Las Vegas, NV—Just a few short weeks ago, the Cosmopolitan opened on the Las Vegas Strip, and, of course, the Discord was there to cover it. Of all the neat and wonderful things to discover and enjoy in this newest Strip casino, the biggest surprise turned out to be the pizza place. I have been sworn not to tell anyone where it is. It has no name. Seriously…think of it as the world’s first speakcheesy. No, they’re not allowed to use that line.

It’s not listed on any of the hotel directory maps nor is it mentioned anywhere on the website, and the powers that be are very serious about not telling anyone where in the Cosmopolitan this little slice of New York resides. It’s already hailed as one of Vegas’ finest slices. All I can tell you is it’s located somewhere between the first floor casino and the rooftop pool. And it’s not just any pizza joint; it’s perhaps the best pizza this side of the Bellagio (an impressive several hundred yards away).

Mick Zano and I started the pizza hunt on the first floor, going from place to place, moving only by sense of smell. We did find it, eventually, on an undisclosed floor in said hotel casino. On the way inside, I made the mistake of telling Zano about how no one is allowed to tell anyone where this place is. Never do this.

A security guard came right over and said, very seriously, “Sir, we have a security breach and I’m going to need to ask you a few questions: why are you telling this man how to find this place and How are we going to keep this a secret if you tell people about it right in front of the place?”

The hotel guard was originally a New Yorker himself. He doesn’t work at the pizza place, but he already loves it. He then made Zano swear not to say anything to anyone about this establishment’s whereabouts. Zano, who can lie through his teeth with the best of them, said “sure.”

You may be wondering why Zano is already back in Vegas. You see, he decided to take this 28 day meditation/detox challenge thing, and where else would one want to kick off a quest toward spiritual harmony and cleansing than Las Vegas? I think Las Vegas is Spanish for The Enlightened Gambler. Did I mention Zano’s an idiot? I think, in retrospect, he’s going to need to detox from his first detox weekend.

After the guard walked away, Zano snapped this shot of the entrance. If you notice there is no name and no sign. The squares you see lining the entranceway are a variety of album covers. I can now honestly say I’ve been to a pizzeria in the desert with no name.

The pizza gets solid marks, the dough definitely wins as New York style. Zano, another once and future New Yorker, agreed. He had a little problem with cheese to sauce ratio, but otherwise gave it a thumbs up as well.

Through hard hitting investigative journalism, I uncovered a secret of the secret pizza shop. They mix sourdough from San Francisco—which, yes, costs a lot of dough—with their own east coast dough. Of course, the exact ratio is on par with the Colonel’s secret recipe and then just rinse, lather, repeat and voila, New York style pizza in the Mojave desert.

Oh, and the pizza boxes are like the Beatle’s White Album, no hints there. I will consider letting people in on the secret location, for a price…

As for the rest of the resort, it was more Mick Zano’s type of place, especially the roof top pool area which has pool tables, ping pong, and plenty places to lounge—not every space devoted to separating you from your money. You could order a drink, plug in a laptop, and chill by the pool. It didn’t hurt having bikini clad babes frolicking in January. The place is unlike any other resort in Vegas because activities other than gambling are encouraged…even (gasp) outdoor areas! This place is making a statement: we fucking do things differently here at the Cosmopolitan. Coincidentally, this is how all the help greets you as you enter.

Collapsing Shack, AZ—Over the past decade the use of ATVs has become more popular than ever, surpassing even the killing of harmless animals, the shooting of illegal immigrants, or other culturally important redneck pastimes (CIRP).   The following observation on those who choose to drive an ATV is sadly accurate.  The names have been changed to protect…I really didn’t get their names.  Too much gurgling from all the blood in their throats. 

Now people don’t even need four wheel drive vehicles to get deep into the wilderness. Many families can just drive their RV to the edge of the woods, set up camp, and—as soon as they finish the last video from the Jeff Foxworthy mythos—head as far as the dirt roads will allow. I decided for this post to set out to discover the ins-and-outs of forest etiquette, particularly in regards to the owners of these fearsome machines known as ATVs.  ATV owners are the BMW drivers of the badlands. Speaking of which, if they ever do make a BMW-ATV, wow….

Now I know why I am one of Northern Arizona’s premiere horror writers.  I just scared the shit out of myself.

I have studied the ATVsters behaviors and their ethics for some time—from a distance, of course, as not to contaminate the study.   So the following is just a short list of things that occurred while dealing with these jack wads. I’ve had the owners of ATVs:

1. Drive over my possessions as they race
   through my campsite (I will miss you Sony Walkman).
2. Park behind my artist wife in the middle of
   composing a painting (wow, that’s a beautiful use of water color, honey, but…uh,
   is that the back end of a Yamaha Raptor?)
3. Try to move our camp tables in order to drive
   a few more feet past our canvas paradise.
4. Lash small children to their front bumpers
   and drive through patches of jumping cholla (I’m actually OK with this
   one, but, wouldn’t you know it, that’s the only one that isn’t true!)

Some ATV owners have even tried to get me to buy George W’s new book. I hope I dug those graves deep enough. Since ATVs are from Hell, my new goal is to ensure that every time I’m around one they already feel like they are there. I don’t want them to die and have the whole eternal-damnation thing be a shock to their system.  So now, each time one shows up anywhere near me, I rush forward to them, get into their face, and yell RAAAH, RAAAH, RAHHH at an ear-tearing volume.

Do they think I’m crazy? If they can hear me over the roar of their engines… my guess would be, yes. Still, my goal is a noble one, to try to annoy them at least a fraction of how much they have annoyed me over the years. Is this good journalism? Is this sane? Well, of course not, but keep in mind, this is The Daily Discord.

The important thing is they begin to think twice…oh wait, that might be too hard for ATV owners. How about think…at all, before they rush into some stranger’s camp. So ATVers beware, there are worse things in the back woods than broken RV heaters, burnt microwave dinners, and skipping DVDs. Sometimes your little roar buckets might not be enough to get you back to your mobile homes, because barb wire has a whole lot of uses, heh, heh, heh—especially when it’s placed between trees about neck high. Did I just say that aloud?  Mr. Winslow is saying, no, I typed it out loud.  Oh, aren’t we supposed to tone down the rhetoric?  Well, next time, for now I have some traps to set for some boobs.  The last bastards we took out only had some Miller Lite and some Jeff Foxworthy tapes.

Zano begged me to give him another chance, so, being the kind-hearted soul I am, I decided to dispatch him over to Vegas.  We arranged to have him upload some live feeds to me from the Riviera during the New Year’s Eve festivities.  We were going to incorporate Twitter, it was going to be great—and what did I get for my trouble?  Bupkis.  I got less than bupkis, I got bupk.

First off, Zano sends me this “picture” and I use the term loosely. This photographic gem is of Bald Tony with what looks to be lit reindeer antlers sprouting out of his head.  Here’s the accompanying Crackberry text from Zano:

7:15PM: We are at the Wynn and the Encore (as locals call it WynnCore).  There is an awesome hourly show out back, very freaky.  I hug Tony out of fear (OK, I added that last part, but it’s probably true).  Cocktail waitresses in Vegas typically range anywhere from the Jessica Alba variety to the Phyllis Diller variety, but at the WynnCore, it seems we are blissfully Dillerless.  All of them rate very high on the shwing scale.  The place is so high scale you can even eat out of the urinals, but those blue-comb, men’s room attendant goons frown upon this. 

7:47PM: We checked out the menu at the SW Steakhouse.  “These prices aren’t too bad,” I said, but then Tony pointed out those were the appetizers.  I hug Tony out of fear (OK, I added that last part, but it’s probably true).

Then, at 9:35PM Nevada time, I get this picture of what looks to be the Riviera and the Stratosphere in the distance.  Bald Tony set Zano up at the Riviera, so at least there’s proof he made it outside his hotel room.  Here’s the accompanying text for this one:

9:27PM: There’s an English style pub, The Queen Victoria, on the ground floor.  Here’s the equation: the room is under Tony’s name + I billed the room for my tab = I may never leave.

I don’t know why I pay these idiots.  Oh, that’s right, I don’t. Regardless, I’m still getting the short end of this schtick.  Not one picture of the fireworks! Not one picture of the crowd!  Here’s the last transmission from Zano:

11:02PM: Separated from Bald Tony.  Throngs of what can loosely be described as people, some dressed garishly.  Not sure what garishly means.  Will Google later.  I have been in Times Square on New Years but nothing comp…”

That’s all I got.  Oh, the humanity.  At left is the last picture he sent me.  It looks like it might be a line of motorcycle cops, but it’s kind of blurry.  I aint bailing those fuckers out…again!  No one has heard from either of them at this point.  Perhaps they are lost to us…I should be so lucky.

