Jailer
Jun 24, 04, 8:06 am
Pseudo-business took me thru sin city for one last gorge from the Hilton trough to suckle HHonors mother’s milk…..crap, that’s a mixed metaphor.
Thus began a trip to a gathering of the (Bureau of Prisons’) clan in Tucson, where the Bureau had negotiated a $59 rate at the El Conquistador, to which I quipped to the big boss, “Thank God Hell wasn’t $35 per night, or we’d be there.” Indeed, the budget was so tight this year that the conference was going to be cancelled until it was realized that the guarantees would cost more than proceeding, so you taxpayers should feel protected. But, I digress.
The Flamingo check in line portended a future without status; harkened back to a no-name past. In other words, two seemingly desultory clerks were processing no less than 30 guests….it was about 9 p.m. So, walking to the end of the counter I flagged down a non-processing counter critter and asked if this was the VIP line and handing her my diamond card with Andy Jackson peeking out from behind. And, so it was the VIP line. Indeed, she palmed the twenty so deftly and prettily, I was temped to throw another $20 and ask if she wanted to come upstairs and unmake the bed. But then my two beaming children pulled on my shorts asking about the upgrade, so I was quickly transported from my happy place.
The clerk explained that the association with Hilton ended June 1, but if I would blink and look again perhaps it would change because this was the third perturbation within the last couple of years. Maybe it was the $20, maybe not, but the suite was as good as I’ve had at the Flamingo with a nice view of the Strip. No joy on getting the Paris lounge however.
I know that the Hilton snobs amongst ye tend to look down at the Flamingo. But, while “Vegas Baby” means many things to different people, to a three year old and a thirteen year old it means the Flamingo pool, which can’t be beat kid-wise. Since I last stayed, security at the pool had increased, perhaps in response to the $20,000 in bogus room charges that was made the month before. The pool is so nice for the kids that despite the fact that, as I have explained to my older daughter, most of my net-worth is in Hilton points (at least since the Beanie Baby bubble burst) and therefore her inheritance depends on continued stays, I believe that even as a Stateless person, I will be forced to stay at the old, yet enticingly cheap, Flamingo. Nonetheless, I did wander over to the retread Weston after midnight and chatted with the clerk, learning that an average of 50 Plats per night compete for 10 suites, so no joy there. The fact that the Westin’s casino was sad didn’t stop me from hitting ‘em. Indeed, later realizing that I made over $350 an hour gambling this trip, it made me wish that I devoted more than 10 minutes to that second oldest occupation.
The RX-8 beckoned, so closing this chapter on the Flamingo I shoehorned the wife, two kids and luggage and headed to Tucson via the Grand Canyon, Painted Desert and Sedona for another seven nights on this early summer Southwestern Hilton tour.
Thus began a trip to a gathering of the (Bureau of Prisons’) clan in Tucson, where the Bureau had negotiated a $59 rate at the El Conquistador, to which I quipped to the big boss, “Thank God Hell wasn’t $35 per night, or we’d be there.” Indeed, the budget was so tight this year that the conference was going to be cancelled until it was realized that the guarantees would cost more than proceeding, so you taxpayers should feel protected. But, I digress.
The Flamingo check in line portended a future without status; harkened back to a no-name past. In other words, two seemingly desultory clerks were processing no less than 30 guests….it was about 9 p.m. So, walking to the end of the counter I flagged down a non-processing counter critter and asked if this was the VIP line and handing her my diamond card with Andy Jackson peeking out from behind. And, so it was the VIP line. Indeed, she palmed the twenty so deftly and prettily, I was temped to throw another $20 and ask if she wanted to come upstairs and unmake the bed. But then my two beaming children pulled on my shorts asking about the upgrade, so I was quickly transported from my happy place.
The clerk explained that the association with Hilton ended June 1, but if I would blink and look again perhaps it would change because this was the third perturbation within the last couple of years. Maybe it was the $20, maybe not, but the suite was as good as I’ve had at the Flamingo with a nice view of the Strip. No joy on getting the Paris lounge however.
I know that the Hilton snobs amongst ye tend to look down at the Flamingo. But, while “Vegas Baby” means many things to different people, to a three year old and a thirteen year old it means the Flamingo pool, which can’t be beat kid-wise. Since I last stayed, security at the pool had increased, perhaps in response to the $20,000 in bogus room charges that was made the month before. The pool is so nice for the kids that despite the fact that, as I have explained to my older daughter, most of my net-worth is in Hilton points (at least since the Beanie Baby bubble burst) and therefore her inheritance depends on continued stays, I believe that even as a Stateless person, I will be forced to stay at the old, yet enticingly cheap, Flamingo. Nonetheless, I did wander over to the retread Weston after midnight and chatted with the clerk, learning that an average of 50 Plats per night compete for 10 suites, so no joy there. The fact that the Westin’s casino was sad didn’t stop me from hitting ‘em. Indeed, later realizing that I made over $350 an hour gambling this trip, it made me wish that I devoted more than 10 minutes to that second oldest occupation.
The RX-8 beckoned, so closing this chapter on the Flamingo I shoehorned the wife, two kids and luggage and headed to Tucson via the Grand Canyon, Painted Desert and Sedona for another seven nights on this early summer Southwestern Hilton tour.