With my love of all things cheesy and tourist-trappish, Vegas might seem the perfect Steve-vacation-destination, but this last weekend proved that it emphatically is not. I had a great time, no doubt, but something about the relentlessly orchestrated way new-Vegas separates fools from their money rubbed me the wrong way. In short, I spent 3 days feeling like a mark.

It could have been the fact that I lost every single hand of blackjack I played (The team of statistians I appointed to study the matter reported, "There can be no earthly explanation for a run of bad luck this complete."), or it could have been something else... like detecting something sinister in the way Vegas encourages us to come to her. "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" the ads say, but in the end, what actually happens is so unbelievably banal, I'm left like Peggy Lee asking "is that all there is to Sin City?"

From the prominently displayed asses on every advertisement to the families of immigrants handing our hooker-cards in front of the Venetian, the whiff of hedonism is everywhere-- a nice change from "family-Vegas" of a few years ago, sure--but it's ultimately an illusion. Vegas never delivers on her promises.

We want Sin. With a big "S"! But when it comes to Vegas, you don't get passionate, human sin. It's not a steamy affair with that blonde from accounts payable, the thrill of boosting some crumpled fives from the register, or getting drunk at a party and dancing around with a lampshade on your head. Vegas is faux-sin. Safe-sin. Sin-lite(tm). It's a bait-and-switch. It's the illusion of the bacchnal meant to cloud you into giving up your credit card numbers without Vegas providing the actual bacchnal. Corporate-sponsored sin.

The scads of dried-up slot-jockeys parked in front of rows of machines don't look like they're having illicit thrills as much as they look like they're operating machine presses, and I doubt their pharmacists are going to give them free heart medication when they say, "But I lost in Vegas! And what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!" Sure thing, Granny.

I'd have a better feeling about Vegas had I won, of course. I'm not bitter about losing money or anything. I'm just unhappy with the way I lost the money. It's okay to get cleaned out when you play at a fun table and you're dressed in your lucky shirt, and some hot cocktail waitress is keeping you bathed in complimentary Jack and sodas, and it's Friday night, and your dealer is rooting for you, and your table is full of good Vegas-y people with pinky-rings, bleach blonde hair and bad manners. Maybe you win a few hands and you spend a couple hours feeling like this might be the night where you break the bank at the Bellagio (or at least O'Shea's), before the odds come back to haunt you and you drop the rent money or whatever. That's money well spent.

Instead, I sat at tables manned mostly by dealers who were like machines, efficiently throwing me unplayable 15s and 16s then impassively taking my money away when they turned over their inevitable 20s. One dealer genuinely seemed to love it when his players lost. He enjoyed tossing un- subtle digs at the luck and skill of his players, smiling and laughing smugly when he gathered up our chips. No fun.

But on the plus side: I got to spend time with the incredible Michelle Gardner, circus-date and Hollywood wunderkind Dave Schneider and the inimitable Robyn Simms. We even had some special guest stars in the form of Gionfranco Rossi and Jeremy Rosenberg.

Gionfranco and Jeremy spent the previous week touring the Mojave desert and other inhospitable regions of the West in a battered RV--a good plan in late July, when temperatures are topping 115 degrees. Speculations as to the nature of their top-secret project are running rampant. Connections to extra-sensory activities and unspeakable experiments at Groom Lake and Area 51 have not been ruled out.


Vegas posse be thick, yo.



Gionnfranco.



Michelle is staring raptly at the bassist of a lounge act as the band bashes through one nostalgic, classic rock number after another.



Robyn "Simmsy" Simms

Other Highlights:

1) The Boobies of Magic: Thursday morning, on a lark, we put 50 bucks on black, and our color came up. Robyn and Michelle went to the spa and left Dave and I in charge of buying tickets to a show with our winnings. That was a good decision on their part, because Dave and I chose Showgirls of Magic . Its advertised combination of illusions, dance and comedy appealed to our sensibilities. And it's topless. And it's the cheapest show we could find. Showgirls of Magic more than lived up to the considerable hype around town about its awesomeness. It features one fat, cross-dressing comic, 2 free drinks(watered-down, natch) and 10 bare-breasts. If that's not entertainment, I don't know what is.







2) This White Tiger: It's not the tiger that mauled Roy, but what are you going to do?
















3) Star Trek: I'm a geek, so we visited the Star Trek Experience at the Hilton. Robyn's friend Andy hooked us up with tickets, and as an added bonuses of geekness, it happened to be Star Trek Convention time. At left is the crew of the Starship Pudgy Midwesterner.











3) Alien Beef Jerky

















4) If Robyn were buried alive and desperately clawing at the inside of her coffin, this is what it would look like.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 12:01 PM ] |

My new job involves actually working all day, so I don't have time for pithy observations about my fruity life and the fruity culture in which I live,  so here are some fruity-ass pictures of San Diego's fruity Comicon fruit festival.


 

Kids all over the country are mad about the Jedi Jim action figure.

 

This guy is named Dennis Miller. We talked to him for awhile, and he was under the impression that if he had taken his career a little more seriously, he'd be more famous than "The Other Dennis Miller." I don't know about that, but I've seen the Other Dennis Miller's new talk show a few times, and rainbow-head-crazy Dennis Miller seems more fun to be around.