OK, Zano, if you’re still in Vegas and free to move about unfettered, you should be able to see Trump Tower from the Riviera.  OK, now walk over there before reading any further.  I’ll know if you don’t, so proceed there NOW!

Are you there?  Good, because I am preparing my own fireworks display of sorts.  Are you in the lobby?  OK, now find a picture of Donald Trump—a gold statue in his likeness will suffice.  OK, kneel down at its feet.  Excellent.  OK, you may continue…

You’re Fired!

Yours truly and Vegas’ great, Bald Tony, headed out for some ghost hunting adventures last weekend. The town of Jerome, AZ, has survived mine explosions, three major fires, and the reign of Governor Janet Brewer.  This town and my old college party house have a lot in common.  Incidentally, Janet was barred from The Havoc House my sophomore year.  I remember it pained me at the time…having to throw out someone named Brewer.

We wanted to check out The Connor Hotel and a small cemetery outside of town (two known ghoulish hot spots), but the hotel had no lobby at all!  MwwaHaHaHa!  Now that’s scary.  There’s no way upstairs, unless you’re a guest or a ghost.  In fact, the only way upstairs was through a door on the street (locked) through an adjacent shop (also locked), and through a back door in the Spirit Room (very locked).  The Connor Hotel is said to be home to some nasty spooks, but all the spirits we saw were in The Spirit Room, a ground floor biker bar with nothing remotely palatable on tap.  So we asked someone in the shop about the haunted cemetery.  Turns out, it’s on private land (aka No Trespassing).  But that didn’t stop us—no one would tell us where the damn thing was!  This town was starting to piss me off.   So we decided to climb up to Jerome’s Grand Hotel, where we found a wonderful restaurant & bar, The Asylum.  

The pic is of Bald Tony reading at the bar and, yes, the headline says Jerome Terrorized by Goats!  OK, I forgive this town.  It’s got spunk…and it’s got rogue goat gangs.

We interviewed the barkeep, Joe C., who claimed the restaurant used to have those little wooden IQ peg games on all the tables.  Over the years the games gradually dwindled away, as customers walked off with them, so one night Joe decided to stash the last game up on a shelf.  One of the pegs promptly rolled and fell off the shelf.  He picked it up and put it back up with the game.  The peg then shot straight up, bounced off the ceiling, and landed at his feet (in front of him!).  He was nice enough to take a pic of the shelf in question (below).  If you look very closely at the image, the trained eye can detect my batteries were about to die.  MwahaHaHaHa!  Joe also reports catching a shadow walking past room 12, a room believed to be haunted, but he didn’t report much action lately (his anti-psychotic medications are kicking now).  He also had a very disturbing tale regarding lousy tippers, who ask a lot of foolish questions about ghosts.  Speaking of which, he really earned his dollar that day.  Be nice to Joe if you see him; he puts up with a lot for a buck. 

About an hour later, we found a young lady, Jamie G., working at The New State Shops and Museum.  We asked her if she had ever encountered any strange things in Jerome, besides us.

She said, “I was employed at The Mile High Inn about 4 years ago and one night, while working behind the bar, something weird happened.  A wine glass in one of those upside down hanging racks hurled vertically 6-7 feet across the room and broke at my feet!”

I added the exclamation point for dramatic effect.  Really, I had to; she seemed pretty ambivalent about the whole thing.

If a wild goat infestation problem wasn’t enough, the streets of Jerome are also said to be haunted by ghostly hookers. One was apparently murdered near The Connor Hotel.  She probably couldn’t find a way up to her room.  So, always donning my thinking cap, I suggested Tony dress like a 19^th century pimp in an effort to lure out the dead Lady’s of the Evening out of hiding.  But, as easy going and accommodating as Tony usually is, apparently we reached his red bald-headed limits that day.  Next time wear a hat, sport.

Our last stop, The Haunted Hamburger (a real place), didn’t seem to have any stories whatsoever.  The staff did the courteous, “Oh, yeah, yeah, old town, old town, lots of spooks, lots of spooks” number.

“But what about stories from this place?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, haunted, haunted, haunted.”

“What have you seen here yourself?”

“Do you wanna burger, pal, or what?”

They had nothing, nothing.  No Coke-eh Pepsi.  The one place we entered with a ghostly theme was the only true dud.  The only thing scary about The Haunted Hamburger was the aftermath of eating there.  Tony farted upon leaving and look what happened to this building!

I’m kidding, of course, this was the aftermath of the Nazi’s firebombing of Jerome, circa WWI.  You think Arizona was always a desert?

We only talked to three people about ghosts that day, because our main mission was beer, and two of them had great tales to tell.  In our opinion, Joe and Jamie both seemed like very credible witnesses.  It’s a shame their stories are being told by two Para Abnormal “journalists,” who aren’t.    

After studying Jerome, its history, and its people, the Discord Paranormal research team has come to a disturbing conclusion: the ghosts of Jerome are very angry with the beer selection.  Think about it…a wine glass broke, not a beer glass, at The Mile High Inn.  No good beer on tap there.  The Connor Hotel is very haunted and there’s no good beer there.  And even Jerome’s Grand Hotel is quieting down since they finally put Arrogant Bastard on tap.  Not convinced?  We were there the day an event called Blood into Wine was going on.  Whatever happened to Beer into Piss?  Now that’s an event worth celebrating.  The current residents of Jerome cater to wine drinkers, not beer drinkers.  Wine is everywhere, but it was nearly impossible to get a good ale anywhere in that one goat town. This was an old mining town, for Pete’s sake.  Beer me!  Dead people aren’t going to stand for this shit.  I just got to Jerome and even I want to haunt the damn place already! I almost died of thirst.  You people are even pissing off the goats, let along the ghosts.  Build a microbrewery!  Build it and they will go.  Build it, so Bald Tony and I can come back one day and declare, “This town is clean…and sudsy.”

Collapsing Shack, AZ—Family fun, isn’t that supposed to be American?  Nah. Helping the environment, what are you a pinko hippy type? As I attested in an earlier Discord article, the crayfish menace has reached apocalyptic proportions in Arizona. These evil, yet delicious, beasts are an invasive species bent on destroying all native aquatic life, including, yes…people!  OK, not people, but frogs!

So naturally, being the devoted man of Yig I am, I began to organize our yearly Crawdad Slaughter fest/Campout. I invite a few hundred people, but only a couple old friends and somehow Zano showed up. I knew that since the only food I have brought was for Crawfish bait, I needed to get busy, or starve. We had one trap, a couple of nets, and my favorite, meat on a stick. Zano’s little family was down at the middle pond with me.  Yeah the guy has a family, or at least pays these people to say they’re with him, so he’ll seem ‘normal.’ It really doesn’t work.

So things were going reasonably well. The bucket had a few choice satanic crustaceans in it and it is looking like I might not go hungry that night after all. Then I see him, the Forest Service Nazi, complete with flack jacket. Yep, that is important; those crawfish could go wild with them claws o’ theirs.

So this guys walks down to the pond like he owns the forest and starts by addressing Zano. Being from back east Zano had instantly slipped into “no matter what he is asked, he is going to lie on principle,’ or N.M.W.H.I.A.H. I.G.T.L.O.P.

F.S.N.: “Are you fishing or just showing your daughter how to cast?”

Zano: “I never touched it. She is fishing.  The legally allowed to fish, child.  There…with the pole in hand.”

F.S.N.: “YOU’RE A LAIR! I saw you hand it to her. And you, big guy, you have a license to catch those crawdads?”

Boneman: “Well, no… But I am here to protect the forest. As you must know, Crawdads are an invasive species. They are killing our native wildlife, especially frogs. I know I don’t have a license, but I am here for a greater cause.”

He just stared.

Boneman: “I’m here to protect the Lilly Ponds and try to put things right. Someone has to stand up for the frogs and that will be me. You see, I’m a warrior for the forest, a protector of frogs, Yig blesses us and all we do. I’m doing what the frogs what they can’t do for themselves and—”

F.S.N.: “Okay, you can stop.”

Boneman: “Why?”

F.S.N.: “I won’t give you a ticket, just so I don’t have to hear you rant anymore, but what is a Yig?”

Twenty minutes later I’m sure he wished he hadn’t asked that question.  And thirty minutes after that he wrote me a ticket (kidding!).

F.S.N.: “Besides, you’ve only got a couple of crawdads in that bucket.  What you really need is to get some traps.”

Little Zano:  (As if on cue) “Should I check the traps, dad?”

She really asked that, just then… when things were going sooo well.  We talked our way out of that part too.  Ironically, I wrote an article for Flagstaff’s The Noise, wherein I point out quite clearly that you need a license to craw.  I even told the ranger about the article in which I, ironically mention that particular piece of irony, heh, heh.   But I didn’t get a fine that day, which is fine by me, Groan, sputter (I thought that joke was going to be edited out).  The ranger did make me kill all the crawdads though. So I can save the frogs, but I just can’t nourish myself while doing so…ah sure, um, that makes sense.

Many years ago, when I saw the cast of Friends hanging out all night in some coffee shop, I thought, wow, here’s a fad that won’t last. I meant to say: Friends—an awful show—I knew coffee shops had a place in my future, in the same way that Jennifer Aniston and Courtney Cox probably did not.  I only came to appreciate coffee, and those gathering niches that serve it, after I actually owned the laptop myself.  Besides, what did we do in coffee shops before laptops?  Knit?

Back in the day, the only time I entered a coffee shop was nursing a hangover.  So, of course, my younger days of the barista were rather skewed, as I was typically nauseas, delirious, and often asked to leave.  Not too dissimilarly to the experience when frequenting bars the night before.  Heck, back then that was the usual routine to the Discord gang, when saddling up to any given establishment.  I only started getting into coffee and java joints later in life.  This transformation happened when my doctor said my liver was larger than some Greek Islands and that I might want to consider my own zip code for it.

On a business trip the other day, I drove about as far south as one can drive and still be in the U.S. and I ended up in a town called Bisbee—a little burg where Groom Lake (William Shatner, 2000) was filmed and the miserable flick was thankfully buried in a nearby mine shaft.  There are seven bars worth entering in Bisbee.  I know, because I went into all of em’. But they were mostly empty, aside from one where William Shatner was bullying tourists into booking with Price Line.  I even sent Winslow an email from the Copper Queen Hotel, where I sat outside sipping a 90 Shilling IPA.  I was writing that really awful faux article about the Polish plane crash. If Dante’s version of the afterlife is correct, then that politically incorrect yuck-yuck should drop me down a level or two.

My first thought upon rolling into town was, “Who the hell put Jerome, Arizona here?”

So, after my solo bar tour, I decided on a coffee crawl.  You see, as you get older, the headaches and hangovers don’t wait until the next morning.

The Bisbee Coffee Company did not disappoint.  A great Americano!  I don’t know if it’s Seattle’s influence or what, but the coffee out west beats the shit out of the east coast equivalent.  It’s strange, because in my NY family someone went to get the best bread, some else was sent to the best butcher, and someone else was sent to the best bakery…but then we drank watered down Maxwell House.  Why is good coffee so hard to come by in the, otherwise, land of plenty?  En route to the Bisbee Coffee Co., I was nearly run over by a biker gang.  While I hit the can, the bikers beat me to the counter, where I had to watch these leathery clad gents order a round of mocha latte crappachinos.  Real men drink espresso.

The barista asked, “leave room for cream?” and I immediately countered with “Whip cream is for burly biker types”

I got a rare laugh while I snuck a peak over my shoulder to make sure the bikers didn’t hear me.  After all, I will die for a good joke. I think there are few things people who know me would agree upon, that’s probably one of them.  Today, most people don’t get my humor.  OK, never mind, it’s always been like that.

Speaking of which, I bought a nice cigar in Prescott last week.  I always say last week.  It was probably in the seventies.  I watched the young lady behind the humidor masterfully clip off the end of my Ashton Churchill and then somehow slid that bitch right back into the thin plastic sleeve that it came in.

I said “Damn, I’ve never been able to master that maneuver.” 

She called security.

