This was the view out of our hotel room window on the 27th floor. It was dawn on August 14, and I had finally escaped the masher in the casino.
"You ready to go up yet? My wife would kill me if she knew I was down here. You ready to go up yet? Wanna give me your phone number? I'll walk you to the elevator. You ready to go up yet?"

So, I finally escaped the masher, as you can tell. I go upstairs and throw all my junk into my bags, and get to sleep for about three hours. The phone rings my wake-up call, and I toss some clothes on and grab my things, running out the door so I can catch the shuttle before it leaves without me.

I left over five dollars in nickels on the table. Damn.

Why do I always overpack? It's not fun when I'm dragging the bags through the airports. Especially not one like the Las Vegas airport. No one told me it was the little brother of the Denver (yucch) airport. Navigational hell, especially when you're trying to catch a plane that you feel certain you're going to miss. (Yes, I'm a bit paranoid.)

Huffing and puffing, with shooting pains in my arms and back, I drag myself up to the ticket counter. They aren't even close to boarding yet. Okay, good. I can get some coffee. Right. I don't want to pay an exhorbitant amout for a tiny cup of java, so I think about heading back down the terminal and finding a Starbuck's or something.

I turn around, and literally run into Mike. Uhhh....okay. I'm going to get coffee.

Then some guy in tiny sunglasses and a sweatband/headband looking thing passes right in front of me. He seems to be of the same mind as I am, wondering if there is any decent coffee in this place. (Paraphrasing him.)

Yep, I had to go call Blakey, Debs, and Lilo back in Los Angeles and tell them: "Omigawd! John and the whole band are on the same flight as I am!"

And to think I used to daydream about things like this back in high school...

Yep, that's Gerry. And Hein. And John's head peeking over the top. (Keep your remarks to yourselves! :P) This is at LAX, not too long after we had gotten off the plane.
I almost didn't take this photo. But I got a wild hair up my butt and thought, what the hell. And I couldn't resist pointing at Gerry and laughing after I took it. heeheehee
Waiting for a cab. Fun, fun, fun.
I ppersonally had to wait for another shuttle bus to Parking Lot C, where I had stowed my infamous 1980s Time Machine (in the guise of a 1985 Plymouth Caravelle).
Gawd, was I glad to be home!
Home, Home on the Range...:
Prom Night 1998:

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