Last read from “The Phantom Of The Opera—And I”:

The dark figure with his face half-masked approached—The Phantom Of The Opera. To clarify, I am not speaking of the brilliant, Tony Award winner, previously seen on the most elaborate of stages. I speak now of the actual Phantom Of The Opera, risen from his chamber.

Seated next to me he said these words, “The lover of The Phantom Of The Writers, you are?”

“I am,” I responded, solemnly.

“A tragic state of being you’ve accepted—to be loyal,” his voice lowered to a whisper, “yes to be loyal to the giver of your talent and to not be seduced by those who love you for what is not yours.”

“I can’t live without what I’ve been given, so I am a slave to the giver…”

We sat in silence for some moments—waiting. Because there is a moment every day when there is pure truth in all-of-the world.

“Why does a man as handsome as yourself wear a mask?” I asked The Phantom Of The Opera who is perhaps the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on.

A tear ran down his cheek, not for himself, but for I. “For the same reason, you great writer cannot look into a mirror. I wear the mask to hide not my face, but the ugliness that dwells in my heart…”

Our story continues:

THE JERSEY BOYS

The words of the phantom reverberated in parts of my soul that previous to our encounter I had not fathomed existed. Oh the complexity of the soul and the vexations it suffers. Why must I yearn for greatness? Why must I want for others to share my passion? Surely not from an evil, perplexed heart. You see it is indeed this goodness that continuously births the passion that feeds the darkness—and thus the infinite, alpha helix of my pained existence.

“There is another show, great writer, that you must see,” said The Phantom Of The Opera to I.

“No, this was enough. Should I see anything less it would diminish the euphoria I will forever experience when I think of the theatre, thanks to you.”

The masked face tilted towards I and slightly down, as the phantom is a few inches taller than my six-foot-one frame. “You won’t be disappointed. True there is no other performance that can equal my pageantry and my love of the feminine voice is universally known—still there is another voice in our time from the angels.” Pointing north towards the Palazzo. “And there is yet another question you must answer for yourself.”

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

The awful question was with us now. “Why does the world resist that which would change it and make it better?”

The Next Day

The Black Angel Fred, assigned to my wellbeing by The Phantom Of The Writers, as previously explained, accompanied me into the restaurant known at the Palazzo as Zine Noodle. I paused for a moment to appreciate the exquisite décor. I made a mental note to thank Rob, Dawn, and Ashley for making sure that I had some sustenance before continuing my personal journey through their land of entertainment. And err not dear reader, I am always appreciative of the fact that I tread mostly in the realm of others and interject my own story without permission altogether. Many do not easily digest this fact, but it is necessary, if not necessarily understood.

Sally Lei escorted us to our very private table and much to my delight we ran directly into Danny Tarkanian.

“Hello Senator,” I said to the handsome former UNLV basketball star, turned lawyer, turned real estate developer, turned politician.

“I’m not a Senator yet, Stan. But I’m working on it,” Danny responded affably.

“Well you will be. The country needs guys like you to get involved and get things going back in the right direction. C’mon you’re sitting with us.”

“Okay, but I have an interview in an hour, I have to call into a radio station…”

So Sally had an array of wonderful food brought to our table. Funny, I had seen some criticisms of Zine Noodle on the Internet—none of which matched my own experience. Interesting it is to be criticized by those you do not know. The experience I have had with my own detractors is, that much of what is not said to your face is simply the fiction of angry and jealous minds.

“We really need to create a better environment for small business,” Danny continued, as we had been talking about some of his positions for most of dinner. “You deal with all kinds of businesses Stan, any new ideas?”

“If I start you’ll miss your interview,” I said, truly worried about delaying the future Senator.

“C’mon, just one.”

“Well take Las Vegas for example: there’s plenty of land, plenty of hotel rooms, a five hour drive from Los Angeles and no major motion picture studio. The state needs to give the land if need be to the person who is willing to develop a studio facility out here. And the Federal Government has to give Venture Capital a special tax incentive to invest in this type of project. Getting banks lending to small business again is a must, but most of the next big things come from VC…”

“And we need to create micro loan options for initial stage startups,” added Danny.

