Last night I broke one of two rules I’ve established for visiting downtown: Plan at least 15 minutes ahead of schedule to account for unforeseen parking issues. The other rule is not to drink anything served in a plastic football, which is a good rule for anywhere but especially downtown.
Last evening was supposed to be the media night performance by workhorse impressionist Gordie Brown (meaning he works hard, not that he impersonates equines, but Brown could probably mock a horse pretty well since he’s mastered many humans, including Arnold Schwarzenegger). I guess the media night still came off, but I wasn’t there for this fortunately optional trip to the showroom because I broke my own 15-minute rule. I fell behind today, in part because I interviewed both Norm Johnson (phone) and P Moss (in person, for a video project) and also took some time to smell the roses. I arrived at the Golden Nugget at 7:30, which was the time Brown was due to hit the stage. I attempted to valet park at the GN, but valet was unavailable to anyone who was not a hotel guest, desperate palm-greaser or significant local celebrity such as, oh … Robin Leach. So, doing my own impression of David Starsky manning a1976 Ford Torino, I accelerated back onto a street laden with orange road construction cones and performed a W turn (that’s a double-U-turn), charging toward the GN parking garage. There, I encountered a half-dozen cars stuck in line at the entrance because the garage, too, was full. About now, I imagined at this point Brown was doing his updated take on Michael Jackson, and I made the logical decision to move on to the Four Queens (that’s a hotel casino, not an act at Krave). I have never been shut out of the garage at Four Queens, but the strangest episode played out as I was about to grab my ticket: I hit the lighted green button, the security arm swung up and, seeming to appear from thin air, a guy in a white T-shirt and Michigan State cap rushed up to my window.
I was a little unnerved, because at the moment Michigan State was losing to Kansas in the NCAA Tournament. Maybe, I thought, this person somehow knew I worked with a bunch of fervent Jayhawk alumni and was exacting discomfort on anyone even remotely connected to Lawrence. Not the case. He said, “Can I take this ticket? I lost mine. You can take the next one.”
I thought, what in the name of Magic Johnson is going on here? But I said, dumbly, “Uh, sure,” and the brazen Spartan warrior snatched the ticket from the machine and scampered off. So I waited for the next ticket, but there was no next ticket. The machine resets only after you pass through the opened gate. I waited a few moments, attempting to regain my composure and sort out how I was going to talk myself out of a heavy fee for losing my ticket and also make it back to the Nugget in time to see if Brown has crafted an updated version of Jack Nicholson. I ran a lap through the first floor and arrived at the security cage, telling the gentleman, in essence, “I just made a bone-headed move that will probably cost me $15.” He told me, in essence, “Don’t be giving away your parking ticket. What are you, a journalist?” I explained to him I’d never had that happen before, ever, when parking downtown. “It all happened so fast, officer!” I implored. He shook his head and responded that he’d never witnessed this sort of circumstance before, either, and allowed me to leave without paying a lost-ticket fee, which is not $15. It’s $16.
What now, I thought? Brown was probably three chords into his Tom Petty impression, the show likely in full production, the crowd joining in on “Free Fallin’,” so I ventured to El Cortez. There was a reason: El Cortez recently underwent a $20 million renovation, and if you ever braved El Cortez as recently as three years ago, you know that $20 million can go a long way. A new air-filtration system has been installed, not a small improvement in a casino where, every time the door to the main entrance was opened, smoke practically billowed onto Fremont Street like the boat-on-the-lake scene in “Phantom – Las Vegas Spectacular.” I ordered a Diet Coke (at $2, or $1 for each ounce) and wandered around the casino, which was clean, comfortable and – to my surprise – jammed with customers. Most of them were wearing some sort of racing logo-decorated gear as part of the Mint 400 contingent, and quite a few were watching the waning moments of the Spartans-Jayhawks tournament game (won by Michigan State, so the ticket thief was doubly lucky). As I hung in the lounge, listening to a pretty good (and innately focused) piano player, El Cortez General Manager Mike Nolan walked past.
I have interviewed Nolan twice, once at the reopening of the refurbished El Cortez porte cochere, and again on “Our Metropolis.” He spotted me, settled in with a cluster of customers in the lounge, and gave me a kind of confused grin. “Hey-hey!” he called out, his flashing an expression that said, “I think I know that person, maybe, and I hope he’s a club card holder.”
I wanted to catch Nolan to tell him what brought me to El Cortez this Friday night, but I doubt he would have believed me. The upshot here is, I now have a third rule -- the answer is always "no" to anyone asking for anything in a downtown parking garage. As for Brown, I expect he killed tonight, delighting an audience full of fans with validated parking tickets.
Previous Discussion: