Las vegas strip club neukundenbonus → Casino-Test [TOP 11]
The STRAT Hotel, Casino & Skypod - Las Vegas, NV
Las Vegas Strip Casinos Feel Revenue Pinch From Airbnb Growth
Book Circa Resort & Casino – Adults Only in Las Vegas ...
How Much Cash Are Casinos Required To ... - Las Vegas Advisor
Some of the biggest resorts and casinos in Las Vegas have closed, with MGM Resorts shutting down Bellagio, Aria, MGM Grand, Mandalay Bay, Delano, Mirage, New York New York, Luxor and Excalibur. The company won't take reservations prior to May 1.
You know how we keep talking about how nice it would be if more businesses were CF? Well, there's a new hotel opening in Downtown Las Vegas where children ARE NOT allowed! Introducing...The Circa Hotel & Casino! Opening day is October 28th!
6. Five years earlier, from the bottom bunk of a holding cell in the Clatsop County courthouse, a younger Jessica made a cackling confession of sorts to the gray-haired guard everyone called Birch. She wore bleached yellow hair at the time, and it was longer. Her name—the name she was going by—wasn’t Jessica, then, either, and she spoke with a fake Texas accent as part of the persona she had been portraying for the last several months in Astoria. “Tell me, how do you do it?” “Do what Birch?” She said without looking up and slowly rolling the small cigarette in her crossed-legged lap and her back against the wall. “How is it you have them chase you like that? Why are they crazy for you?” “Oh, you mean that out there?” She laughs. The proceedings of her trial had been put on recess, for a young girl had given sworn testimony from the stand that the bleach haired girl on trial—who went by Audrey Burns—was the same girl with whom she had a relationship and that Audrey Burns was not her real name at all and that she had, in fact, disclosed plans to manipulate the middle aged wife of the late, local banker, Mr. Schilling, through her romantic affair with the older woman, so that she could obtain titles for a small collection of antique automobiles and several acres of coveted land in Thurston County, Washington. The defendant’s plan, so the girl said, had been to leave the older woman by fall of the following year, once everything was in order, and then, she would run away with the witness. The trial had already been shrouded in scandal. Affairs with wives of successful business men was gossip enough to keep anyone interested in the small town of Astoria and all the more so when that affair, from what it seemed, involved another woman rather than a man. It had attracted many spectators and generated headlines which sold local newspapers faster than they could be printed, so that the courtroom was full when the still pretty, middle-aged Miss Schilling heard the testimony concerning her former lover’s trickery and intentions to leave her for the younger girl. Miss Schilling had gasped audibly and stood up and rushed towards the bench but was held back by the crowd. The bailiffs stood in her way, besides, and after a moment she fainted, flopped out onto the floor like a sweaty, wet rag of nerves and hurt for all the simple farm folk to see. It was then that the judge’s gavel clapped loudly into the courtroom, calling for order and threatening contempt, and then, he called a recess while this new information could be processed, while it was determined what to do now that the defendant’s supposed identity might not be her identity at all. The guard continued with his questions to the girl on the bunk. “You know what I mean. That out there, yeah! Where I’m from, girls don’t like girls, at least not as I know.” “There’s a lot to it, Birch. First of all, some girls do like girls, obviously. You see me don’t you? Secondly, you have to remember that I’ve got a leg up, because I am a woman. Then, most women, maybe 99% of them operate like clocks and horses.” “Clocks and horses?” “Yeah. Clocks and horses. You got a match? Light my cigarette,” she asks and stands up to walk over to the guard on the other side of the bars. “Sure. They say they gonna make smoking in jails illegal one of these days, ban cigarettes in facilities like this one all across the nation,” he says striking a match, cupping one hand and holding out the flame for her to light the smoke. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Birch… thanks.” Now, she moves back to the bunk, clearing her throat and continuing her dissertation. “They’re like clocks, man. They all need one thing, and once you figure out how to wind ’em up, just like a clock, they start ticking. They can’t help it, and they don’t know why, just like a clock can’t help it. It doesn’t know why it ticks. It just ticks.” “What’s that?” “What’s what? What winds ’em up?” “Yeah.” “Desire, Birch, desire. They all need, have to be desired. Now, that doesn’t mean just because you desire a woman, she’ll desire you back. No, sir. Not at all!” “Hmm…” “Yeah, Birch, like a horse.” “Like a horse?” “You ever try to walk up to a horse?” “Yeah.” “What happens?” “They step back, move away from you.” “Right. And what happens when you turn your back to them and walk away, huh? I’ll tell you what happens, they follow you, try to stick their heads in your business and get your attention. Try real hard. Of course, that’s all a gross oversimplification of the realities at work, there, Birch, but it’s a crude illustration for a crude man. Something even you can understand.” “Crude? I’m not a crude man. You’re the one in here talking about women like they’re inanimate objects and animals.” “You’re not? Hmm… well, then what’re you asking about all this stuff for, huh? And, besides, if you only listened to what I’m saying, Birch, you’d understand it’s not that, not exactly. What I’m talking about are mechanics and attraction. You’re a man, though. You wouldn’t get it, and that’s why I do. That’s why I get them.” She rolls her head back and laughs pressing her shoulder blades into the wall behind her bunk. “All of them?” “Nah. You can’t bat 1.000, but you can bat .300, and that’s pretty good, Birch. Almost one out of the three and stop wasting your time with the rest.” The light skinned guard scratches his mustache and stares at the girl on her bunk through the bars and shakes his head. It is nothing he’s ever heard before. And he stares at her more intently, now, pondering her mechanics, what makes her tick, what makes her think like that. Is she human? “And what about