This conversation was headed to the next level, a sense of excitement percolated from my blood through my brain because for the first time in a long time I was speaking with a man running for office that has the capacity to get it. But it was time for Danny to give his interview so I bid him farewell and made a commitment to myself that I would do what I could to help him in his quest to help others. You do see dear reader that because I have few worldly concerns in common with my fellow man I have a most unusual vantage point—I simply speak from a heart uncorrupted by self-interest.

Like the night before, our seats in the theatre that houses the Jersey Boys were only a few rows from the stage. Both the Black Angel Fred and I were struck by the sparseness of the room and stage—nothing like the palace, which The Phantom Of The Opera had built. Fear not my friends. The first few pages of the Holy Scripture reveal quit clearly that the Lord created nothing, before creating creation itself. The “Black Period” I called it when I painted my last show—a necessary step before my affair with words. But a challenge to fill such a space, it is.

The narrative began from a corner in Jersey. Tommy was a character to the exponential consideration. And Joe Pesci, yes that Joe Pesci, did much to bring this band of bandits turned musicians in a band together. But this is neither the time nor place to tell a story best witnessed in person. Recall, that I was there for one specific reason. Frankie Valli possessed the voice of, which the phantom had spoken, but such difficulties. Divorce, Tommy’s gambling and other debts to honor because it was the right thing to do, the death by drug overdose of his daughter, and the departure of the writer of the glorious words we have all come to know through the music.

One question. One song. The writer wrote one song that the Universe itself demanded Frankie Valli to sing. But the label would not release it. And the radio stations would not play it. Yet the writer persisted and like the ocean tasked with beating an enormous crag into sand his will and his money did not cease—not with something as important to the world as this at stake.

“It’s to be good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you…I love you baby and if it’s quite alright…Your like heaven to touch…”

And the words from this song, which is so much a part of our collective consciousness, a song that a few wanted all not to hear, the words embraced and consumed I and for the second eve in two cycles of darkness I obtained clarity—my work is not alone.

Stan Lerner on Amazon

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

To buy books by Stan Lerner on Smashwords:

Stan Lerner’s Smashwords Books & Author Profile: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stan

“I wish I could.”

“Sorry Mr. Hughes, I’ve gotten so used to you riding shotgun that sometimes I forget that you’re…well you know…”

“Dead,” he said finishing my thought as he often does. “Don’t feel bad, I had a good run…It’s amazing how this place keeps growing—slow down for a second.”

I tapped the breaks gently. Howard always asks me to slow down when we’re about to pass City Center—it seems to fascinate him for some reason, but he never says why. I was hoping that he might utter something on this occasion, but just as it seemed like it might happen—the phone rang.

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner>

“What are you doing?” asked Isaac.

“Cruising the strip with Howard.”

“Listen I’ve been living in this town for a year and still haven’t made it to First Friday, you want to go?” he asked.

“Sure, I’ll pick you up in ten.” I hung up and turned to face the ghost of Howard Hughes. “Sorry Mr. Hughes…”

First Friday is a combo art walk and rave in the Downtown Art District of Las Vegas. And as a Los Angeles Downtownster I know something about art walks, as Downtown LA plays host to the biggest art walk in the country on the second Thursday of every month. When the weather is nice a good Downtown LA Art Walk can attract close to thirty thousand revelers. I had no such expectation of such an event in Las Vegas, but I had heard some good things about the up and coming art scene in Sin City so I was more than up for checking it out…And of course when dating a girl that suffers from Zombism there’s not a whole lot of places you can go out as a couple and fit in.

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner>

I picked Isaac up at the swanky Panorama Towers and headed Downtown exiting Charleston and finding a nice dirt lot to park the SL 500 in, just on the other side of Main Street.

“Nice, I just had them shined,” said I, looking down at my dust covered Gucci loafers.

“Car washes and shoe shines don’t last in this town,” commented Isaac who was wearing tennis shoes—he’s thirty. “What the hell is that noise?” asked my freaked out friend at the slamming sound emanating from the trunk.

“Oh that. Better step back—I brought my girlfriend along.” I approached the back of the car with caution.

“You make your girlfriend ride in the trunk. You f*cking guys from Cali really know how to treat women.” His New York accent was heavier than usual as he leveled this damning, yet envious comment.

“Trust me this chick likes it…Now the choker chain, is taking her some getting used to…”

“Choker chain???”

