Vegas, I Hate You or My Life in Rose (and Orange)

Yesterday evening, I got home from a weekend in Vegas. I went out there to attend a friend's wedding. It was the first time I've stayed in Sin City (or is that the nickname for LA?) for more than 24 hours. By hour 25, I felt a blood-boiling hatred for the whole sordid place. All the stupid blinking lights, the constant numb ringing, the old people smoking and waiting to die while pumping rigged machines full of filthy lucre. I even felt myself wishing the whole desert stain would go up in smoke--with everyone cleared out first, of course.

Right when I got home I checked my email and got a message from a good friend telling me that he wants to spend his birthday in Vegas and would Dylan and I come, yay? I felt like Jude Law in the scene in I Heart Huckabees where he barfs a little in his hand just thinking about telling that Shania Twain/tuna fish story once again (this makes sense if you've seen the movie).

But here's what I really want to talk about. The other night when I was at Footsies, the same night that the Old Crusty Mexican Prostitute visited our fair establishment, I got an idea... and now that I want to procrastinate my work, specifically transcribing a tape, I will write about said idea.

The idea started this way: I was getting a little drunk and staring at the lights on the liquor shelves. The light was hot pink, and it made the whiskey glow a hot-amber-pink, and I found myself feeling friendly towards this light, like it was a kindred spirit. Not because it was light, but because of its color. This got me thinking about my relationship to pink.

The other day I was shopping at a clothing store that my good friend Amanda works at. She showed me a stack of long-sleeved t-shirts and said, Why don't you try this one? It was this really delicate pale pink and at first glance I thought, no, too girly, but Amanda convinced me to try it. In the dressing room, I realized that the reason I didn't want to wear this shirt was because I had liked that specific shade of pink a lot in junior high and I considered myself "beyond" it now.

I ended up buying the shirt because I thought it looked good on me. And I realized how silly it is to think you're beyond a specific combination of UV rays or whatever color technically is (colorists, speak up!). The shirt gave me a nice little glow and it looks good with black eyeliner, makes it looks a little tougher, I think. Now it's my favorite shirt.

I dare everyone to buy something soon in a color that they "hate," or have parted ways with. See how it works out. You might be suprised.

I used to detest the color orange. I always associated it with drab 70s-era educational institutions, those awful scoop chairs with the metal brackets underneath for your books. It didn't help either that my high school's colors were orange and blue (same as this website, now that I've noticed), and every bozo frat fucker wore blue and orange every Friday for extra credit. (Quick aside: What the fuck is that anyway? Extra credit for wearing two colors??) Anyway, the person who changed my relationship to orange was my old friend and roomate Maggie. Seeing it through her eyes when we were about 18 or 19, I realized that orange is thrilling and unexpected, kitschy and spicy. We painted our mantle orange, and much of the trim in the living room; we stubbed out our cigarettes in an old orange ashtray shaped like a boomerang. There are many things that I would thank Maggie for showing me, but the special, secret qualities of orange would be close to the top of the list.

"I sell things."

I had a conversation with a Mexican prostitute at Footsies, the bar that Winkie so capably commands. This prostitute (and I'm not sure she was but I'll get to that confusion in a moment) had wavy peroxide hair, red-orange lips over-lined and two rings of black eyeliner around her dull but kindly black eyes. She held onto a glass of Merlot like it was stick-shift. I was at Footsies to keep Winky company but while she wandered off to make drinks, the MP struck up a conversation, marked by her great giant pauses before all of her replies. Sometimes her answers were to questions I hadn't asked. Eventually it wound into this strange and undefinable territory...

Me: So, what do you do?
MP: (Giant pause in which she slowly moved her head around, as if she was hearing something from a great distance) I'm rich.
Me: Oh yeah? That's pretty cool.
MP: I own buildings, two in Silver Lake and I'm getting one downtown.
Me: That's great.
MP: Downtown is the future.
Me: I hear that. I gotta get on that.
(Another great, exhaustive pause in which I could've had a whole other conversation with someone else. Instead, I chose to watch MP continue to loll her head around, her eyes falling on any object in the room, but seeming not to register the difference between woman and wine glass, juke box and bar stool, bouncer and cash register.)
MP: (with sudden renewed interest) Listen, I think you're a beautiful woman.
Me: Well, thanks.
MP: And if you want to hang with me, I'll show you things.
Me: (long pause) OK...
MP: Listen, I sell and get rid of things.
Me: Like what?
MP: Everything, whatever.
Me: (excited) You mean drugs?
MP: Oh, no, no, no. I don't do drugs. No, never.
Me: (disappointed) Oh.
MP: I sell things, a lot of things.
Me: Things.
MP: Yeah, so if you want to see what I can do for you... I'll give you my number.
Me: Uh, sure.
MP: I'm into women, not men.
Me: Oh, OK.

Later on that night, this woman ended up getting sort of unofficially kicked out. But I have her number in my cel phone programmed under "Don't Answer." Yes, I gave her my cel phone. What, like she's even going to remember what Footsies is the next day? Much less Ms. Scarlet?

Where's the fire, 2005?

Yes! Look at all those clarion calls I got from fellow bloggers, especially my mentor Winky, and my former slav--I mean housemate Thoresen Wells. (When did Thoresen become a small black child? Why doesn't anyone tell me anything??) I am heartened by your support, all of of you. I even had to remove my pincenez and parlor gloves momentarily, as both were soaked with my salty, grateful tears.

Last night I stayed up late working on stuff and despite being so tired I think my eyeballs are about to melt into goo, I can't quite settle into sleep yet. I think it's partially because my conversation with Winky just reminded me that I haven't made all of my resolutions yet for 2005 and the damn year's already going so fast. It's only Jan. 10 and I'm feeling nostalgic for 2005.

I have an admittedly corny but beloved ritual with making resolutions. I like to sit down with a nice black pen, my journal and a bottle of wine. I read through the past year's events, and I take in all the crap-ass things that happened, and all the sweet things, all the while getting softly drunk, the kind of drunk you get only when alone. Then I let it all stew in a soft-wine-bitter-haze. And then, finally, I record YE RESOLUTIONS, some of which I actually keep. Some get transferred to next year's resolutions; others just fall away because I don't care about them anymore.

Anyway, here's the few that I have so far:
1. Take Spanish lessons
2. Get better about remembering birthdays
3. Don't hang out with buttholes
4. Resume a regular yoga practice
5. Finish book project
6. Drive up the West Coast

Make your own guesses about which ones have been long-standing. (Here's a hint, amigos: no sabe espanol.)