Now back in the day, Drew Carey had a show…forget the name of it.  Anyway, his beverage of choice was always some beer and java combo.  His motto was why not mix your favorite two things, or some such.  I tried that once—cost me two relationships.   The mixture of coffee and stout beer is actually growing in popularity and, at the time, I thought Drew Carey was mad.  Whatever happened to that guy anyway?  Wasn’t he kicked off a Southwest flight recently?  Anyway, about four years ago, (AKA the seventies) Otto’s Brewery in State College, PA started brewing a Sumatra stout.  Certain batches were amazing—one of the best beers I’ve ever had! My wife is not much of a beer drinker.  She prefers to hang out with whip cream toting Harley types.  But, boy, she could suck down those coffee stouts.  She could pound those puppies like Dick Cheney.  Dick doesn’t like beer much either, but he loves to pound puppies. 

As I sat in that Bisbee coffee shop, I wondered what would happen if you just mixed a stout with a coffee?  I really do think this way.  My neurologist says it’s due to head trauma and pot use, but that’s another story—a tale that ended with some chick breaking a skull bong over my head (which might explain a couple of things). I figured the best place to put this deductive gem into effect was in Prescott, as Flagstaff has a great coffee shop and a great brewery right across the street from each other.  But my experiment wouldn’t work there unless I wanted to practice my alchemy while avoiding oncoming traffic.  In Prescott there’s The Raven, which always has wonderful beer on tap and a great Sumatra coffee brewing (free refills).  So, in that same establishment, I would discover the true art of mixing a great stout with a superb cup of joe.  Fuck the brewing process.  It’s overrated anyway.  So, I will return to this article this Saturday at The Raven with a brew and a bold steamy cup in front of me.  See you at The Raven.  Never more… 

Well, here I am atop one of the greatest drinking establishments this side of the Rio Grande.  They recently opened up a roof top bar. Arggg! They don’t have any stouts on nitrous. Last time I was here, Max had more stouts on tap.  Stupid spring.  So I tried it with an imperial stout from Sierra Nevada and the Raven’s espresso.  I mixed a small sample of the concoction as not to wreck the whole drink and….here we go.

Er, I think I will try this again someday when they get the Left Hand Milk Stout back—an imperial stout just won’t cut it.  I need nitrous (who doesn’t, right?).  All right, that was not horribly inspiring…like most of my work.  Now what should I do?  I think I will mix flirting with alcohol.  Yeah, that’s the ticket.  Probably a better mix anyhow…  

With the spring breakers getting on my nerves, and the International Meeting of Procrastinators (IMP) postponed yet again, late March seemed as good a time as any to take a break from transporting strangers around in a Las Vegas taxi. So, I drove two of my friends to Phoenix for WrestleMania 26, or WrestleMania XXVI as it was known in Roman times. Even though I’m a much bigger fan of old school pro-wrestling than today’s version, WM is still a damn fun event.  Besides, I’ve lived in Las Vegas almost 14 years and had yet to make it to Phoenix. It only seems fair I should spend some money there, since so many Phoenicians tip me on a daily basis.

I also thought it would be kind of fun seeing one of my favorite lady wrestlers, Beth Phoenix, actually wrestle in Phoenix. Technically WM was in Glendale, AZ, and I have a strong suspicion Phoenix is not Beth’s real last name. She’s actually a Buffalo native with the last name Schmurgeldorfer or some such.

As an added bonus, Phoenix is just a couple hours away from Zano’s place, and he has family in Phoenix, so I can see him without actually having him stay with me (always a plus). I still have some fear when Zano visits that he won’t ever leave.  His “Couch Trip” in the mid-nineties still gives me and several other Discordians considerable angst.  WM is a huge event and is planned well in advance. I am talking about booking the venue…did you think I meant something else? Know this…life is an illusion, but professional wrestling is real. 

I gave Zano 13 months notice, yet he still never made it. I would like to point out I met fans from Australia, Egypt, and Japan over WM weekend, and Zano couldn’t make the 90 mile journey. I turn 50 in November 2016. I think if I tell Zano now, send monthly reminders for the next six and a half years and have the party at his place, there’s a better than 50% chance he will make it.

I have watched pro-wrestling for nearly 30 years now, and have heard tons of wrestlers announced as “hailing from parts unknown.” I never really gave it much thought, but now I believe ‘parts unknown’ pertains to somewhere south of the Hoover Dam and west of the Phoenix suburbs.