you, girl?” “What about me?” “Don’t you need anything?” “I never thought about it. Funny, huh?” “What about love? Don’t you want love?” “Love? Love…” she asks staring at the ground and coldly replying, now, “I don’t know what love is Birch, and I don’t think I’m capable of it. That’s ok, though. That’s how I want it.” 7. This morning the women brush their teeth in the bathroom. Both stare into the mirror and smile at each other through it, and for a moment, Jessica looks at herself, recalls who and how she was before and during the trial, how she’d ruthlessly manipulated the vulnerabilities of Miss Schilling and meant to rob her of the things her husband had left her. It is hard to imagine that she was that way, and the words she’d said to Birch from the bunk come back to her, “I don’t know what love is Birch, and I don’t think I’m capable of it.” She knows that all that has changed and is embarrassed for having ever said it, and now, she spits into the sink and looks at Eleonore who presses a finger into the white line of shrunken scar tissue in Jessica’s chin and mumbles through the foamy toothpaste in her mouth, “That’s cute.” And Jessica remembers the fight in prison when she got it. It was less than 18 months ago. Jessica lets the last snow on the ground crunch beneath her shoes as she watches Eleonore feed the animals and do this or that. It is a sunny day. Back inside, they sit on the couch or roll around in bed with fingers twirling hair and wet breath whispers of love against sweaty foreheads or the soft skin of Eleonore’s ear pressed into Jessica’s bony, bare shoulders. There are moments when they wonder what they’ll do, how this will all end. They forget where they are. They forget about everything. In that time, there is only the other, so that their days and nights become mixed, and as the first blue light of the day comes through the window one morning, both girls startle in bed to stare wide-eyed at each other. Something is stirring in the living room, a mad black being come to execute judgement upon them and their lives of sin. Their hearts drop in their chests, and for a moment, there is a desperate, futile squirming in their bodies trying to get up and run but unable, paralyzed by fear. Now, the doorknob to the bedroom is turning and the large silhouette of the man Eleonore has betrayed, the man whose life Jessica has destroyed, appears in the doorway. It is a moment of terror for the girls. A speechless choking comes from the man’s throat as he stands over the bed and pulls the covers back to find the two soft white bodies clutching themselves, shielding their bodies from his view. He walks out of the room and returns almost immediately with the splitting maul, raising above his head and putting a hole in the mattress where Jessica lay only seconds before. He chases the skinny, shrieking naked body around the house with the weapon and catches her in the bony part of her wrist. The cold metal nicks her collar bone and leaves another gash on the side of her head and ear. It is total chaos as the two women flail. Eleonore is pleading with the man and chasing from behind as she tries to stop him, until he smashes her in the head and face with her crystal glass candy tray. She is left a mound of soft white flab moaning and staggered on the cold terrazzo. And Jessica bounces off the couches and slides across the table and crawls on the floor and runs this way and that as the man continues to swing the maul, until she is finally outside, naked and bleeding in the snow. Steam rises from her sweaty chest in the cold. The sun is just up, now, above the hill. It is too much for her, as her body gives out on her she lies on her back looking up at the man who is raising the heavy wooden handled weapon above his head. She thinks that she never expected this, didn’t expect to die in this way, but here it is. The moment of her death had arrived. And before the maul comes down to end her life, a mortal clang rings out, and the man falls. Eleonore’s cast iron skillet—all 20 pounds of it—has bruised his brain and left a flat indentation in his skull. The girls shake, pale and bleeding in places, and they get dressed and pull the motionless body into the house. It is quiet for an hour or so as they recover, wiping blood from their faces. Jessica pinches her ear to stop the bleeding. Now, Eleonore is pacing and wringing her hands and repeating over and over, “Jessica, what do we do? Huh, Jessica? What Jessica?” And now the other girl screams, “My name is not Jessica!” The accent from her childhood, the one from Maine, can be heard. “My name’s not Jessica. It’s Christina. Look, Eleonore, there’s a lot for us to talk about. There’s a lot you need to know, but for now, we’ve got to figure this out. Okay?” To which Eleonore nods her head. “Now, the way I see it, they’ll give us both the chair for this. You most of all, so we’ve got to be each other’s everything from here on out. Okay? I’ve got 700 dollars hidden in the lining of my bag and some IDs that’ll work for me. We can get rid of the truck somewhere. We’ll make it.” Eleonore stares looking dreadfully down at her husband on the floor. A think pink fluid has leaked from his nose, and his chest heaves as he gargles and struggles to breathe. Foamy spittle forms at his mouth. his face is darker, purple in the nose and cheeks. Other parts of his face are turning green. “What about him?” she asks. “He’ll die, soon, from the looks of it. The case will be attempted murder, even if he doesn’t, Eleonore. You hear me? We leave him. Before we leave, we have to get your blood on the floor and out to the driveway. No one knows I’m here, right? Right, Eleonore?” “I don’t think so,” she says with folded arms. “No.” “Okay. I’ll get the keys. And one last thing, Eleonore. Do you have any money or jewelry here?” The fatter, shorter woman walks into the kitchen and opens the freezer and pulls out what looks like packages of frozen meat wrapped in white butcher paper and spreads them out on the floor, until she grabs one and stands up and says, “This is it. Should be about 14,000. Our life’s savings.” They sit in the house for hours after that, waiting for night and listening to the labored breath of the man dying on the floor. Eleonore cries at different times. Jessica frowns in the corner, occasionally trying to comfort her lover with words and brief shoulder rubs, but other than that, there is nothing to say, just worried looks shared between them. Finally, it is midnight. The girls step out into the cold darkness. They start the truck and leave that house behind them, forever. 