C.C. and Gamblor

This weekend, one-fourth of Team Barrelhouse was in Vegas and got to party with legendary Poison guitarist C.C. DeVille. Or, maybe "party" is too strong a word, since C.C. was understandably more interested in the handful of strippers hanging around his cabana at the Hard Rock pool than he was with the dorky guys occupying the cabana next door. Still, it was fun to watch C.C. operate. The guy weighs probably ninety pounds soaking wet, and he's still sporting a shaggy bleached blonde 'fro. C.C. has definitely seen better days: his face looks like beef jerky and either he's still rocking the eyeliner or he really needs a nap. And yet, the ladies still love him.

On Sunday night, this Barrelhouser found himself under the sway of gambling monster Gamblor, though for once Gamblor was pleased, and allowed good fortune to rain down on said Barrelhouser and his friends. Maybe Gamblor likes writers and literary journals. Or maybe he liked the young lady who stumbled up to the craps table and nearly collapsed onto the felt. At any non-Vegas establishment, she would have been ushered into a cab, or at least up to her room. But all the guys at the craps table were entertained by her, and, well, as Jerry Seinfeld once said, she had many of the attributes prized by the Superficial Man. And in Vegas, if the gamblers are happy, anything's fair game. So she was allowed to roam the table blowing on the dice, shouting drunken non-sequiters and ordering more drinks. Good times.

You know, when I started this post, I thought it was going somewhere, but now it looks like it's not. Cut me some slack: I've gone several days with far too little sleep, and took a red-eye flight back to D.C. nestled up against a guy twice my size. And yet it's all worth it for that late-night thrill of a craps run that spans three casinos and feels like it will never end. Any time you get to cash out a couple of those elusive yellow chips, well ... money can't buy happiness, but it can at least rent it for a while.