My Vegas Adventure....

My grandmother, bless her soul, wanted me to write down my recollection of our trip to Vegas for her 90th birthday party because, it seems, I am a professional writer.
Somehow, it turned out more like a sports article — a long one, at that — than an essay. But without further ado, here it is:

Grandma's Excellent Vegas Adventure

The dynamic duo
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

My grandma Molly and Uncle Connie chill in the back of the limo... it was my gram's first ride in a limousine â?? and she's 90...




By JJ Adams (aka Jacob Kleiman)

BAM!
I got an ace. Then, BAM! I got a king.
Then just like that, my luck changed. . . but was it luck, or a supremely aggravated blackjack dealer?
“You’re not from Nevada. C’mon Shelly, tell me the truth. You’re from Guam, right? GUUUAAAAAM. You can’t be from Nevada. And I don’t believe you’re from Laos. You must be from Guam. You look like you’re from GUUUUAAAAAAM. GU-GU-GU-GU-GUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!”
And then — BAM! A six. BAM! A seven. BAM! A king.
I was busted, and watched my $25 disappear into the coffers of the Sahara Casino and Hotel. Beside me, my aunt Devra continued her filibuster interrogation of Kelly, our Laotian blackjack dealer, who staunchly denied her Guamese heritage until her shift’s end. While I found my dear auntie’s antics incredibly amusing, our dear dealer Kelly — who, upon hindsight, did look slightly Guamese — was not amused.
While the weekend was a celebration of Molly’s 90th birthday, and Connie's 88th, we all left with the gift of family anecdotes to be shared for years to come.
Teaching my aunt the intricacies of blackjack is one story I’ll be telling until my 90th birthday, and I’m sure we all have our own from the weekend. So I guess we can say not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
Just my money.

The Arrival
Those of you who know my mother are aware of her legendary organizational skills. My entry into the hotel was no exception.
Since I had lived with my father since I was a peach-fuzzed, bare-balled pre-teen, all of my identification listed my surname as Adams. It precipitated a lengthy conversation with the front desk clerk upon my check-in (where my mom had arranged a room for myself and my sister), and went something like this:
Me: “There should be a reservation for me. The name is Jacob Adams.”
Clerk: “Nope, nothing under that.”
Me: “Umm, J.J. Adams?”
Clerk: “No, nothing there, either.”
Me (scratching head): “Ok, lessee here, uhhhh ... James Adams?”
Clerk (eyes narrowed in suspicion): “Are you really a guest here?”
Me: “Yes. I’m sure. My whole family should be here.”
Clerk (a large I-don’t-believe-a-word-you’re-saying smile on his insincere mug): “Are you sure you’re at the right casino?”
Me: “This is the Sahara, right? Listen, try under Jake Kleiman.”
Clerk (into phone): “Security to the front desk... we have a problem.”

OK, so that last part didn’t happen. It could have, though. If I could read minds, I’m sure that’s what he would have been thinking. But I digress. . .
So after dropping off my bag in my room, I wandered down to the casino to begin the search for the Kleiman clan.

WHAAAAAZZZZUUUUUPPPPP!
I don’t think it was by coincidence that I ran into the force of nature that is my sister first. A hurricane of hair extensions and barely-contained energy blew across the crowed casino floor, and we embraced in our usual touching, emotional, and loving manner.
“Whaaaaazzzzupppp,” I exclaimed, like a cat coughing up a furball. My sister replied in a likewise manner, and we cavorted, arm in arm, to the Pai Gow table, where I saw (GASP) my own mother playing — and betting money, no less — poker. It was as strange to me as seeing a middle-aged jewish lady try to rap with a sidewards-sitting baseball cap. But then again, my mother did that, too, so I shouldn’t have been surprised.
Michael Kleiman, much as I had done with my Aunt Devra, was explaining the fine points of the game to her. She must have been a quick learner - or smarter than me by staying away from the tables - because she finished the weekend up $5.
Me, on the other hand, well . . . et’s just say everyone is getting a Happy Meal from McDonald’s for Chanukah this year. It’s Kosher, right?
It wasn’t too long afterwards that I saw the woman of the weekend, grandma Molly, in company of Devra. Where else would she have been but the slot machines? It had been a long time - probably over seven years - since I had last seen my grandmother, so wrapped up in my own life I had been. She looked elegant, in a silk blouse and matching skirt, and rocked a lil “bling” with a tasteful gold chain.
I don’t know if it was the thrill of gambling, or just the megawatts of neon glowing everywhere, but grandma looked full of energy. Me, on the other hand, I was fading fast. It was going to be a looong weekend if I got out-paced by a 90-year-old. But that little fact too, would stay in Vegas.

The crew
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

Inside the dopest limo in Sin City... the Kleiman (and Phillips) crew cruises the strip ...



Blasts from the Past
Living where I do, far up in the frozen wastelands of the Great White North, it’s not often I get to see my relatives - especially those on the East coast. I don’t think I’d seen Michael Kleiman since grandpa Sid’s funeral when I was 13 - a span of 15 years. Uncle Connie and his trio of sons I’d seen more often, usually at passover over the years, but it had been a long time since I had seen them, as well.
I’d chanced to have breakfast with my uncle Chaz in San Francisco when moving my sister to L.A. three years ago, but that brief meal was about all the contact we had had for many years.
On my way down to one of my many trips to the casino floor, I caught the elevator, and found myself face-to-face with Michael and Charles. A brief nod to Michael, and I walked in and stood beside Charles, who had not recognized me. Being the practical joker I am, I stood close. Uncomfortable close. He gave me a bit of the side-eye, than shuffled slightly to the right, opening up a bit of space between us. I shuffled with him, then draped my arm around his shoulders somewhat nonchalantly. I’m sure he’s not homophobic, but the reaction was predictably, ummm, expressive - until that flicker of recognition flashed through his eyes.
“Shoot,” he said, (Or something like that, but this story is P.G., remember) and gave be a hearty hug.
But it showed me what this weekend was all about - bringing together family that had been fractured and apart for too long.

And so it begins ...
There were two MIA for breakfast on Saturday - Michael and Chaz, who stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, honing their Pai Gow skills. It was nearly three AWOL, but I managed to stumble my bleary behind in just as their food was arriving.
It was the first chance I had to see Uncle Connie in three years, where he was holding court (sorry guys - bad pun) with the Phillipesesesss. In the booth just across from them sat grandma, Devra, Ian, Elise and daughter Gen, my mother, and Susan. Dave made his grand entrance about a half hour through breakfast, having driven down from L.A. that morning.
After toying with the idea of ordering ham and eggs with a side of bacon just to see what kind of reaction I would get from my kosher-concious relatives, I reined in my mischievous side and got some toast and OJ.
The family split up for the day, with Devra and Susan leading their posse of speedwalkers for a hike down the strip. Mmmmm Mmmmm... Nothing like exhaust fumes and smog to wake you up in the morning.
My sister and I, meanwhile, took grandma shopping for a dinner gown. While I wandered through the ladies’ wear section, doing my best to appear nonchalant and as un-stalkerlike as possible, my sister managed to speed-shop two prospective dresses for Molly. It only took about 20 minutes, including a brief modeling session by the woman of the weekend, for us to get in and out.
We ran into the speedwalking crew outside the restaurant, and after a brief kibitz, bought some wine for dinner and heading back to the Sahara for an afternoon of gambling.
Grandma Molly headed up to her room to recuperate, then came down a few hours later, re-energized to hit the slots once again. My mom told me Molly had asked for some money from her kids to gamble with as a birthday present, and Charles came through with a $200 donation to the Molly Kleiman Slot Machine Birthday Fund.
And, contrary to popular belief, she didn’t lose it all, and in fact broke even after hitting a $348 payday on one of the nickel machines.
Meanwhile, my credit card was on an IV, as I continued to hemorrhage money. . .

the crew Pt II
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

Outside Roy's restaurant in LAS VEGAS, BABY!!!




A ticket to ride
I can remember the times when my sister was awkward, unsure and a little gawky, and it’s still a little surreal some times, watching the way this savvy urban Hollywood director woman operates sometime.
A few well-chosen words to the bellhop, a little greasing of the palms, and she arranged the surprise of the weekend for Molly — a monster SUV limo, with room for the entire family.
It only took grandma 90 years to finally get a ride in a limousine, and when she did, her grand-daughter made sure it was a doosy. A 10-speaker soundsystem, disco lights, a wet bar, leather seats . . . as my 60ish mother is fond of saying these days, “It was blingin.
That same ghetto-fabulous mom of mine arranged the birthday dinner at Roy’s, including a glassed-off private room where the other diners enviously gazed at the frivolous and raucous fun we were all having. Or maybe it was because the last jewish black guy seen in Las Vegas rolled with Old Blue Eyes and was called Sammy Davis Jr....
I don’t remember much from dinner, having donned the photographer’s hat for the evening — my mom seems to think I’m a professional because I have more than one lens for my camera — though I do recall having a fun chat with Ian about Life, the Universe, and Everything. Fran made a valiant attempt to show me how to “play” a wine bottle, but every time I blew across the top, it just sounded like an asthmatic giving a breathalyzer test.
After dinner, we all dispersed throughout the city to various destinations. And that flattering stuff I said about Anya being able to get a cab? Forget it ... We must have waited 40 minutes for enough cabs for everybody, and then I was FORCED to share a cab with Eli and Rae, who delighted everyone in the cab by reminding us what we had for dinner — the olfactory way, if you know what I mean.
The cabbie kicked us, errrr dropped us off on Fremont Street, where we watched Eli do the limbo with a street performer, took in a funky light show, and watched Devra and Ian do some graceful (wink wink) dancing to a jazz quartet.
After that, it was back to the Sahara for more blackjack — with a stop at the ATM, where my credit card was becoming very familiar with the bank machine.

Flight of the Valkyrie
Sunday morning, despite a bad combination of Red Bull and vodka the night before — I figured my Russian genes needed a workout — I dragged myself to the breakfast buffet.
I think I know now why there is such an obesity problem in the states. Super size me? My god — there was enough fried food to clog the arteries of every third-world nation on the planet.
So naturally, I had the fried chicken for breakfast. And then some eggs. And pancakes. And sausage.
But I finished it off with a bowl of fruit, quelling any pangs of guilt my conscience might have tried to needle me with.
The highlight of the breakfast, which was celebrating Connie’s 88th birthday, was the operatic rendition of Happy Birthday by the horn-wearing valkyries from San Francisco.
Apparently, one of our party had shared an elevator with them on the way to breakfast, got chatting, and wound up having them sing for us. It was a very . . . interesting birthday breakfast. I still want to see those pictures.
It was the final meal for some people — well, those of us who had real jobs and responsibilities — and a few jetted home after the meal.
But not me, Rob, his kids and Anya ... No, we decided to be real intelligent and ride the NASCAR roller-coaster right after eating.
This ride has the distinction of being the fastest amusement ride on earth. Electromagnets propel the carriage to 75 mph in two seconds flat, fires you along the rails for 192 feet — including a brief subterranean stint — and up a massive tower.
And then it does the whole thing in reverse.
Needless to say, I swear I will never eat fried chicken for breakfast again EVER.

The Wind Down
With a lot of people gone, Sunday was a very relaxed day. I spent part watching 14 different football games with Uncle Connie, and talking sports betting with Susan (who apparently managed to send a bookie into fits because she was still new to the game, and didn’t know all the “lingo”).
The Platters were playing later that evening, so I took a nap before the show, which I intended to see with Devra and Ian.
I guess the combination of Red Bull nights, losing money at the blackjack tables, and losing my breakfast on the aptly named “Speed: The Ride” was too much, as I slept too late.
Instead, we had dinner ... somewhere. It’s still a bit of a blur. More gambling, more losing, and trying to keep Shelly the dealer from throttling my dear aunt.
I managed to win a little back in the morning — on one big hand, actually — so I only left Vegas down a few C-bills. Charles and Michael had a big of luck, too, playing in a Texas Hold Em Poker tournament on Saturday, with Charles making it to the final 11, before finishing just out of the money.
I spent the week after I got home trying to regain the hearing in my left ear, after coming down with something I swear was a strain of Ebola, leaving my head completely clogged and my throat sore and raw. That’s what I get for eating airline food, I guess . . .
But it was a great weekend, in all. Vegas CAN be family-friendly. But I guess we’ll get to see in two years, when we all head back for Connie’s 90th.
Brush up on your blackjack, Devra. I’m saving up for it now.