Memo to Las Vegas for New Year’s Eve: Just Put the Mimosas in a Self-Serve Fountain

eggs

I ate a hen house of Eggs Benedict. Give or take. Not my photo, but you get it.

I went to Las Vegas for the first time two Februarys ago, and it was cold out there. Cold, like 50s and windy, which was the same weather as the place I left. it’s not that bad for February, but it’s very bad when you’re expecting desert heat.

Who knew the desert gets cold in February? Yeah, everyone who’s ever been to the desert in February.

I’m looking forward to the bright lights. People running around in the streets with their open containers of alcohol. The Floyd Mayweather sightings.

And people my age who go to Vegas to dress up and spend the weekend living nowhere like the way they live at home for the other 362 days.

This time, though, I hope the mimosa service is more generous than last time.

Before I went to Vegas for the first time, the Las Vegas veterans I know said “Oh, Matthew! You must have bottomless mimosas, out there.” Drunk brunch and whatnot.

“Don’t feel bad if you’re buzzed by 10am,” they said, “it’s still orange juice. It counts.”

The morning after a good night out, I woke up earlier than I would on a not-going-to-work day, because I’m willing to do that for anything called a “breakfast buffet.”

The restaurant looked just like the big food courts at airports built in the last 10 years, or like the main dining hall of a major university.

The details are fuzzy this long after, but I think I had one of every food I’ve ever had for any breakfast, ever.

But man, the mimosa service was slow. I won’t expose the hotel where this happened, but there’s a giant pirate ship nearby.

When they say “bottomless,” they mean “3, because you’ll give up and leave after the second time you lose your buzz between drinks.” After too long, I had to make my intentions clear: “Look, I don’t think you understand. I’m not down here this early for the vitamin C.”

Even so, I’m excited. Vegas for New Year’s Eve in Las Vegas means Michael Jackson slot machines. It means spending more time in the hotels where I’m not staying. It means fake grass on the Strip. Fake like on a mini-golf course,

And, as much as casinos spend to look posh and gaudy, that amuses me.

 

 

When I’m the Victim of Mistaken Identity. The Struggle is Real.

not Matthew Smith

I guarantee someone will see me somewhere, and swear that I’m this guy.

I was minding my own business in a Barnes & Noble cafe, reading one of those over-sized lifestyle magazines with cover models you think you’ve seen somewhere, but you haven’t, because they’re just cover models for lifestyle magazines. Continue reading

If Mom Knew Any More About Social Media, I’d Have to Take Her Seriously

Mom likes to pretend that this her idea of a "mobile device."

Mom’s idea of a “mobile device.”

Mom claims she doesn’t understand Twitter. She uses “Twitter” as the generic descriptor for all of “social media.” Like calling all tissues Kleenex or all lip balms Chapstick.

To her, social media means talking to strangers all over the world about personal things that strangers don’t care about or need to know. “Don’t tell your Facebook friends that you’re on vacation,” she’ll say, “or else you’ll be that guy on the news who gets robbed and can’t figure out how it happened.” Continue reading