Just got back from Chicago. Was there for my dear friend Lindsay's wedding. Here are some random pics from the week. More to come.

Yesterday I got to experience Mirage's "Trainer for a Day" program. The verdict: dolphins are awesome. I know this isn't news, but it's worth restating. Oddly, the experience made me miss my dog Fruvous. Anyway, I'm going to write about it for Las Vegas Weekly (in a week or two)....in 200-300 words, somehow. :)

Oh, BTW, that third shot of the three dolphins jumping...the one that should go on a TrapperKeeper...that's what the dolphins did after I extended my right arm and brushed it to the right. In other words, I'm taking credit for their beauty. :)

I wrote this story about Fake Fake boobs for Las Vegas Weekly. Those are them in the top two pics. The bottom two show my roommate before and after putting them on.  You can read the whole story BY CLICKING HERE, and you can read the first few paragraphs here:

My (B-cup) roommate works as a promotional model and as a go-go dancer. She regularly competes for gigs against women with augmented breasts, and she often loses out. So she wears push-up bras and “chicken cutlets” (bra inserts that resemble pieces of raw chicken in appearance and feel). But she’s never taken the plunge, driven to the plastic surgeon’s office, and had her breasts sliced open and stuffed. In other words, she’s never known what it’s like to have large breasts. Until last week. Her breasts didn’t come from the plastic surgeon’s office; they came from BreastFormShop.com, a website that sells anatomically correct external silicon breasts. They range in size from 2-inch protrusion/2 pounds all the way up to 10-inch protrusion/22 pounds. (BreastFormShop calls the 22-pounders “Juggs,” and says that if you order them, “You will have to custom order a super large bra to hold these girls.”)

My roommate’s 3.5-inch protrusion/3.5-pound breasts arrived in a plain white box, which we loaded into the back seat of my mom’s SUV. Then we drove to Wal-Mart in search of a bra that would accommodate the new breasts and the old ones.

Walking into the store, the elderly Wal-Mart greeter noticed the white box in our basket.

“Are you two returning something?” she asked.

“This is ours,” I said. “We’re just keeping it in the cart here, if that’s okay.”

We continued walking, but the greeter wasn’t through with us: “Hold on. It depends. What’s in there?”

“Medical stuff,” I improvised, which sent my roommate into a giggling fit, which definitely undercut the legitimacy of my claim.

“What kind of medical stuff?” the greeter asked—less a question, more a challenge.

“It’s really embarrassing,” I pleaded. “And if you saw, you’d understand. Is there any way we can just shop today?”

The honest approach did the trick; “Go ahead,” the greeter said.

We found the women’s undergarments section and searched the racks for the largest bras in stock. My roommate walked into the dressing room holding a trio of 38DDs in her left hand and the boob box in her right. A 10-year-old girl in the waiting area saw her do this … and then, two minutes later, the same girl saw my same roommate emerge from the dressing room looking as if a horny wizard had gone to town on her chest. I assume this traumatized the girl for life—that she went home and cried, “Mommy, I don’t want to get boobs!”

I had a feeling men would react differently.

I feel confident that nobody will be breaking into my bathroom stall today.

Wait...so....this urinal IS working or ISN'T??? Cause right now it's unclear.
(Photo taken at Wal-Mart.)

Has anybody seen my Pirate Economics book? I had it on the table a second ago...

Okay, I just uploaded all my iPhone pictures to my computer from the past few months. Took this one at a New York pizza place...a block from Times Square. How delicious do these guys look? And how amazing is the iphone camera? Awesomeness all around.

(Tasted very good too...got the mushroom and goat cheese slice...)

Played 2-4 limit poker at the Palms last night. I was supposed to go to bed early (so I could get on schedule for my trip to Chicago tomorrow)...but...at 2AM this group of very nice, very fun guys and girls showed up, pretty drunk, virtually BEGGING me to take their money. So I stayed there until SIX THIRTY doing just that. And honestly, I got the sense that they had as much fun as I did. Also, a drunk Australian from the MoTown show at Imperial Palace. Also, some New Jersey/Italian guy who the table dubbed "Rocky." Also, a clothing designer who looked JUST like John McEnroe.

Funnest table ever.

$333.

I wrote about my second favorite Vegas Bar, Don't Tell Mama, in this week's Las Vegas Weekly. You can read the whole story by clicking HERE, and you can read the introduction here:

Commonly referred to as “You mean that place next to Beauty Bar? No—never been,” Don’t Tell Mama is where Las Vegas’ entertainers go to be entertained. It’s an open-mic piano bar, it’s a legitimate New York import, and it’s free to get in. Just make sure you go on the right night.

When I walked into Don’t Tell Mama on a recent Friday, bartenders Bianca Alanis and Aundrea Whitt were on the raised platform stage performing “Buttons” by the Pussycat Dolls. As Whitt sang, “I’m telling you to loosen up my buttons, baby,” Alanis unfastened Whitt’s belt.

“One night I came here to visit a friend,” Whitt told me after her set, “and I sang a few songs, and the owner asked me if I wanted a job. Two weeks later I was bartending. No interview, no nothing.”

I’d assumed the Don’t Tell Mama hiring process went something like that, given 1) Whitt’s fantastic voice and 2) Whitt’s disbelief that “negroni” was a real drink name (she initially thought I wanted a Peroni and had the lettering confused).

This week I reviewed Ben Mezrich's book Accidental Billionaires for Las Vegas Weekly.  You can read the whole review HERE, and the first few paragraphs here: 

Even Ben Mezrich’s fiercest critics have to admit, the guy knows how to pick a good story. In 2003 Mezrich grew famous after writing about the MIT blackjack team (Bringing Down the House), and this year he’s found an even bigger story to tell: the creation of Facebook.

Maybe “found” isn’t the right word; the story was up for grabs. But Mezrich was the one who grabbed it, and now he’s reaping the benefits. Kevin Spacey snapped up the movie rights before the author had even completed his first draft. And having read the book, I can see why; The Accidental Billionaires: The Founding of Facebook—A Tale of Sex, Money, Genius and Betrayal has the makings of a summer blockbuster: swank Silicon Valley parties, gorgeous Ivy League coeds and an unlikely hero: Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg.

In Accidental Billionaires, Mezrich reveals that Facebook began as a website that simply allowed Harvard students to vote on which of their female classmates was hottest. According to Mezrich, the first, second and third hottest girls at Harvard all lived together. The last four digits of their room’s phone number were 3-8-2-5 (F-U-C-K). “The Harvard housing office,” explains Mezrich, “was notorious for bizarre little pranks like that. Putting kids with similar names in the same room … there was a Burger and Fries, and at least two Blacks and Whites … Someone probably needed to get fired.”