One of the joys of road trips is eating at new and unusual places.  On the menu tonight was The Heart Attack Grill in Chandler, AZ. Written in big red letters on the front door are the words: THIS PLACE IS BAD FOR YOUR HEALTH. On the sneeze guard above the bottomless Flatliner Fries is written: DEEP FRIED IN PURE LARD.  No doubt, for your arterial-clogging enjoyment. One of the first things you will see when you pull into the parking lot is an ambulance parked near the front door. Upon arrival, you are pleasantly greeted by hot female waitresses wearing short tight nurses’ outfits. A hospital-like wristband that reads “I had a bypass at the Heart Attack Grill” is strapped to your wrist, and a hospital gown is lovingly tied on by your nurse/server. Refusal to participate will result in no service. Maybe this is part of their disclaimer? My friends and I sat at a table, which later proved a mistake. Famous paintings adorn the walls such as American Gothic, The Creation of Adam, etc, with cheeseburgers and fries strategically injected into the pieces.

The menu is pretty basic: burgers and fries, cooked in a decidedly unhealthy manner. The cooks do wear surgical garb though, which made me feel somewhat better. The only semi-healthy thing I saw there was when one of the line cooks messed up.  As punishment, she was sent around to the dining room to do ten pushups as a penalty (counted off aloud and bilingually by the patrons). There are four burger sizes: single, double, triple, and quadruple bypass. The quadruple is two pounds.  If you finish it, you are given a wheelchair ride to your car. They have a limited selection of drinks: bottled water (by law, not choice), Budweiser, Corona, margaritas, and 20 ounce bottled Coke. Ordering the water gets you dirty looks and is not advisable.  Why they do not sell milkshakes or deserts is beyond me. There is no light or diet anything, and no tea or juice. Even though you cannot smoke in AZ restaurants, they do sell unfiltered cigarettes to go, or to enjoy on their side patio.

My friends and I all got the double bypass cheeseburger (1 lb), fries, and Cokes. We were cared for by the lovely Nurse, Elysha, who took our order on a hospital chart and put it in a computer with a red cross as a screen saver. The burgers come greasy with just meat and cheese. There is a topping bar where you can have all the fixings and condiments you want. Do I really have to tell you the food is good? How could it not be? It makes Fuddruckers look like a vegan delight.

Oh, and if you’re over 350 lbs, you eat for free.  This offer is not just as a one-time gimmick, but all day every day. There is currently a lawsuit involving a rather large woman from Mesa who insists the The Heart Attack Grill is practicing some form of assisted suicide.  Not sure about this, though, as Dr. Kevorkian only eats in nearby Tempe.  Just know you will be weighed in front of the whole restaurant before you take your first bite. Visions of Homer Simpson’s attempt to become morbidly obese to work from home, danced through my head.  Being single and kitchen illiterate, I can eat a lot of restaurant food, but this endeavor proved a challenge. Much like spending time with the Ghetto Shaman sober. With about three bites of my double bypass sitting there for awhile, Nurse Elysha checked on me.

“You are slowing down handsome, are you going to be able to finish?”

I informed her she was not the first woman to utter those words. I did finish though (the burger you pervs) and when the bill came I paid my portion all in singles. Elysha looked at me kind of funny, and I told her I get tipped a lot of singles in my line of work. I left it at that.

The Heart Attack Grill sells souvenir shirts up to 5XL, and they’re opening a second location soon in Orlando. Good luck Sarah Angelfire. But wouldn’t Las Vegas be a better fit? The only negative about the place is the men’s room, which I found to be woefully inadequate –only a single stall and a single urinal with a mural of women pointing down and laughing above it.  It did little for my self esteem, much like hanging around the Ghetto Shaman sober.

On the way back from the men’s room I noticed mirrors behind the counter seats, strategically angled so you can admire the backside of other waitresses as you admire the front side of yours. The best time to dine is just before 3PM when there is a shift change, as you can see more nurses for the buck.

I am not a technologically friendly individual (TFI). I am one step away from Theodore Kaczynski, but that is an important step. I still tape my shows VHS style, listen to music on cassette (my 8 track finally gave out), and pay my bills through the mail.  In fact, I sent this article to the Discord after typing it, and I do mean typing, it. Winslow’s plan for carrier pigeons seems a little high-tech for my taste.  But I can tell you there’s more information on The Heart Attack Grill on the interweb, so check out Facespace and Mybook, and Videotube.

So let’s review what we have learned:

1. Do not invite Zano. This is actually blanket advice and should be applied to all situations.
2. Bring cash since debit and credit are not accepted (I forgot to mention that). There is a generic ATM next to the blood pressure machine.
3. Go during shift change and sit at counter for maximum viewing pleasure.
4. Bring plenty of film, or one of those fancy new magic cameras, since picture taking is encouraged.
5. While using the men’s room, repeat an affirmation such as “I am a well endowed male,” or some such as to avoid leaving the place with a complex.
6. Wear loose fitting clothing (for multiple reasons) and go hungry.

Hungry was the one thing we were not as we waddled our bloated bladders, clogged colons, and impacted intestines past the ambulance back to the car.  I cannot in good conscience recommend eating here on a regular basis. Fortunately I do not have a good conscience, so go often, load up, and chow down!

Having hardly adjusted to the premature dismantling of the roving stripper mobile, Las Vegas is dealt yet another serious blow.  I’m not talking about Obama’s gaffe: I, the Great Bald One, can no longer support the porn industry, or the people who attend these adult entertainment expos.  It all started when the Daily Discord’s CEO, Pierce Winslow, insisted I attend the annual AEE at The Sands Expo Center.  Normally you would never find me anywhere near such smut, unless I have a roll of singles.  Luckily, as a cabby…

Each year, early January in Vegas is a twisted variation of some Revenge of the Nerds movie played out citywide.  Every computer and electronics geek is in for the Consumer Electronic Show and every horny jock is in town for the porn expo.  The reason for this unusual open marriage is the porn industry always stays ‘on top of’ the latest technologies, from Betamax to Debbie Does HiDef.  And, yours truly, typically has to drive all the jocks and nerds to their respective destinations.  While I experience considerable angst handling the passenger’s gift bags from these events, I was always thankful not to be working in housekeeping that week.

It’s a well known Vegas fact amongst the service industry that porn workers and fans are very loose with their money, while the computer and technology geeks, um…not so much   Thus the old Las Vegas saying: the Consumer Electronic Show attendees come to town with a clean shirt and a twenty dollar bill, and they don’t change either.

Low and behold, I would have the day off from my transportation duties this year, because the Daily Discord is insisting I cover the porn expo.  Heartless bastards…   My mother would be so proud.   On the bright side, Winslow is taking care of my lodging and transportation—of which I need neither.  I sent him the receipt for the admission and he sent me back a generic Thank You card and a note…shit, he’s making me cover the damn Star Trek convention at the Hilton next month.  Bastard.

This picture, above, was taken directly after I had to watch porn star Madison Parker expertly devour a vanilla frozen yogurt.  (I’m not kidding).  I asked none of Winslow’s prearranged questions, but I am including them here so you understand why:

Have you ever considered giving up porn for the fake news industry?

When did you first here the calling to become an adult entertainer, and was it Divine intervention?

Was Divine a transvestite or transgendered and how did he/she die?

Sorry, Pierce.  I only asked her two questions: what flavor was that frozen yogurt and did you just suck on that thing in front of me to rub it in?  What I should have asked her was this: when did you decide to provide your services for free to bald Las Vegas cab drivers?

Here’s the best part:  after taking the picture, Winslow wanted me to write an article entitled: 

Revealing Bald Tony/Madison Parker/John Edwards Sex Tape Released!

What a lousy rag I work for.  Did you know most of the stories on the Daily Discord aren’t true?  And the pictures are Photoshopped!  Except the Blue Man Group one.  As a longtime Vegas resident, I think that really happened.

By the way, Zano comes out to review this article and immediately causes a scene in my favorite coffee shop.  This Marx Brothers comedy routine transpires as he tries to find an outlet by involving as many of the pretty baristas and patrons as possible.  They all end up climbing over and under furniture in his maniacal Ahab-like quest for electrons i.e. he isn’t much of a help, Winslow!

Ah, well, things should be picking up in Vegas, as the second ‘vertical pole challenge’ is on the horizon for the Palms Hotel and Casino in late February (Hairy Palms joke omitted by Winslow).  Well, I’d better beam over to the Hilton.

Bastards…

Live Long and Pornstar.