 105 according to the car thermometer. It was hot enough to boil a monkey’s bum, according to the Queen of England. We got out of the piece of sh1t Chrysler minivan, and got ourselves collected. The first order of business was to get all the certificates signed, so off I went with Duende into the small, but air-conditioned, office to make it official. There were only a few things to sign, the most important being the official Marriage Certificate, which I was to sign as witness. I asked the bored old Betty behind the counter if she needed to see any ID, and she looked at me as if I asked to take a dump in her bed. Since I didn’t need any proof of who I was, Duende’s marriage was witnessed, at least in the eyes of the State of Nevada, by none other than William Shatner.

It was now the zero-hour. By this time all of us were sweating profusely and taking deep breaths to put off blacking out for as long as possible. Off we trudged into the tiny and steamy chapel for the public proclamation of Duende & Scarlett’s undying love. Yep, nothing says everlasting devotion quite like sweating like a pig while some bored graduate of the Hollywood Upstairs Theological College rips through a sterile 5-minute ceremony with all the emotional sincerity of a beer-soaked frat boy telling the girl he wants to date rape that he loves her. The “minister” barely got to the part proclaiming them Husband & Wife before he whipped out a small envelope in which his fee was to be deposited.

After paying the man for his hard work, we stood outside a little more and snapped photos of the happy couple, before Eggs, panting and dripping wet, said, “Let’s roll.”

So, we hustled back to the hotel, showered, and changed into much more comfortable clothing. Scarlett wanted to do a bit of sightseeing, so with Hubby in tow off she went. Tex & the Lady Monkey had developed a Jones for the slot machines, and they paired up and trotted off to wager a few quarters as the machines serenaded them with loud bells and clangs. Eggs and I chose to speed away to the darkened confines of the only real cathedral in all of Las Vegas – the Sports Book at Caesar’s. There I managed to see the end of Ucla’s humiliation of Oregon State (one win for me), and follow Cal’s remarkable achievement of losing by only 3 to Washington (my 2nd win). After a few beers to celebrate, we sat down to see Stanfurd go up 21 – 0 on (p)U$C, putting me well on my way to not only my 3rd win, but also making my $10 5-game parlay card look like it may be worth $250.

Eventually the others met Eggs and I in the Sports Book, and we went off to dinner. That night we got a nice look at the future marriage of Duende & Scarlett. They began to argue about what to do during the night. He wanted all of us to go gambling, while she wanted to see those stupid sights. She won, and dragged him around the Strip to oooh and ahhhh at what amounts to little more than very bad Disney stage shows. Tex & the Lady Monkey went back to the slots, and Eggs and I played some cards.

At the end of the night I had won a grand total of $15 gambling. Oregon covered the spread against Utah, but Arizona got their heads handed to them by Washington State, preventing my parlay from coming through. Still that gave me $80 from football. The only other win I got was on an incredibly stupid bet where I placed $100 on black on the roulette table, which came up. So, I won a total of $180, while betting and losing $165. Not bad for a weekend.

As for Duende & Scarlett – well, I am sure that the last few BBQ’s of this season over at their home will definitely be interesting. I foresee many beers and much hair lost in his future. But that is okay, because it will all be entertainment for me.


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