What I’m Riding . . . My Vegas Playground, The Flamingo

The Flamingo doesn't even deserve a picture on my blog.

So tragic my last playground had to end like this.  In short, the Flamingo sucks.  It’s cheap, honies, oh yes, $35 a night, but like the Imperial Palace, you get what you pay for.

My house was packed up yesterday, so I have three nights left here before hitting the road.  I chose Flamingo because it was cheap and it’s so Las Vegas.  My car is packed tighter than Monique’s leopard dress, seven bags in all.  We (me and Arty Party) pull up to the first valet, which has a sign that says it’s full.  I’m checking in with seven bags so no, not full for me.  I am told to move on to the next valet a little further down the road.  I do.  This valet tells me it’s not a valet, but they can take my luggage.  Okay.  Most places take your luggage and your car and you walk right in and register but no, not at the Flamingo.  I pop the trunk and get out of the car.  I take a bag out of my back seat; a guy comes up and tells me to take my car and my bags to the other valet, the same one that sent me to him.  I explain this to him.  He tells me to go back, sorry.  I put my bag back, get in my car.  He knocks on the trunk, tells me he will take my bags, but to still take my car back to the other place.  I do.  I walk through the casino and shops to check in.  It’s ten o’clock at night.  The room I reserved is not available.  They have a non-smoking king bed, yes, I’ll take it, I just spent the last ten hours moving out of my house in the 108 degree Vegas heat, I need a bed so bad I don’t care if it’s Goldilocks Baby Bear sized.  We get up to the room.  77 degrees.  Hell no.  When I opened the door it felt like Hagrid was waiting on the other side for me and exhaled his hot breath in my face.  AP calls guest services and we’re told the room’s air conditioning system is set at sixty-five degrees and equipped with a motion sensor, so the room should cool down with us moving around inside it.  Right.  So unless I’m moving around in my bed all night like a Cirque performer, the air is going to kick off.  Which it does.  I wake up at 5:30 sweating buckets.  My room has gone up to 80 degrees.  I am furious.  I cancel my reservation and check out, which I have to do in person, then by phone, then in person.  Don’t ask.  I move on to spend my last remaining nights in Vegas in Treasure Island.

DON’T GO TO LAS VEGAS FLAMINGO.  I’ve said my piece.  All your fault if you go there now. 

Vegas Playground rating:  one dirt-smeared seat hanging by a single rusty chain dragging in the dirt after a million kids farted on it swing.


About whatimriding

Born and raised in Philly, I spent several years in Las Vegas, working at the House of Blues and writing about the city. I now reside in Tampa, where I continue to work on novels, scripts and short stories and tearfully await former Lightning forward Vincent Lecavalier's return to the bay area.
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