Lost Vegas

You: Where the hell have you been?

Me: See above.

That's Josh from Queens of the Stone Age and Cee-Lo playing with the Foo Fighters in a hotel room on top of the Palms. I was in Vegas working the Video Music Awards (no, I had nothing to do with the Britney thing) for a couple weeks there... a span that included the opening weekend of the NFL season, which raised a bit of a dilemma: do you bet the Steelers?

My daily work wanderings took me past the Palms sportsbook roughly 10 times a day. I'd stand there, glassy-eyed, like Chubsy Ubsy licking a bakery window in a Little Rascals movie. The line was too good to be true -- the Steelers were a 4-point favorite over the Browns... a measly 4 points... and the Browns were starting Charlie Frye. It was like the Palms got tired of holding all that cash, and decided to give it away. I spent all week telling anyone who had ever heard of the NFL that it was the lock of the week, and that they should drop as much cash as they could scrape together on the game. But could I take my own advice?

Now, I have no problem loading up on Steelers in my fantasy football leagues (frankly, it's just not fantasy football unless I've got the Steelers D). But so far, I've been far too superstitious to plunk down money on the outcome of a Steelers game... It just feels like the ultimate jinx. But by the time Sunday rolled around, the promise of such a sure thing (combined with a week's worth of whiskey and a pep talk from my boss) had eroded away my superstitions. I had decided to bet it, and bet it big... Like, Artie Lange big. Like, "I'm going to get my kneecaps smashed and lose the house if it doesn't pan" out big. Sunday morning rolled around, and we all moved into position for rehearsals. Just had to get through the morning rehearsal, then get over to the sportsbook to bet the black and gold. Of course, I hadn't really taken into account that the morning in Vegas is kickoff back east, so by the time rehearsal wrapped, the Steelers had already opened their can off whoop-ass, and Charlie Frye was already on his way out of Cleveland. There would be no monstrous bet, no huge Vegas payday, and no chance to "make it rain" at the Spearmint Rhino (unless I was going to do that with nickels, which the ladies usually frown on). And because I'm a tool, I'm taking the whole thing as confirmation of my superstitions... It was not my own stupidity that kept me from placing that bet, it was the football gods. Well, the football gods, and the good folks at the Jack Daniels distillery, working in conjunction to cloud my mind.