Tonight, I encountered something I don’t ever recall seeing — an airport check-in counter without a single flyer.
Not a single passenger, except for me.
I don’t know whether to be thrilled, or terrified. Should I be making a mad dash for the nearest exit?
It’s precisely 5:30 pm at the Las Vegas Airport. This place is supposed to be packed with travelers. I approach the American Airlines ticket counter, which always has a line. To my surprise, four agents are standing there waiting around with absolutely nothing to do.
Again, should I be loving this, or search for news about a bomb scare?
Who’s the king of Las Vegas comedy?
Right now, I’d split my vote three ways:
A stadium hasn’t been constructed yet that can keep me out.
Well, maybe one. More on that later.
This week, I’m visiting Pittsburgh. The hotel and casino where I’m staying are adjacent to the stadium where the Pittsburgh Steelers play their home games. I’d mention the actual name of the stadium, except that the ketchup company which pimped the naming rights isn’t sending me a royalty check, so you’ll just have to try and guess the official name of the place.
I have a fetish for stadiums. Like some kind of sick pervert. Some guys like tits and ass. I get a rise out of triple-deck overhangs and natural grass. As far back as I can remember, I’ve made pilgrimages to every stadium humanly possible whenever I visited a new city. Seeing stadiums up close in person are not only impressive as the architectural marvels they are, they’re also part of history. Exciting things happen in stadiums, especially for us sports fans.
Moreover, visiting a stadium adds a much greater sense of perspective. Watching a football game on television gives the average fan no sense of the actual experience of attending a game. Sure, I’d rather stay at home too, and flip my Direct TV channels back and forth along with everyone else. I also don’t fancy forking over $300 for seats in the end zone. But there’s also a rite of passage of going to games when you can — parking, walking to the gate, taking a seat, tasting the shitty food, freezing your ass off, getting into fist-fights, and witnessing everything first-hand. Otherwise, you really don’t “get it.” It’s the difference between seeing your favorite band live in concert versus listening to a studio recording. Sure, the sound quality is much better on your the iPod. But which is the better “experience?”
Dutch food sucks.
Sorry, Holland. Beautiful country. Nice people. But the local food scene is basically one Long John Silvers after another, only with unpronouncable names.
Your food choices in Holland are pretty much limited to the following choices: Fish, fish, and more fish — and it’s all fucking fried. Just about everything you order comes with fried potatoes topped with a giant dollap of mayonaise. Yuck. After staying here a week and losing a full belt loop in an unplanned fast, I’m ready to flee the country just to get a good meal. And today that’s exactly what I did, racing towards the German border in a reverse blitzkrieg with the first authentic German restaurant as my primary target. Hey, you know the food is lousy when you’re burning rubber towards Germany to get a decent meal.