Ace Does Vegas, Blue Moon Style
Who will Ace get to meet? Will Ace win? Will Ace get some?
As I sped east on the 210 from Los Angeles headed to Las Vegas, the moon had risen from behind the mountains. At first it peeked out from nowhere, I had not realized it was the satellite that rules the night sky until it had risen some more. I kept thinking to myself what was this weekend going to bring? Who will Ace get to meet? Will I win? Get some? All the dreams and aspirations of Vegas were floating through my mind as I watched the old man wink as he peered out. It was glowing a deep orange that, to me, signaled good things. My inaugural blast out to Vegas in Otto, my PT Cruiser Convertible, was off to a good start. The sensations I felt were indescribeable. I felt the wind beating on the cloth top and I could sense the weight of the celestial body above. The beat of the freeway pavement was putting me in a trance with its rythmic thump as I hustled northward. I was eager to get through the desert to Sin City and hoped my new found friend of the night would guide me unimpeded. I should have held onto that thought until after I passed the Cajon Summit. Traffic was a bitch going uphill, as the flashing sign read "ACCIDENT 8 MILES AHEAD, THREE LEFT LANES CLOSED." Great. Just fucking great. As this high roller had previously only arrived by private lear jet (Southwest Airlines) I wasn't sure what to expect.
So as traffic started to jam up, I exited and got McRonald's at the
Wrightwood-138 exit, just below the pass. The restaurant was packed with
people, as it seemed like everyone was going to Vegas. Standing there.
Waiting. Talking amongst themselves. Kids ran around and screamed at
the top of their lungs. Total chaos. Everyone was fucking
grabbing at the counter for their orders as if they were at a relief center
that distributed food rations. After what seemed like an eternity, my
eyes were diverted to an employee wiping down tables and smirked at every
strange looking customer. He was nervously trying to keep the place
clean (yeah right, this filthy establishment was FAR from it) and it
seemed that he got uncomfortable when a large family raucously entered the
door. I shook my head in bewilderment and found that I was finally
able to order my processed dinner. As soon as I finished ordering, my cash
was practically thrown back at me when the chick screamed 'NEXT IN
LIIINE!' God, she was Goth, I gotta tell ya. I egged away from the sullen
bitch to the nearest trash can (the only fucking available spot to
stand in the joint, aiight?) and looked out the window while waiting for my
order. I watched all the cars slowly going up the hill... they were
inching up... slowly... cars, RVs, SUVs, tour busses, pick-ups, big
rigs, canoes, motorized wheelchairs, bikes, four-wheelers, ATVs, boats,
motorcycles, jet-skis, fuel tanks, ladders, concrete pipes, mobile homes,
tricycles, more fucking SUVs, flat-bed trucks, mopeds, tomorrow's
shrimp cocktail, more fucking cars, unicycles, hard-core bikers in leather
and the rest of the universe was heading to fucking Vegas. And they were ALL
in front of me.
I then looked eagerly at the counter with hesitation while gulping down Powerade. As I looked out the window some more, I was mesmerized by the constant flow of people monotonously going by. I was getting a fucking rush from the blue poison as I stood there and waited. While I agonized for my lousy burger and fries, I thumbed away at my Sidekick complaining to anyone who would listen about the debacle that waited for me on the I-15. Bradley, the young kid who was assigned cleaning duty came nearby and asked about my gadget. I said my usual, 'It's my phone, pager, email, text-messaging, instant-messenger, web-browsing, game-playing techno-gizmo, THING, called a Sidekick.' He was amazed. Cute and naive kid. He doesn't know what the FUCK I'm gonna be getting into in a couple hours now. Heh. I wonder what it must be like to work here with all the people heading into Vegas with a sense of hope and excitement and then on Sundays, the brooding look of those returning home? Well, if this is his only exposure to the population at large, that's quite sad. Come to think of it, hadn't everyone who's ever driven through the Cajon Pass stopped here at one point in time? I thought so. As I got increasingly frustrated, it turned out that I was waiting in the corner for fucking nothing since the stupid girl behind the counter didn't know I couldn't hear her. She was screaming DOUBLE QUARTER POUNDER, DOUBLE QUARTER POUNDER this whole time. Now everyone on the mountain knew Ace was a fucking pig. Thanks McRonald's.
I followed the trail of Tail Light Army Fire Ants, which marched steadily up hill to the devious land of hopes and desires that awaited with open arms. Five miles seemed like an eternity steadily inching through Cajon Pass, then it started to speed up... So where was this accident? No trace of it was to be found and traffic flowed smoothly through the pass down to Victorville. Bastards!!!