They dress up like Klingons as often as they can. I'm not sure what went wrong.




Fake Bruce Lee from Game of Death was the winner of the convention. He would judo the ass of the boy in the wheelchair behind him... but not without being provoked.  Fake Bruce Lee is all about honor.

 


Her name is Jewell Marceau. She works as a fetish model. She said the brass bra is actually quite comfortable, but the brass sleeves hurt her forearms.  The fellows at the convention enjoyed staring at her breasteses.

 
 
*Bergen-Belsen Playset Sold Seperately. 

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 7:16 PM ] |

Plastination is cool; and by cool, I mean totally sweet. It works like this: After you die, a scientist (presumably mad) forces different polymers (silicone, polyester and epoxy resins) through your tissues, and he ends up with a durable, odorless specimen. In other words, a fully-posable,  life-size corpse action-figure. 

Sweet. 
 
I'm going to be plastinated when I die; it's in my will. None of my conniving, lazy children receive dime one of my sizable estate until I'm mounted on my couch naked, with windows cut in my flesh to highlight my lymphatic system. I'm making sure my features are set in a disapproving sneer, too.  (They also have to spend a night in haunted mansion.)
  
We went to the Plastination exhibit at the California Science Center in lieu of the Circus (a long story I won't get into here, except to blame Dave.), and I can't recommend the Body Worlds exhibit highly enough. The place was packed to the rafters with stiffs. Stuffed to the gills with dead guys posed with their insides out to be gawked at by any yokel with 12 bucks. That's what I call science. 
 
The accompanying literature all stressed the edifying and educational nature of the exhibit...IE: "This exhibit explores the very essence of bodily performance at a depth never before possible...More than 200 real human specimens are displayed to reveal the complexity and elegance of the nature inside." 
 
Right, whatever.  Every last person knew the exhibit was really about: "Holy fucking shit! That guys is dead and I can see his guts and craps!" 
 
The plagues next to the corpses said things like, "Observe the wonders of the wonderful circulatory system. Made up of exciting cappillaries and super-special aortas, the circulatory system is truly a wonderful..."  
 
I would have preferred, "Dude, you can totally see his brains!"  or  a simple card reading, "ooh. gross." next to each body.
 
The inventor of the plastination process, Dr. Gunther von Hagens, created all the exhibits, and the special macabre sensibility of a guy who spends every day of his life drying out and posing dead bodies shines  through on some of the exhibits: A jaunty skeleton holds a cigarette between bony fingers. A completely eviserated corpse is posed with a white fedora on his head, etc. 

The Science Center took pains to point out that all the bodies came from voluntary donors. Yawn. When I open my science center, all human specimens will be stolen from graveyards and sacred Indian burial grounds. This increases the chances of supernatural corpse reanimation. (The process will be explained in detail in our audio tour.)
 
I asked a docent whether he was worried about the bodies springing to back to life and enacting a horrible revenge upon their tormentors. (it's only a matter of time, right?) While he admitted that, yes, that would be pretty scary, he said the Science Center hadn't taken any precautions against zombies, but he didn't rule out the possibility.  (emphasis added.) 
  
 
For more information, check out the International Society Society for Plastination.
 
This group shot was taken at their annual convention in Puerto Rico. I'm totally going next year.   
 
Here's a list of polymer suppliers  so you can plastinate your own corpses. Thank God. Those hookers are starting to stink.
 
Surprisingly, plastination was invented in Germany.   


 

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 10:02 AM ] |

I love you, Superman.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 1:03 PM ] |

Related Info for: suspensionofdisbelief.net/: "According to Alexa.com, my Site is ranked 2,325,930 on the Web."

I'll be number one soon, I swear.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 11:48 AM ] |

Blogging is Fruity

Tripp Daniels, who works at some little-understood job at my company, sent me the following email:

"so now that you have been installed into upper management at COMPANY NAME DELETEDyou think you can just make it so the link to my pro-bush/pro-war/pro-anal sex blog is not on the front page of your blog? great. thanks. oh, you're
so hip and retro; pics of he-man and gay animation. clever! never mind that i
am pushing the limits of blogging to unfathomable heights. some power trip
you are on these days, hipster steve...company man."

I am a spineless man, so I've placed Tripp's link back on my page, and I urge all 6 of my readers (and my mom) to check out Tripp's blog, and marvel at how he pushes the blog format to unfathomable heights by expressing his opinions on popular culture, corporate coffee francises and semi-conservative politics. Truly innovative stuff.

Now that I am the president of the company for which we both work, I will spend my entire work day ordering Tripp around.

I'll be like, "Hey, Tripp, I'm a little thirsty. Why don't you run on out to Starbucks and shag me a Latte. If you're quick about it, I'll let you keep the change."

And Tripp will be all, "Oh no you didn't!"

And I'll go, "Yeah I did! You got served, homes."

and then we'll kill a hooker.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 7:24 AM ] |

My friend Drew pointed out that Arnold Shwartzenegger and Maria Shriver look like He-man and Skeletor.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 10:35 AM ] |

By request: a link to the Winnebago Man. (Audio not safe for work, children or Winnebago salespeople.)

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 9:45 AM ] |

Saddam Hussein cleans up nicely.



"No, YOU da' man."

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 11:38 AM ] |