8. The thing which had been shared early in the girls three months together at the house, the thing about Virgos being a reserved and shy woman, waiting for something, open to change and new ways of way life proved to be truer about Eleonore than they could have been for anyone else, Virgo or not. It was a slow journey across the country to Cleveland. The two sat in the cab of the old truck. And Eleonore learned all about the girl she’d only recently learned to love and had called Jessica. Her name, as she said before, was Christina. The last name was Sullivan, and she spoke quietly to round, pink faced woman in the passenger seat as she drove, spoke about her early life as the only child of an impoverished and married couple on a cursed bog of a property in rural Maine. Her father drowned in drink, and her mother spent nights out with other men, known for her harlotry and the shame her life brought on her family and their Irish ancestors. By the time the young girl turned 12, her mother had moved into an old house and gotten the same strange, androgenous haircut as the other bug-eyed men and women living in the house. They called themselves the Howardites after their leader, the lanky and long faced theologian, Dr. Howard. By 14, the girl’s mother and her new clan moved out west, never to be seen or heard from again by the quiet fishermen and farm folk of the small town. As her old man lay dying in drink around the house and the adolescent girl starved, the young Christina Sullivan left her home with what could be contained in a small piece of luggage. There were things which made the transition into a life of homelessness at such a young age easier than perhaps it should have been. The difficulty of her life up to then was one. The other was the transient family of grifters who took her in and taught her everything she needed to thrive from a life of dishonesty and tricks. Only catch to it all was the constant need to move from city to city or town to town and change name after name, so that the things they did couldn’t be traced. It was the constant pressure from the traditional clan to marry their second son which pushed her away. She couldn’t do it. They didn’t understand. By 16, she was once again on her own, only now living from woman to woman for as long as her personalities and selfishness would allow or moving on when she thought the authorities might be sniffing her trail. Like her father, though, she learned to love the bottle. With the liquor came a tendency to abuse her partners. She hurled hurtful words at the women, and two of her younger lovers, one the daughter of a police chief in Wisconsin and the other an immigrant heiress studying to become a doctor in Ohio, had felt the backs of the young Christina Sullivan’s knuckles across their faces. It was shameful for the lost girl when she did things like that, and upon seeing the bruises on her lovers’ faces, she disappeared to a new town with a new name, new accent and a new story about where and how she grew up. Three and a half years in a state prison had always been a matter of time for her doing the things she was doing. It all just happened to happen in Oregon. She got out, though, and continued living just as before. A significant contact had been made with a man named Jimmy “the Joker” Madsen, who was the brother of Christina’s girlfriend in prison, and the two of them, Christina and the Joker, had spent a month in Slidell, Louisiana basement refashioning the lettering on identification cards and relaminating them or reworking the numbers on cashier’s checks. They’d spent the months before that blowing their loot from the last big score they’d hit. It was a new girl for each at a new five-star restaurant every night and a new penthouse suite afterwards, every night. That’s the way it went for the fraudsters, but somewhere north of Salt Lake City, on the night that Eleonore found her, the Joker had gotten tired of his female cohort’s antics. The drink made her difficult. And apparently, something ugly had been said, and instead of beating her as he would have any of his previous, male partners, he pulled out of the car and left her in the rest stop bathroom outside of Pocatello. Eleonore watches her lips move in the dark, recounting the events of her life and the way she’d ended up at that quiet farmhouse in southern Idaho in the first place, as they drive through Wyoming and move down into Colorado and across the top of Kansas eventually getting into Ohio. The story is fascinating, more interesting than anything Eleonore has ever known, and as they move farther and farther away from the house where she lived all those years with the man now presumably dead, hopefully dead, the life is something she wants. It is her partner’s life, and so it is her life, too, for this was the way that her life had gone. “Well, what are we going to do, Jess…” She laughs, “I almost called you Jessica.” “It’s Christina. If you can’t remember, just call me Bird or Birdy.” “Bird?” “Yeah. It’s my nickname.” “Oh… is that why you have the tattoo?” “Well… yeah, I guess it is.” “Okay, Birdy, what are we going to do?” “I should still have some connections here. We can get rid of the truck cleanly and make a few bucks, besides. Then, I’ve got some people. People we need to make this work. We’ll get what we need and move on over to somewhere else, careful to scrub our tracks. How long you think it’ll be before anyone finds him?” “Who?” “What do you mean who? The man, your husband.” “Well, he’s not my husband, not anymore,” she laughs. “Are you really laughing?” “I don’t know. It’s not funny. That’s not why I’m laughing. It’s because I’m nervous, because I feel bad.” “Well, how long do you think before someone realizes?” “Months. He won’t be missed until work needs him again, but even then, it might take a lot longer. No one goes out to the house. We don’t see family but once a year, if that.” “Okay. Good. We have some time, then. We’ll make a pretty penny for ourselves before anyone notices, and by then, we won’t be us.” “We won’t be us?” “No. If we’re not us, then we’re not responsible for any murder or stealing this truck or any of the rest of it. Right?” “Hmm… yes. True!” “It is true.” The two exiled women survive through the dishonest means which are available to them. One month they are in Dade County laundering money for drug dealers with casino chips, and the next, they are in Los Angeles creating and selling fake passports. After that they spend several months lying low in quiet Marfa, Texas or somewhere like it. Eleonore learns to go by new names, learns to be from different places. It is, for that first year, one long honeymoon of romance and crime and the excitement of knowing that it could all crumble at any moment, and if it should, their lives will end behind bars or in the electric chair. Sometimes, they purchase vehicles which they sell just across the border in Nuevo Laredo or Monterrey, and while passing through the bottom corner of Utah, they stop to eat at a diner. The lovers buy a newspaper and see in the back a small picture of Eleonore in black and white, though she looks much younger and skinnier in it. Attached is an article recounting the heartless murder of her husband and how his wife, the Mormon woman pictured, might still be alive, somewhere. The money they make in their criminal ventures is more than they know what to do with, so after they’ve collected a substantial sum, they stop to live in some quiet place to spend it. They pretend to be sisters or travelling artists. They call it downtime, and during such times, their first fights start. Alcohol shows itself to be a problem. And a black leather baby’s shoe sits on the ledge in the window of whatever domicile they inhabit. Every day the taller of the two fills it with new rice. This is her superstition, a sort of idol or charm that wards off the bad spirits which bring things like attention from the police or trouble from anyone, and it does the job, or at least, it seems to, but it doesn’t make their relationship work. Eleonore endures the drunken meanness of her long-legged lover, the one she calls Bird, when the drink flows and the money rolls in places like Miami or New York City or New Orleans, and the things she says make Eleonore close-lipped, make Eleonore fold her arms and scowl. Affection between the two dries up, and sometimes, they go a week or more without even talking, so that Eleonore has watched her lover drunkenly bring home prostitutes just to hurt her, just to stick it in Eleonore’s face. And when it gets close to a breaking point, just when it cannot be endured for one more night, apologies are made. They always sound the same, and the peace never lasts more than a few months. The beginning of their third autumn together, they retire to a small, drafty studio in San Francisco. They’d spent the last part of July and most of August printing cashier’s checks and cashing them in different stores in the suburbs and metropolitan areas around Seattle. Eleonore, at this time, was having trouble healing from a spider bite on her leg and had been to the hospital on several occasions, and because of their visits, questions had been asked, so that both women began to fear an end to their run. It was on the afternoon that they found cops waiting in the parking lot of their hotel when they decided to leave for San Francisco. And by September second, that baby’s shoe—made of black leather—was full of rice and sitting on the window sill of a third-floor apartment with a dirty wooden floor on Market Street. In that room, Eleonore can barely stand to look at her lover, anymore. They do not kiss. They do not hold hands. There has been too much hurt, even as she has sobered up for the last several months and has taken care of the spider bite, and finally, the one called Birdy is gone for a day and comes home late the next afternoon, stumbling and cursing and pushing the sickly Eleonore around the room. She breaks her finger on Eleonore’s face. Eleonore expected to come at some point. And there it was. In the tumult, the shoe full of rice plummets to the wet concrete below and has spilled its contents all over the pavement. The next morning is colder and wetter than it should be. And it is grey. Birdy gets dressed and asks Eleonore if she would like to take a walk, to get the leg moving and herself out of the musky room for an hour. By ten o’clock, they are being rained on and take shelter on the underground subway platform by Mission and 24th. It is here that the taller, short haired of the two begins to cry. She says, “Eleonore, I love you. I know that I haven’t shown you that. You deserve more from me, but I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can give it to you.” “Don’t…” Eleonore reaches out to touch her hand. But as she does, the D train is entering the station, and with that, Eleonore’s lover, the girl from Maine, falls backwards onto the track. The sound makes Eleonore hold her fingers in her ears, and she stands for a moment looking down at the bottom of the train, and the alarm bells are going off for the body on the tracks, so she runs. After that, she collects their remaining money and IDs and takes a bus to Portland and over to Las Vegas and over to Cincinnati. She wanders the Midwest and up and down the eastern seaboard as the money dwindles, a shadow of herself. That extra weight comes off of her body more quickly than she’d ever have imagined. Her heart is broken. Food doesn’t taste good, anymore, and everything reminds her of Jessica—or Christina, if that was her real name—her long legged and only true love, Birdy. Somewhere outside of Austin, Texas she shaves her hair, so that she is bald, and pays 89 dollars for the sign of the Virgo to be tattooed into her forehead, half as an act of mourning and remembrance of her lost love and half as a means to keep anyone from ever being able to identify her. There are 9,000 dollars left in her possession when she hitches a ride out of Albuquerque with a man named David Brown towing an empty horse trailer. He calls himself D and tells her he knows of a few acres of land that already has a dwelling on it in the desert outside of Taos. “You can buy an acre for 2,000 from my friend Junior Valdez. Would you want it?” “Yeah. I think I do.” “What’s your name anyway?” And Eleonore thinks of the name on the only ID card she has left, the first one they’d made for her after they ran from Pocatello three years ago. “My name?” she asks. “Yeah.” “My name is Mary,” she whispers and then says louder. “Yeah. You can call me Mary.”
Ok It's Time for my...Annual *Pre-Burning Man Rant and Predictions!!
Ok It's Time for my . . . Annual Pre-Burning Man Rant and Predictions!!! After 22+ years of attendance, I have watched this festival go from what was described by Wired Magazine in 1997 as, "what the internet would be like if it was happening in reality" to 2020 where, "What? In reality, this festival is happening on the internet" ?!? What a serious head fuck . . . So strap in or strap on and get ready for disappointment . . . like virtually everything in this virtual world right now. Here goes this year's Virtual Rant! PREDICTIONS The Virtual Burn is going the be everything you think it could be . . . an underwhelming and depressing reminder that you are not going the real Burning Man this year. While it is still better than nothing, nothing is an extremely low bar. Get ready for a clusterfuck of 8 separately-produced interpretive video game dreamscapes, made by skilled teams of programmers eager to prove that their world-building technology will be able to make future financial investors a shitload of money. Burning Man 2021 is a 50/50 chance at best. 2022 is not looking that great either. Between The Org burning cash on side projects, the FEDs wanting to crack down hard and the Bureau of Land Management clearly pretty fucking stoked that they did not have to deal with the whole shitshow this year, it's going to be an uphill battle for the festival to return. Huge changes will need to be made. Those few gluttons for punishment who do decide to go to the playa this week will be treated to Burning Man without the Burning Man Experience. It will take all the hard work, organization and preparation for survival in the middle of a harsh desert environment for a week of Burning Man . . . just without the Burning Man. If there is one silver lining of the event not happening this year, it's the fact that I don't have to pack up my dust covered Burning Man bullshit from last year, drive 19 hours, then have to smuggle drugs inside my ass to make it past the BLM rangers just go camping in one of the most fucking miserable and inhospitable places on earth. Without Shirtcockers, Megaphones and Massive Thumping Soundsystems, it's just a bogus camping trip in bad weather with a shitload of cops. This year we will NOT be seeing the usual post-Burn MASSSIVE FLOOD of social media posts from Burners who lost their nice $60 water bottle/container somewhere on the playa, often accompanied by a story of why this particular water container was of importance because it has a strap on it, followed by a brief description of unique camps stickers on it and a photo of said missing water bottle/container. In fact, while we are starting to think about cutting costs -- How about lost and found stops giving a fuck about your overpriced water bottle. You lost it, Becky . . . let it go. You spent 20 times More Money on Cocaine for the week than the price of your fucking stoopid-Smart-Bottle-container. THE VIRTUAL BURN This year’s Virtual Burn brings about more questions than it does answers. How will Shirtcockers express their hatred of pants without a Burning Man? In a virtual world, they become no different than unsolicited dick pics. How will Artcar Owners be able to swing their metaphorical dicks around without their Artcars booming Deep House music to show the world their girth. Sure, you can build one in the Minecraft world for this years Burn . . .But lets face it: No one is gonna be like "Who did that 3D CAD drawing, I totally wanna fuck them!" What will all the Assholes with Megaphones do without Burners to heckle? Without handheld amplified audio devices and wide-open spaces, they become no different than Internet Trolls. How will Hippies on a Vision Quest be able find their spirit animal online? Without a guided shamanic ritual and Temple to burn, they become no different than someone playing Animal Crossing. If there is no moop or trash to clean up in a virtual Burning Man how can Moop-shamers be able to prove to campmates and others that they are better at "doing Burning Man " than everyone else? In a virtual world they become no different than a Sarah McLaughlin Green Peace commercial. How will Dooshbonnets and Dooshbags be able to gain followers on Instagram without the giant Robot Heart to climb? How can they show the world that they not only have braved the pool of Piranhas chomping for position for line, negotiated past the all-seeing and all-knowing doorgirl with a clipboard, proving that they have climbed both the social and physical ladder to reach the top of the Robot Heart, so that they may look down upon the lowly dancefloor with both spite and pity for the unwashed masses who where not able achieve such greatness. Without this accomplishment, they become no different than average Twitter users vying for Celebrity attention. How will Burning Man DJs be able to disappoint us with poorly executed timing and bullshit Michael Jackson remixes? Without huge Soundsystems to bang out the worst in modern electronic music, DJs just become . . . The SAME TERRIBLE DJs just now on Twitch! #playatech #Djstreaming #Djsofburningman Although each Virtual World must have been an amazing feat of programming in its scope and size, it kinda feels like a huge project that was done in a short amount of time. None of the Eight Worlds, in any way, reflect the typical Burning Man experience. However, there are a few non-official super realistic Burning Man simulators out there. By far the most realistic experience has to be the "Getting Out More This Year" Simulator. The player is welcomed to a rich and tangible 3D World of Chris's DopeAss 70s RV, which is camped way out on 4:30 and H, where your avatar can spend all day and all night doing fun things like Ketamine, or other colorful interactive game play such as snorting Ketamine, and even interact with the virtual Chris’s chat box and watch his avatar do Ketamine. Other game play options include doing Ketamine, talking about doing Ketamine and also doing Ketamine. The more days and nights spent doing Ketamine, the higher the score! If you want to experience what a typical Burner really does the whole week, than this one is for you!! Then we have: "Let's Go Party" . . . the online multi-player game where the objective is to get your group of more than 6 Burners to try and leave camp, and all go out to party together. I did not have much fun playing. I was never able to leave the front of camp. 14 hours of game play later, Brenda still needs to go back for chapstick and Ricky can’t find his bag of blow. Then once Brenda arrives ready, Kaleporia is cold and needs a scarf. Darkwad David is going back to get some blinky lights for the 3rd time. Now Timmy can't find his cigarettes . . . Fuck. “ManBun Boyfriend”. In this first person POV game, you (the ManBun) has little to no control within the game, with only a single "Ok, Sure" button to navigate within the world. The game play opens as the player is dragged out of bed at 6 AM by the onscreen girlfriend who takes you (the ManBun) on an treacherous journey of sunrise yoga classes, self help lectures, think and grow rich seminars, yoga, positive affirmation workshops, mindful guided mediations, yoga, healing arts ceremonies, wellness and well-being talks, yoga, vegan lifestyle in the new age conferences, yoga, mindful-and-wellness-group-chat and also yoga. Extra points if you can score a selfie in front of the Giant BELIEVE letters!! After 8 grueling hours of game play, it simply flashes a screen where girlfriend says "I'm Tired", and the “ManBun Boyfriend” simulator then restarts game play to opening sequence. “DJs Girlfriend”. This simulation offers a similar experience to “ManBun Boyfriend”. However, in this first person POV game, you (the DJs Girlfriend) is invited to Follow "Dj GlockTrigger" on a dubstep-and-monster-energy-drink-filled adventure as you (the DJs Girlfriend) is rushed from empty dancefloor to empty dancefloor, while picking up extra points if you can find him a "line of blow". After 12 hours of game play the screen flashes "Hey babe I'm gonna go drink with the boyies" and game play is reset. THE RANT I am not that great at finance. Obviously. I’ve been to Burning Man 22 times. That should tell you enough about my poor financial / life choices. But even this burnout Burner can do the math and see that the Burning Man Org is in financial trouble. Burning Man may need to sell out to save itself. It would not be the first time.. Burning Man "sold out" to the PsyTrance community in 1997. To help ticket sales, the Bay Area was flooded with seriously lame underproduced Rave flyers. Or maybe Dr. Dre can toss in a few million to keep The Org afloat once again. Or hey why don't we start tickling Elon Musk's balls again, and see if we can start choking on his shaft in return for some sweet corporate demon semen sponsorship. The Org has already gone pinky finger deep with him. Like when Tesla brought out a full-on Electric Car Expo. That's right, in 2007, at Burning Man, right at fucking Esplanade & 9:00, they had what can only be described as an “anonymous car dealership” from “the green future”, complete with lengthy-worded displays filled with lofty promises of clean energy, infused with subtle corporate propaganda. In the center of the exhibit sat a life-size solid black plastic model Tesla car. As well as someone on guard 24/7 to make sure no one tagged or fucked with the stoopid thing. I personally got chased out for drawing a dick in the DUST on the window! All I know is they should have burnt it down or blew it up by the end of the week, but that lame ass mother fucker was still there on Sunday when I journeyed back to draw a dick on it again -- this time with a PAINT PEN. After executing a perfect fat-sacked-choad-headed-donger on the hood, I was once again chased out by rangers, this time with pitchforks screaming bloody murder for my head!! Fuck you, Ranger Doug! You will never be able to prove that was Me!!! So Look, it's not the first time The Org spread its asscheeks for a little bit of corporate dick on the side. They also bent over back in 2013 and let Mark Fucking Zuckerberg bring a Giant Golden 'LIKE' sculpture out there. I just hope they did the right thing by the end of week and it was killed with fire. SO we know The Org is corporateBiCurious. Time to snuggle up, get out of the corporate cocksucking closet and cash in on the fact that this place sold out a long time ago. Start flirting with attractive corporate entities like Mark Z, the Google Boys, Elon, Tommy Boy from Myspace, or maybe even P-Diddy to toss in some cash to get this fucking party started again! Yo, Elon! How can we have Burning Man on Mars in 2050 as planned, if we can’t keep it going on Earth for the next 30 years? At this point, The Org can spread their legs in the backseat of that Tesla and change next years theme to Space-X. I could give a FUCK!!!!! As long as we can keep Old Naked Dudes On Bikes rolling free. Let some of these cocksucking limpdick corporations like Doritos -- who have already profited from using our Artcars and culture in a their fabricated commercials -- actually fucking pay us money and we will let them shoot a real commercial out there. Have fun pixelating the nipples out of the background actors. I COULD GIVE A FUCK as long as Shirtcockers have a natural habitat to dongslap and roam free. Let Brazzers.com build the Temple! I sincerely really don't care what they do . . . as long as Assholes with Megaphones have wide open spaces to heckle Burners in the Black Rock Desert like GOD intended. BACK TO BASICS : THE FESTIVAL WILL NEED TO RESEST Maybe The Org will stop fisting themselves in the burnhole with all the Cultural-Direction-Bullshit and get down to brass tax here. They have spent years trying to market the festival as a family-friendly-non-offensive-all-inclusive-experience for the suburban upperclass while still catering to the super elite. We need The Org to provide the DPW and Tickets . . . Not for Cultural Direction, or Large Scale Art Funding Circle Jerks, Abstract Charity Causes, International Involvement, or any of the Meaningless Feel-Good Propaganda tools they use to control the image of the festival! The number one focus from here on out needs to be the festival itself taking place once again in Black Rock City! This defacto-defunding of The Org is a blessing. Look, when it comes down to it, it's not about the lame fucking themes each year. It's about the Burners who come and contribute to the festival that makes it special. It’s not about overpriced art grants, or Rich-Dick Theme Camp placement priorities. It about the shitty unofficial un-themed camp at 7:00 and J blaring Discotrance music on a distorted soundsystem while giving away room temperature margaritas! I could give a fuck about all of the elaborate expensive blinking bullshit! Cuts cost! Make the Burning Man effigy from toothpicks for all I give a fuck. None of that shit really matters. The spirit of Burning Man is in the person giving away ice cream from a cooler out in deep playa on a hot afternoon. The soul of the festival is in Old Naked Dudes on a Bikes rolling free across the desert! The heart of the festival is the Nightmare Hippy Chick on Acid rolling around in the dust, screaming about her spirit vegetable. Believe me if The Org had its way, Burning Man would be nothing but Transformational Mediation Seminars, Yoga Classes, Ultra Overpriced Sculptures, and TED talks about how to get rich quick selling a new type of investment portfolio. I am perfectly happy with the crappy bars and half-assed theme camps that are there just to have a good time. We don't need The Org's unique brand of new age capital-elitism bullshit. They have clearly dropped the ball on the Cultural Direction for years, and the less they steer the ship, the better, cuz we have already washed up on the rocks. BULLSHIT CLICKBAIT “Top 10 Burning Man Pictures You Must See To Believe!” And once clicked, sure enough it’s nothing but a bunch of super basic-ass photos of some super-hot-Coachella-swinger-couple at sunset in front of the most gentrified “OMG I need to get a selfie in front that to show my followers on Instagram” artwork on the playa. You already know exactly where these fucksticks took the stoopid photo is front of, OF fucking course it's in front of the BELIEVE letters. It’s Basically the "live, laugh, love" of playa art. Really, I won't believe this ?! What I won't believe is that their relationship is going to last beyond next week . . . cuz there’s a 90% chance they are gonna join the wrong gangbang at the Orgy Dome and suddenly someone is not happy about the amount of buttfucking the other one received. Thanks Business Insider Magazine for exposing the public to the wild and crazy world that is Burning Man. Now every fucking Chad and Becky from Wall Street is trying to come here to get laid. "Bro if I was there I would bang so many Hot Chicks on top of those letters" . . . "OMG I LOVE those Letters!! We are SOOO going to Burning Man to meet our future husbands <3." How about 10 REAL photos you won’t believe? Too bad the cameras weren’t there to snap a picture of the guy who took a shower with a fat chick and midget porn star! It’s a shame no one from the Daily Mail UK was there to catch video of the guy who was tripping his nuts off and could not figure out how to unlock the door of the porta-potty -- escaping only by busting through the plastic roof and climbing out the top several hours later. Or how about that chick at the meditation camp that was able to summon a higher power of consciousness and transcended the spacetime continuum for a short/infinite amount of time! Where the fuck was BoredPanda.com to catch a photo of the person who was hit with a rubber dildo when it was carelessly thrown from the top of the Space Pirate ship into the Mayan Warrior crowd. Now That’s some real stuff that happens out there that I would be happy to clickbait on! THERE WILL BE SOME CHANGES MADE The Large Scale Art: Instead of funding massive installations that end up being resold to casinos on the Las Vegas strip, why not treat them like large Rich-Dick Theme Camps -- give the Installation Artists 200 DGS Tickets, and in return, these assholes will be happy to spend shitloads of money on blinky light towers or whatever, just so they can lock in those sweet sweet reserved tickets for themselves and their friends. The Tone: The Utopian Blinkylight Dreamscape has been cool for the past 16 years . . . Buuuut . . . it has gradually fallen out of touch with the world around us. For far too long, The Org has ignored camps or underfunded art that could be perceived as dark or controversial in any way, shape or form. Yet again, another example of their Cultural Direction Tactics to market Burning Man as a blinky-light-mickey-mouse-Epcot-Center for wealthy-business-insiders-and-celebrities featuring a safespace-family-oriented-wholesome-body-wellness-green-living-environment for social-media-influencer-photo-shoots. Burning Man has NEVER been a Safe place! In 1998, I witnessed a beheading by guillotine at the Opera Performance that was so realistic I spent the next 5 hours (still frying balls on acid!) convinced that Billy Graham was right about this place being a Satanic death cult that would bring about the end of the world. IT WAS DISTURBING! If the Barbie Death Camp incident at last years’ Burn taught us anything, it is that there clearly need to be risky and controversial works of art at the festival. We can't be having pussy-footed Australians throwing temper tantrums like little punk bitches CUZ they don't like the way someone put Barbie Dolls inside an oven! Why did that do-good-koala-humping-limpdick-ASS-licker think it was OK? Well . . .The Org has shoved the narrative that Burning Man is strictly "good vibes only" down our fucking throats so deep that we finally gagged from it. Why the fuck was that guy even there? Well, he clicked on the Business Insiders’ “Top Ten Burning Man Photos You Must See To BELIEVE” and thought it was gonna be nothing but butterfly sculptures and Instagram Models in front of giant letters. No Kids: Yep. Sorry Minecraft Burners, but you are gonna have to wait until you are 21 to come to this party! Renegotiating the insurance policy as an over-21 festival will save The Org millions and millions of dollars. Out of 80,000 people, less than .05% are under 21 . . .yet we have to check IDs at every fucking bar !? Every year the gate gets closed down and no one can filter in or out because someone asshole can't find their kid. This should be a HUGE red flag ! Law Enforcement uses the fact that minors are allowed at the event as justification to engage in predatory conduct such as undercover stings, camp raids and random tickets for unsuspecting bartenders who forget to check IDs. Also I am not comfortable with the legal grey area the Shirtcocking and Titbouncing in the presence of minors creates. And if it ever comes down to nudity versus allowing kids, I am sorry but we can't sacrifice the heart of this festival on account of the fact that you don't want to get a fucking babysitter for the week. Your kids could give a flying-donald-duck-fuck about Burning Man! You and I both know goddamn well that given the opportunity they would rather play video games for the week at grandma's house then have to listen to Mom and Dad fight at Burning Man all week about who got buttfucked by whom at the Orgy Dome. . . LEAVE THEM AT HOME!!!!!! So the rest of us can be free to fuck, drink, smoke and wave our goddamn dicks and clits around whereever we see fit!!! The Temple: In the early days of the David Best Temples, they were constructed from the leftover hollows of wooden dinosaur jigsaw puzzle pieces. It was low cost, recycled and pretty fucking cool! Last year’s Temple was overdesigned, structurally unsound, and made from rare rustic-oak hardwood and redwood trees imported from China. Let’s cut costs and just do what those guys from Belgium did in 2005. It's a Very Simple Plan. We get a shitload of old 2x4 boards and fucking Wing It! The Belgium Waffle House would have made a perfectly good Temple. Garbage Dumpsters: Yep, that's right. In the future we will have dumpsters at Burning Man! All the Survivalist and Moop-shaming Burners say it will destroy the festival. Guess what, Burn Nut? It's already common practice for larger theme camps to rent dumpsters that are emptied at the end of the week!! It's been going on for YEARS! So what? Theme Camps will now have to pay a dumpster fee and there will be strict rules around any public dumpsters. Believe me The Org will provide the minimum amount possible to accommodate the BLM. It won't be nearly enough dumpsters for everyone to just toss all their trash, recycling and extra bikes into. Don't worry, Radical Self-Reliant Survivalist Burnertypes, other people will still have to suffer packing up and dealing with their own trash on the ride home. Moop-shamers rejoice! You will definitely still be able to shame people for mooping and not cleaning up, if not even more so now. I don't see why we can't be Radically Self-Reliant by having dumpsters on site. We will still Leave No Trace, while leaving one less thing for surrounding communities to bitch about. Build the Wall !!! Ya fuck it! Build the Wall. So what? Honestly, it will be more aesthetically pleasing than that fucking orange fence. And if that is what the Feds want, that's cool with me -- as long as The Org gets to choose who does Security! Thank fucking god we are not doing Burning Man this year. With the world on fire all around us, it seems a bit tone-def to hold a giant rave utopia party! I, for one, will be enjoying the week indoors under air-conditioning and rolling around in the heaps of cash I am saving by not going. I’m not attending a single workshop to expand my consciousness, not giving a single gift to anyone, and not being radical or self-reliant in any way. Fuck your Virtual Burn. I am Zapper Jones. I will see you in the Dust again . . . Sometime Somewhere in the Future!
Why are Travelocity rates for an AA flight + hotel cheaper than flight only?
I'm looking at flying out to Las Vegas next week. If I book the trip through American Airlines directly OR a flight only through Travelocity, the flight is right at $500; however, if I book the flight PLUS 4 nights in a Vegas hotel/casino, there are rates as low as $350, all inclusive. I'll be staying in a comped room at Aria, so I don't need a hotel, but is there any disadvantage to booking the flight + hotel and just not showing up for the Travelocity reservation? And does anyone know why it's so much cheaper to get the flight when combined with a hotel room?
The next Detroit: The catastrophic collapse of Atlantic City
With the closure of almost half of Atlantic City's casinos, Newark set to vote on gambling and casinos or racinos in almost every state, it seems as if the reasons for the very existence of Atlantic City are in serious jeopardy. Israel Joffe Atlantic City, once a major vacation spot during the roaring 20s and 1930s, as seen on HBOs Boardwalk Empire, collapsed when cheap air fare became the norm and people had no reason to head to the many beach town resorts on the East Coast. Within a few decades, the city, known for being an ‘oasis of sin’ during the prohibition era, fell into serious decline and dilapidation. New Jersey officials felt the only way to bring Atlantic City back from the brink of disaster would be to legalize gambling. Atlantic City’s first casino, Resorts, first opened its doors in 1978. People stood shoulder to shoulder, packed into the hotel as gambling officially made its way to the East Coast. Folks in the East Coast didn't have to make a special trip all the way to Vegas in order to enjoy some craps, slots, roulette and more. As time wore on, Atlantic City became the premier gambling spots in the country. While detractors felt that the area still remained poor and dilapidated, officials were quick to point out that the casinos didn't bring the mass gentrification to Atlantic City as much as they hoped but the billions of dollars in revenue and thousands of jobs for the surrounding communities was well worth it. Atlantic City developed a reputation as more of a short-stay ‘day-cation’ type of place, yet managed to stand firm against the 'adult playground' and 'entertainment capital of the world' Las Vegas. Through-out the 1980s, Atlantic City would become an integral part of American pop culture as a place for east coast residents to gamble, watch boxing, wrestling, concerts and other sporting events. However in the late 1980s, a landmark ruling considered Native-American reservations to be sovereign entities not bound by state law. It was the first potential threat to the iron grip Atlantic City and Vegas had on the gambling and entertainment industry. Huge 'mega casinos' were built on reservations that rivaled Atlantic City and Vegas. In turn, Vegas built even more impressive casinos. Atlantic City, in an attempt to make the city more appealing to the ‘big whale’ millionaire and billionaire gamblers, and in effort to move away from its ‘seedy’ reputation, built the luxurious Borgata casino in 2003. Harrah’s created a billion dollar extension and other casinos in the area went through serious renovations and re-branded themselves. It seemed as if the bite that the Native American casinos took out of AC and Vegas’ profits was negligible and that the dominance of those two cities in the world of gambling would remain unchallenged. Then Macau, formally a colony of Portugal, was handed back to the Chinese in 1999. The gambling industry there had been operated under a government-issued monopoly license by Stanley Ho's Sociedade de Turismo e Diversões de Macau. The monopoly was ended in 2002 and several casino owners from Las Vegas attempted to enter the market. Under the one country, two systems policy, the territory remained virtually unchanged aside from mega casinos popping up everywhere. All the rich ‘whales’ from the far east had no reason anymore to go to the United States to spend their money. Then came the biggest threat. As revenue from dog and horse racing tracks around the United States dried up, government officials needed a way to bring back jobs and revitalize the surrounding communities. Slot machines in race tracks started in Iowa in 1994 but took off in 2004 when Pennsylvania introduced ‘Racinos’ in an effort to reduce property taxes for the state and to help depressed areas bounce back. As of 2013, racinos were legal in ten states: Delaware, Louisiana, Maine, New Mexico, New York, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, and West Virginia with more expected in 2015. Tracks like Delaware Park and West Virginia's Mountaineer Park, once considered places where local degenerates bet on broken-down nags in claiming races, are now among the wealthiest tracks around, with the best races. The famous Aqueduct race track in Queens, NY, once facing an uncertain future, now possesses the most profitable casino in the United States. From June 2012 to June 2013, Aqueduct matched a quarter of Atlantic City's total gaming revenue from its dozen casinos: $729.2 million compared with A.C.'s $2.9 billion. It has taken an estimated 15 percent hit on New Jersey casino revenue and climbing. And it isn't just Aqueduct that's taking business away from them. Atlantic City's closest major city, Philadelphia, only 35-40 minutes away, and one of the largest cities in America, now has a casino that has contributed heavily to the decline in gamers visiting the area. New Jersey is the third state in the U.S. to have authorized internet gambling. However, these online casinos are owned and controlled by Atlantic City casinos in an effort to boost profits in the face of fierce competition. California, Hawaii, Illinois, Iowa, Massachusetts, Mississippi, Pennsylvania and Texas are hoping to join Delaware, Nevada, New Jersey and the U.S. Virgin Islands in offering online gambling to their residents. With this in mind, it seems the very niche that Atlantic City once offered as a gambling and entertainment hub for east coast residents is heading toward the dustbin of history. Time will tell if this city will end up like Detroit. However, the fact that they are losing their biggest industry to major competition, much like Detroit did, with depressed housing, casinos bankrupting/closing and businesses fleeing , it all makes Atlantic City’s fate seem eerily similar.
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