Last night, a group of us went to The Golden Steer.
Located west of The Strip on Sahara Blvd., The Golden Steer is Las Vegas’ quintessential old-world steakhouse. First opened in 1958, it was the regular hangout for members of the famed Rat Pack. Frank, Sammy, Dean, and their pals even had their own plush red-leather booth near the front entrance (which still remains the most requested table in the house).
As expected, the background music inside the dining room was exclusively from the mid-1950′s. The set list included popular tunes we’ve all heard countless times before on hundreds of occasions. Old-fashioned steakhouses, traditional Italian restaurants, and other upscale venues catering to older clientele (with money) usually pipe in a steady stream of these old standards as house background music, even though the legends who first performed the songs are long gone. A cynic might say these are songs by dead people for the dying.
Our treatment of animals doesn’t reveal so much about what they are, as who we are.
This is especially true for dogs.
On one hand, dogs purportedly are ”mans’ best friend.” Yet, the appellation ”dog” is often used as an insult hurled at those deemed to be less than human. “He’s a dog,” or “She’s a dog” — we know exactly what’s meant by these derisive expressions, dont we?
So, which is it? Are dogs our most adored companions, or the typification of filth?
Well, they’re both. And precisely which side of the fence of human perception any particular dog falls into has virtually nothing to do with them. After all, canine DNA is basically the same from animal to animal. Rather, what makes us value one dog more than another are the twisted peculiarities of selective breeding, which is used to accentuate and exaggerate physical characteristics and behavioral traits.
In the style and spirit of Bill Maher, here’s my “New Rule.”
New Rule: If you don’t live there anymore, the place you’re from sucks.
Got it New Yorkers? Got it Texans? Got it Californians?
The fact that you aren’t living there anymore means your old place basically stinks. Otherwise, why did you leave? What made you pack up everything you own and leave that place behind for somewhere else? If the place you revere so much with all that self-delusional nostalgia is so great, then why aren’t you still living there?
February 20, 2014
Attention: Mr. Ben Baldanza, CEO — Spirit Airlines
Dear Mr. Baldanza:
Look at the photo above. Take a really good look. Press your eyeballs right up against the screen. Sniff. Take it all in.
THAT’S WHERE I BUNKERED DOWN LAST NIGHT. All because of your incompetent ass-joker tinker-toy excuse of an airline.
Check out the breezeway with chunks of sour vomit splattered right outside my motel front door. What you don’t see were the gangbangers wandering the hallways the entire night, slamming doors, screaming profanities, serenaded by a hissing nest of feral cats parked outside my window making it IMPOSSIBLE to get any sleep. I ended up at this slimeball slumber party — all because of YOU. Make that, because of YOUR AIRLINE.
That’s right. It’s YOUR fault. SPIRIT AIRLINES FAULT. At the time I should have been buckled into my seat up in the air sipping away on my third cocktail some 35,000 feet over Kansas, instead I was padlocked into a dive motel room trying to tune out an argument down the hallway that thankfully didn’t escalate into gunfire. Oh, and I think at least one of the females was in heat. One of the cats, I mean.
Tell me something. Be honest. Would you want to stay in this shithole?
I don’t understand the appeal of strip clubs at all. Someone please explain this to me.
Strip clubs are obviously very popular, not just in Las Vegas, but just about everywhere. When I travel around the country, wherever I go, I’m amazed at how many strip clubs there are. Parking lots are usually full at all hours, day and night.
There’s probably a joke in there somewhere as to why I would notice so many strip clubs and the number of cars in parking lots. Truth is, there are so many clubs around, that it’s impossible not to notice them.
I haven’t been inside a strip club in several years. The last time I spent anytime at all in them with regularity was when I was in my early 20s. But that was all just an excuse to go out with freinds and drink beer. It was a rite of passage. That said, one would think most people eventually grow out of that adolescent stage.
But many people I talk to enjoy going out to strip clubs for reasons I just can’t comprehend. To me, paying money to sit in a dark place so you can watch naked female flesh parading non-stop in front of your eyes is absurdly ridiculous. It’s sort of like going out to a fancy restaurant, ordering a $50 steak, and then be forced to sit there and stare at it all night long. I mean, what’s the fucking point? Who would enjoy doing something like that?