But before I could elaborate for my confused friend the Zombie Chick was out of the trunk and the fight was on. She scratched and bit wildly at me as I defended and went for the chain. Alas, chain in hand I gave it a thunderous tug, which reeled her around so that her back was now exposed and then with full choke on we slammed against the trunk. With possibly the best zombie ass in the world bent over the trunk of my car, her Catholic, schoolgirl mini-skirt akimbo, and no underwear anywhere in sight I decided that First Friday could wait a few minutes—and took the zombie vagina ice plunge. (Refer to Vegas Grand Slam blog for more information regarding cold zombie vagina.)

“Should I leave while you finish raping your girlfriend?” asked Isaac.

“Don’t be silly…And technically it’s necrophilia not rape,” I answered, causing her to growl with pleasure and claw the paint off of my trunk. “Thank goodness I paid my insurance bill.” I laughed. “I’ll tell them I ran into a bear up in Yellow Stone.”

“That’s the zombie chick you f*cked in the bathroom while you were on a date with someone else at Mickie Finns?”

“This is a sexual assault asshole, not a deposition, shut the fu…”screamed my chick at my buddy.

I yanked the choker another notch. “What did I tell you about being rude to my friends!” Our bodies slammed together so hard that her knee broke my right tail light somehow.

And then came the final climax, which sent us both rolling down into the dirt, thankfully just as a Vegas Metro squad car cruised by—a few seconds earlier and I would of have had some explaining to do.

With Zombie Chick on a short leash the three of us ventured into First Friday…Art and bands everywhere and seriously thousands of people walking around—I was blown away.

“So where do you keep her when she’s not in the trunk?”

She spit on Isaac. I kicked her as hard as I could in the ass. She turned and smiled.

“Fat Andy’s house has a nice dark basement—I’ve been letting her stay there.”

“Thanks a lot for that f*cker,” snarled Zombie Chick.

I turned to Isaac. “Don’t get me wrong, it would be great if she could sleep in bed with me, rather than a dark, dank basement, but left to her own device she’d rip out my throat with her teeth while I’m sleeping.”

“Well you guys make a nice couple,” said Isaac, with more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

“Look it’s not perfect but…”

“He’s with me because he can’t get enough of my cold pussy.”

“Thank you sweetie. I was just about to say that.” I shrugged. “She is right. Once you’ve gone zombie it’s hard to go back. Other than the married midget I’m now forced to have an affair with as an antidote to those pesky little love bites.”

“I’m just into older chicks these days,” said Isaac, slowly adapting to our unusual dynamic as a couple.

“You know there is colder,” said Zombie Chick, snatching at an unattended child in a stroller—thus the short leash.

“Really.” She always knows just the right things to say to keep me interested.

“Yeah, not too far from here.”

So we spent another hour perusing the art scene, grabbed a quick bite to eat at Casa Don Juan’s, some of the best Mexican food in Las Vegas and moved on. I should add here that Isaac and I ate the restaurant food. And unfortunately Zombie Chick did manage to get her hands on someone’s lost Maltese. Of course I feel bad about this, but if I can keep my bitch on a leash—so can everyone else.

Now I’ve been to some wild warehouse parties before, actually they were my parties come to think of it…Anyway, this party was out of control even by my non existent standards. And the prospects for a vagina even colder than Zombie Chick’s were everywhere. I focused in on a brunette and made my way toward her, dragging along my date. But before I could get close enough to start chatting I felt the powerful grip on my shoulder of a blond fellow about twenty-eight—so handsome I might add that if I were a chick…

“A human with a zombie on a leash at my Coven—Interesting.”

I turned to Zombie Chick. “You brought me to a Vampire Coven?”

She began to laugh hysterically. “You’re so f*cked…”

I turned to the handsome Vampire Lord. “Sorry, but when she said there was something colder than her ice box, I must have started thinking with the wrong head.”

“So human of you,” he said with a sinister smile, similar to my own.

“Well we best be on our way,” I said, noticing that Isaac was sitting on a couch with four vampiresses that were looking at him like Thanksgiving dinner was served.

“I don’t think so.” His grip tightened on my shoulder. “I think we’re destined to be friends. I see you want to penetrate my sister, perhaps we can arrange a trade.”

I pulled out a bag of white powder from my pocket. “Maybe a little something like this?”

His blood red eyes almost popped out of his head. “You know how to make Blast?”

“I wrote the book, literally,” I answered, making a shameless reference to my bestselling Kindle ebook “Blast” available at the Amazon Kindle Store. There’s a link on the sidebar dear readers and this is how I pay for all of this craziness, so buy away! And if you can’t find the link just go to Amazon and search for me by name.

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner>

“You’re Stan Lerner!” The whole party came to a dead stop as eight hundred or so vampires hung on their lord’s every word. “I knew you looked familiar. “Blast” is my favorite book of all time. And I’m nine-hundred-years-old!” He grabbed the bag of Blast out of my hand. “You know humans have invented some cool stuff over the years, but Blast, well it’s the coup de grace. You can have my sister and oh so much more.”

Zombie Chick growled and got another swift kick in the ass by both of us this time. We laughed.

I chatted up Berlin’s sister. That’s his name by the way. And she introduced me to her best vampiress friend who had a tongue at least two inches longer than Gene Simmons of the rock band Kiss fame.

“So it’s a vampire custom that whoever brings the “Blast” takes the first hit,” said Berlin the Vampire Lord.

I pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “Pass the mirror my boy.”

They all laughed. Berlin’s sister Sade whispered into my ear as she tugged at my pants. “That’s not the way we do Blast.”  And then with pants around my knees and several vampiresses holding me face down I came to understand that there’s no need for hundred dollar bills when there’s a vampiress with a tongue longer than those rectal thermometers we generation Xers all remember from childhood.

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner>

Let me make this perfectly clear, I do not advocate the rectal use of Blast or any other drug…But WOW!!! BANG!!!KPOW!!! I’ve never been so high in my life. I think I actually scared a room full of vamps and even Zombie Chick was cowering under the coffee table—the top of which I broke just to get a grip on her hair. And so on…

As I chilled with Berlin on the couch, after an orgy of epoch proportions, I couldn’t help but to feel bad for my new pack of soulless friends—not because they’re one step above the devil on the damnation chain, but because they were forced to party in such a second class way in a city that has some of the best nightclubs in the world.

“You’re one crazy f*cking human,” said Berlin, giving my juggler some sex eyes.

“You’re not so bad yourself…You know after watching those crappy “Twilight” movies I was beginning to think vampires were a bunch of sexually repressed faggots, but you know how to party, my boy. And your sister…I’ll give you a pound of Blast a month to keep tapping that…”

Berlin extended his hand. “Deal!!!” He looked deep, deep, deep, into my eyes. “Okay, what else?”

“Bro, if you and the gang are going to start partying with the Stan, you’ve got to let me hook up the venue—I feel like I’m a teenager in this place. And even though I like sleeping with them, I don’t want to be them, if you know what I mean?”

His throat rumbled like a tiger on the loose at a Siegfried & Roy show back in the day. “I really like you…From now on you’re in charge of the drugs and the venue…”

“And DJ,” I added.

He patted me lovingly on the head then pointed at Isaac. “What about him?”

“He’s an executive at The Venetian…Tell the girls to unchain him…He knows all of the club owners in town…”

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner>

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

“I have no interest in watching MMA, let’s roll to Hofbrauhaus and drink some beer and…” said my buddy Isaiah, an exec. at The Venetian.

“You go, I’m watching the fight. I’ll come over when it’s done.”

So I’m talking to Ken the dentist visiting from San Diego to my left when a kid, by kid I mean 22-year-old, pulls up next to me in the seat Isaiah had just vacated. I was hoping for someone of the female variety, obviously, but he seemed decent enough. I was slightly alarmed that he ordered a beer rather than a real drink, like Ken and I, but I reminded myself that the youth of today, well let’s face it, they’re little girls when it comes to vice. Anyway, I included him in the fight conversation with Ken and unlike my buddy Isaiah he did indeed have an interest in some good old ass kicking.

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

“So what is there to do around here,” he asked.

“This is Vegas, what is there not to do?” I responded. “You’re not from around here are you?”

“I’m from Sweden, I’ve been here for four hours…”

“You’ve never been to Vegas before?” He shook his head. And that’s when I notice two average looking young girls eyeing me, they had “college kids playing hooker in Vegas” written all over them—so I waved them over. I figure that I don’t really give as much money as I should to charity, but I make up for it by helping kids like these two get through school. And since I was feeling particularly philanthropic I nodded toward my new friend from Sweden, thinking that he might like to get a proper start in Vegas.

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

“So do you want to go up to your room and get naked, the four of us?” asked part time college hooker number one.

They did a little whispering in Sweden’s ear.

“I’m just a student…” he uttered, nervously.

“They looked at me. “I’m trying to watch a fight here.” They left and I turned to Sweden. “How much did they want?”

“Six hundred, for both.”

“They were worth three hundred each all day long. If I didn’t just do a threesome at the Hilton I would have picked up the check.”

“How did you know they were…uh…uh…”

“Pros. I’ve been coming to Vegas since I’m three and I own blogsincity—it’s my job to know these things.”

“I want your job…” he sighed, then continued. “My friend that I came with fell asleep up in the room and I lost a hundred and twenty gambling.”

I’m such a sucker for a sob story and let’s face it blogsincity is kind of an unofficial ambassador. “Do you like gentlemen’s clubs?”

“I love strip clubs,” he answered, his face aglow.

Fedor caught Brett Rogers with a right in the second, down went Rogers. “C’mon I’ll take you to the best gentlemen’s club you’ve ever been to.”

I called Treasures to let them know I was on my way. They offered to send the limo for me, but I was feeling okay to drive.

A Few Minutes Later

“This is your car?”

I nodded. “Beats the hell out of a Saab, doesn’t it.”

“I can’t believe this…It’s like a dream. I come to American and now I’m hanging out with a famous writer—and driving in this car, this is crazy man.”

And then, top down, I rolled toward Treasures with Sweden riding shotgun, which I hoped would not be too upsetting to the ghost of Howard Hughes, who’s grown accustomed to the seat. If Sweden only knew the company he was really keeping.

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

Now given that there is no vice, which doesn’t hold some interest for me, I think of gentlemen’s clubs as the closest I’m ever going to come to good clean fun. And for the distinguishing gentleman there is no club as distinctly elegant as Treasures. There is a time and place for clubs with fully nude eighteen-year-olds and clubs with a bunch of young lasses that look like they’ve jumped from the pages of Playboy onto your lap, but given that I’m pretty sure that Sweden is in Europe, geography is not my thing, I felt that the European feel and vibe of Treasures was just what the fight doctor ordered for my young friend.

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

I said hi to Alson, Nick, and my old buddy Jacko Smiley, all of whom I’ve known since the days of producing “Stan Lerner’s Night Tribe” at the Rio Hotel and Casino. It’s always good to see the boys and even better to sit at my table—that would be table 37 for my readers who enjoy excessive details. Jacko, who always knows just what I’m looking for, sent what I term my Mrs. Rights—two of them anyway. Both Riley and Mercedes are what dreams filled with precipitation are made of. My hart warmed as Mercedes took Sweden off for a VIP adventure. And I have to admit that I was almost overwhelmed by the thought of what it must be like to be a proud father, and yes it’s a reoccurring theme of this blog, but I really think I’d make the coolest dad ever.

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

“I wish you were my uncle or something,” said Sweden.

I held back tears. “Hey, it’s no big deal. I just wanted you to have a good impression of America and Americans—you can’t believe all the bad press we get.”

“What are you talking about? I’m going to move here when I’m done with school. This has been the best night of my life. And I’m going to tell everyone in Sweden about your blog…Maybe I can work for you.”

I raised Jack and Coke number twenty. “I’ll drink to that. But if you want to work for me you better never let a two for six hundred hooker deal get away.” We laughed and toasted.

“I promise boss, never again.”

“You hungry? Because in Vegas, if you roll with me, breakfast is always around three or four. Of course sometimes it has to be room service, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m up for anything.”

So I took junior for a ride down the strip to the Bellagio for breakfast feeling good about doing a good deed. See good deeds are like bouncing a ball, you put your hands on it for a moment, send it the best direction you know, and then you just never know where that ball bounces to—hopefully to a great place.

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

And although I usually just stick to storytelling, I enjoyed taking Sweden to Treasures so much, I’m going to make this a part of blogsincity’s mission statement. I have a bottle table at Treasures every Tuesday and Saturday—late night. If any blogsincity readers want to join the party just text me at 213 400-4559 and let me know. You can ride in the limo with my posse and you won’t have to pay to get in—but the Mrs. Rights are on you!!!

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

So why not a travel blog? This qualifies as work. But what to blog about? I called the Wynn PR department, no spa reviews on such short notice, I was notified. Too bad because I could have used a day at the spa to go along with not writing. Of course I jest! Somewhere around Barstow, James decided we’d be staying at Palazzo. And I’ve never written about this still new hotel…UNTIL NOW!

Now my regular readers know that the style of my writing varies upon my mood, the full moon, cash or lack there of, and on and on….Admittedly, I’m in peculiar mood today, so let’s call this, yet another innovation to the craft of writing, my fast and loose style. Frankly, this could be dangerous to anyone or anything that falls or in this case, past tense, fell into my bull’s eye…So watch out Palazzo!

Actually, I’ve strolled through the Palazzo a few times since it first opened and to be fair, I held off writing about the new addition to The Venetian because it opened its retail in phases and in general I garnered that it opened a bit sooner than optimum—and in a terrible economy. But there’s been plenty of time to get it together so…

Next Day—Tired In A Good Way From Vegas

I liked the Palazzo. I’m not going to do a complete analysis at this point as I was just there overnight to keep James company in some meetings, but here are some highlights: check in was easy. The room was the identical layout as the rooms I’ve stayed in at The Venetian many times—and I like this mini-suite layout, in this case the view was also great. I can’t be sure if it was just the change of scenery or the lighter color scheme and different furniture, but I think I like the Palazzo room more than I like The Venetian room. However, some of my best times in Vegas have happened in The Venetian rooms, if you catch my drift, so no disrespect intended.

Tao at the Palazzo / Venetian remains one of my favorite spots for both dinner and nightlife. The club wasn’t open Wednesday night, but the restaurant was, and dinner was as good or better than the last twenty times I’ve dined there—they’ve never had an off night and our waiter this particular night was a Rock Star. After dinner I chose to smoke a cigar with my old buddy Fat Andy at the bar in the middle of the Palazzo casino floor. The crowd was light, welcome to the recession, but the spot itself has a good open vibe—cute waitresses always help. It would be better if they dimmed the lights…This is not as easy as it sound because the Palazzo is a light and airy casino floor with very high ceilings, but it could be done and it would be transformative—a new place to hangout would emerge in the middle of the casino.

Bellagio still has market cornered when it comes to holiday decorations, but Palazzo’s Thanksgiving decorations are spectacular in both of the large atrium areas. Because Palazzo by design is a little on the austere side the decorations warm it up—having a greater impact than they would at most hotels. On this, my advice is to keep up the good work. Palazzo would be well served to be decorated for every season / occasion throughout the year.

As can happen in Vegas, my gamble of tagging along with James led to a meeting of my own the next day. This was an early lunch at First café in a section of The Venetian that I had not strolled previously. I’ll save the review for later, but the café’s windows provide for a very enjoyable view of the strip. Sometimes it’s great to not feel like you’re inside of a casino—this place does the trick. Oh, and that chef with the ponytail and orange Crocs was sitting two tables over, a sign that the food would be good. It was…Make sure you start with the pretzels! Good company, good atmosphere, good food—GOOD TRIP.

As we rolled down the highway back to Los Angeles I thought about my long and most enjoyable history with Las Vegas. I also thought about the effects of the recession on Sin City and in some ways what’s gone on in Vegas is a sin. The “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” era of success made Sin City lazy—not in terms of construction, but in terms of marketing and customer service. As things went bad the attitude changed some and the customer experience factor went up, but not enough—yet. Because my beloved Sin City is oh so much about making money, I’m betting that my brothers and sisters there will see the neon light soon. IT’S ABOUT GIVING GUESTS A BETTER TIME THAN THEY COULD POSSIBLY HAVE ANYWHERE ELSE…AND FOR LESS MONEY.

You know now that I’ve committed these thoughts to writing, I have one more—I think I’ll head back to Vegas next week and stay the weekend. If you feel like hanging out and getting into trouble I’ll let you know my plans in a few days. Trouble Baby…

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner>