Now, I’ve seen everything.
Bottled water has jumped the shark.
Check out the aisle display at a local supermarket here in Las Vegas. Diane Von Furstenberg, who I believe is famous for designing womens’ clothing or making perfume or whatever, now has her own line of water.
I had to head-shake back and forth and do a double take on this scene, as well. For a moment, I thought this shameful display was a prank.
Diane Von Furstenberg Water?
Hey, but at least there’s one good thing about this product. At least it wasn’t Trump.
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.
Tony Korfman’s poker book has been sitting on the bottom shelf of my office library for almost five years, gathering dust.
Make that Korfman’s two books. For some reason, two copies were sent to me — unsolicited. He either really, really wanted me to write a book review. Or, his agent is a royal screw up.
Wait, Tony Korfman has an agent?
For those who don’t know Korfman, how shall I describe him? His bio page says he was “born in New York, raised by seagulls in San Francisco, and now lives in Las Vegas.” These days, he’s usually camped out in some dumpy poker room, wearing a leather logo-laden NASCAR bomber jacket that has to be hot as blazes during the summertime. I mean who wears a leather bomber jacket when its 115 degrees outside?
Tony Korfman! That’s who!
I have no idea what compelled me to crack open his book a few days ago following such a long hibernation. Like a forgotten classic Montrachet, it’s been there in the book cellar aging forever, aching to be opened for all the floral splendor to be enjoyed.
I got scammed on Craigs List.
Scammers! Cheaters! Lying bastards!
Marieta warned me. But I didn’t listen. Husbands never listen, right? I wanted to find a “good deal.”
The crooks looked honest. They seemed nice. They seemed to know what they were doing. Then again, con artists always seem honest and nice, don’t they? Hey — that’s why they’re con artists.
The scam began with a broken water pipe between the house and the street. The last couple few months, our monthly water bill has tripled. Plus, the driveway looks like it’s ready to cave in. I’m just taking a wild guess here, but I think we might have a water leak.
Time to call a plumber.
Been to a shopping mall lately?
Talk about hell on earth!
Going shopping is bad enough. But toss in prospecting for a parking space, swarms of mindless teenagers walking six in a line, and the latest annoyance — the gauntlet of sales carts and kiosks blocking every aisle — and that makes going into the mall for a pair of socks like maneuvering an obstacle course.
What happened to the days when shopping malls housed a bunch of popular stores with names we actually knew? What happened to the customer’s “space?” Now, malls have pretty much become the Grand Bazaar. It’s like walking through Istanbul on a Saturday afternoon. You can’t tell even anything about the stores or what they sell anymore from the outside.
Consider these names at a popular mall in Las Vegas: