Tag Archive | Las Vegas

Let’s Clarify Something About Casino Hotel Bellpeople

There is a lot of confusion, misunderstanding, and downright stupidity going around these days regarding the tragedy in Las Vegas as well as the expectation that someone, specifically the bellpeople, should have noticed that Paddock was carrying far too many bags and that they likely contained weapons. Seeing as I used to work at Sam’s Town Hotel & Gambling Hall in Tunica, Mississippi, in the hotel as a custodian, and that I regularly worked as a bellperson because the bellpeople liked to leave early (and it was the only way for me to get regular tips) and I covered for them, I think it would be a good idea for someone to clarify a few things. So take this from someone who has literally been a bellperson in a casino’s hotel.

High Rollers

Rule one of any casino is that you don’t piss off a highroller. Once upon a time, a guest requested an ashtray. I don’t remember why, but I was in a tremendous hurry, grabbed the first ashtray that I saw, and took it. A few days later, I was called not to my supervisor’s office, nor to my manager’s office, but to the office of a casino host, whereupon I was handed a written referral, a formal reprimand, for taking a high roller a dirty ashtray. The significance of this should not be lost to other considerations, but I do have to defend myself and point out that this isn’t something that I regularly would have done. I have a much better work ethic than that, and the ashtray in question had a small, gray stain in the center from where someone had routinely put out cigarettes. Yes, I should have cleaned it first–there is no doubt of that. But given that it was a small stain and the guest was immediately going to stain the thing anyway, I weighed the choices and took the risk. That proved to be a bad decision, as the guest was a high roller who expected everything to be perfect.

So let me explain what a Casino Host is. These are personalized PR people for the most part. Each one is dedicated to perhaps a dozen or so high rollers, and it’s basically their job to be the high roller’s friend. They go golfing with them, will drink at the bar with them, and will do whatever else with them is necessary to keep them happy–and therefore coming to the casino. If you’ve ever seen the show Las Vegas or whatever it was called, then you know basically what these people are and what they do–if the high roller asks for a hooker, then you find them a hooker. You just don’t talk about it and tell people that you did it.

You don’t fuck with a highroller. This is why it was the casino host who lectured me and served me the write-up, to re-stress the importance of pleasing the high rollers. It’s not like they called and requested an ashtray, and said, “Oh, and I’m a high roller, so make sure I get good service.” No, in most cases, they expect us to already know that. The systems aren’t in place for that to happen (at least, they weren’t at Sam’s Town Tunica), and so unless the person was staying in one of the deluxe suites, there was really no way to know. Best to err on the side of caution, then, and assume that any and every guest was a possible high roller. Because if that high roller threatened to leave the casino and never come back, you were fired. No questions asked, no appeal. You were gone.

The Expectations of Bell People

Now, when a high roller arrives at the hotel, you generally know, usually because there will either be a casino host already with them, because a casino host will greet them, or simply because you’re familiar with the regular high rollers. Your job depends on you being familiar with the regular high rollers. If you arrive at an elevator at the same time as one of these high rollers, and you’re carrying something that would prevent them from getting on, then you wait, and you let them go. If you’re walking past them in the hallway, you step to the side. So it’s extremely important to learn who the main regulars are, and to respect that–failing to do so, after all, is a firing. You get ridden up over an ashtray–what do you think will happen if you accidentally bump into them? Or if you make them wait for the next elevator while they were heading up to their room or down to the casino floor? You’re gone.

#1/24-TREND#2/24-120V1BOX #3/24-120sp

It’s like people think bellpeople are treating guests’ bags like Christmas presents, shaking them around and trying to guess what is inside. This is absurd. It’s the job to protect and deliver the guest’s luggage, and you are responsible for it. You specifically undertake responsibility for it. We’re not tossing them around like a golf caddy in Happy Gilmore. We’re treating each and every single bag like it could contain a $4,000 bottle of wine, because any single one of those bags could, in fact, be containing a $4,000 bottle of wine. If you break it, you’re gone. You’re fired. And you might get your ass kicked on your way out to the parking lot while carrying your termination slip. It is, after all, the host’s job to deliver 100% satisfaction to the high roller. You don’t think shit like this happens? Then you’ve never worked at a casino.

I can tell you from first-hand, real experience being a bellperson that it never once occurred to me to even be curious what a guest was bringing up to their hotel room. If you shake that bag around trying to guess what is inside, and you break something, you’re done. Even if the guest isn’t a high roller, you’re likely to be fired for that. If the guest is a high roller, then you’re certainly fired. You load up the bags, push the bags on the cart, and unload the bags as gingerly as possible, because you don’t know what is inside them. If you hear anything inside clanking around, then you’re being too rough with the bags, and you’re going to be fired before the week is over. That “clanking” is far more likely to be a bottle of wine, perfume, or cologne than it is a gun, by a ratio of millions to one, and you’ll eventually break one by acting like a little kid a few weeks out from Christmas trying to guess what is inside.

And may the gods help you if you touch that zipper. Are you out of your mind? You unzip that bag and you might as well call the police to come arrest you. If you find something “suspicious” and get security involved, they absolutely will not under any circumstances search that bag without the guest present. So congratulations–here is your pink slip when that clanking turned out to be two bottles of cologne, and you caused a freaking high roller’s bags to be searched by freaking security. You will stand there looking like an idiot as the casino host, the security guards, and the high roller pull items out of the bag one by one–and if there is a vibrator or dildo in that bag, or anything sexual for that matter, then you caused the high roller so much embarrassment that nothing will save you from a firing. When they find nothing, as they will 99.999999% of times, and the 0.0000001% of times they find a weapon it will only be to endanger others 0.0001% of the time, you will stand there looking like a paranoid, nosy, suspicious liability to the casino and its ability to keep high rollers happy.

They don’t want an employee who poses a significant risk of disappointing or hassling their high rollers.

None of this crap being directed at the hotel employees is realistic. Neither the hotel clerks, the valet drivers, nor the bellpeople are interested in finding out what is in the guest’s bags, especially not a high roller’s, and especially not a regular high roller’s. If you’re sitting there saying, “Well, clearly they should be! Because this could have been averted!” then you will never, ever own a casino or hotel–or, hopefully, have any position of authority to set policies. Because for every one random lunatic out there, you’ll end up with tens of thousands of people who are just going about their lives. Seriously, just start looking tomorrow for “suspicious behavior.” Consider each and every suspicious person you see to be a possible mass murderer just minutes away from murdering 59 people and wounding several hundred more. Do you feel like a raving, paranoid lunatic yet? Because you should. If you don’t, then consider calling the police on each and every one of those people and ensuring that they are hassled, searched, and questioned because you found it suspicious that the guy was standing around the side of the gas station for a strangely long amount of time.

That kind of rampant paranoia quickly gets you dismissed as a lunatic–as it should. It’s hysteria. Sure, it’s easy now to look back and say, “OMG, why didn’t anyone notice?” But if you think for one solitary second that, had you been the bellhop who delivered those bags, you’d have given even a moment of consideration to the possibility that he was carrying up dozens of guns and untold ammunition, then you are, without a doubt, full of shit. Because you wouldn’t have. It is lunacy to suggest that one would have been that attentive, that suspicious, that rough with the guest’s bags, that paranoid of a high roller, and that hysterical about the behavior of someone you saw fairly often. It is abject, hysterical lunacy.

And Another Thing

If you think that it’s even possible to ban guns of any time, then you are badly out of touch with the capabilities of modern technology. Guns can be 3-D printed now, and this has been true for a few years. It is not possible to ban something that can be created spontaneously by unskilled laborers from raw materials that are far too useful to ban. To ban guns in 2017 CE, you’d have to also ban 3D printers and aluminum. I hope it’s not necessary to point out to anyone that banning 3D printers or aluminum is a fool’s errand, and something that would never, ever happen. You can buy a 3D printer and the plans for a gun, and you can do it all in basically untraceable cryptocurrencies. Come join us in the future; the technology here is jaw-dropping.

And unstoppable.

Oh, and LITERALLY Hitler Trump?

If you think Trump is LITERALLY Hitler, then why in the name of sanity would you want to disarm anyone? You do realize that guns are literally (in the literal sense of the word, not the figurative sense of people who say Trump is LITERALLY Hitler) the ways that we resist fascism, right? If a fascist dictator actually took over, you wouldn’t be able to vote them out of office. You would need guns. Not just any guns, either–good ones. Assault rifles, at a minimum. Realistically, you’d also need tanks, drones, cluster bombs, and, yes, nuclear weapons. I can promise you this: an American citizen who owned a nuclear weapon would be the very last citizen to be killed by the American government. Why do you think North Korea wants one so badly?

The liberal position on this whole thing makes absolutely no sense to me.

  1. Trump is LITERALLY Hitler.
  2. The police are brutal murderers who unfairly target minorities and are unaccountable.
  3. We should let LITERALLY Hitler tell the unaccountable police to take all the defenses away from the minorities.

Am I missing something? Besides the emotional motivations that allow them to believe all these things because they want to really, really hard, and facts and logic be damned? Conservatives are no better, of course, and many are now stepping up to say that bump stocks should be criminalized (though half of them have no idea what a bump stock is, or only know because they read a hysterical lunatic article in USA Today about how they are responsible for 97.3% of all kitten murders). Hell, Ben Shapiro said that they should be outlawed while at the same time he admitted that this wouldn’t keep them from making their way into the hands of mass murderers. So… Um… What is the point, then?

If one puts the basic liberal position, as I’ve recounted above, into logical form, it creates an inescpable conclusion: liberals are racists who want minorities to be defenseless while they are murdered by police. In other words, liberals’ own positions suggest that they want a fascist dictator in power who uses the police to murder minorities:

  1. Trump is LITERALLY Hitler.
  2. The police unfairly murder minorities.
  3. The only defense against someone with a gun is a gun (hence, why we send armed police officers to take down shooters, not people wielding knives).
  4. Therefore, if we want minorities to be defenseless against LITERALLY Hitler and the police who unfairly target them, we must take their guns away.

But I’ve now let this derail the post away from the main point, which is that people are forming completely unrealistic expectations of what bellpeople do.

A Psychopath and Her Victim: Abusive Relationships and Walking Away

Sunday night, I received a message from the Vegas chick: a strange apology fixated almost entirely on herself rather than me, the recipient of the apology, which was so blatant in its narcissism that it contained references to herself 46 times. While I do have to give the Vegas Ordeal its treatment one day and fully describe the thing from start to end, it is likely to soak up thirty thousand words alone, so it’s almost certain to be reserved for Dancing in Hellfire. But it’s okay–I don’t intend to harp on about it today. It was damaging, it was severe, and it was unparalleled to anything most people will ever experience.

And it was, I see now, nothing more than the sadomasochistic dance of a psychopath and her victim.

She knew of my needs, because I’m an upfront person. I’ve just honestly been through too much to have interest in playing games, so I’m straight up with people. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve by any means, but I don’t beat around the bush. If I expect something of someone, I tell them that; I don’t leave it to them to guess what I want, what I need, or what I expect. A lot of people make this claim, in my experience, but I actually mean it. If I say “I need direct communication from you, or I’m walking away,” then take it at face value: if I don’t get direct communication from you, then I’m walking away. I don’t throw ultimatums lightly, and I never back down from them. A great deal of consideration and introspection goes into me and everything I do; I do nothing lightly, and I do nothing to manipulate. When I make such a claim, it is because I want direct communication, but that’s hardly manipulation; it’s a warning that I’ve been pushed to the brink, and that I will tolerate no more.

Between my old website, many long conversations with her, and years of circling around, she knew me very well; she knew exactly how to exploit me. She knew exactly what to offer me, exactly what to say, and exactly how to say it. She knew exactly what to do to turn me into her thrall, and she succeeded. I thought she was genuine, because she knew that I sought someone who was genuine, and so she knew to present herself as genuine. It was like this in every area. She knew what to do and what to say to take me off my guard, to manipulate me, and to bring me under her control. And she succeeded, as she knew she would, because I’d given her the tools she needed to do it over years of friendship and borderline relationship.

It was jarring when I realized, shortly after my return to Mississippi, that she had done this exact thing to me before, when she lived in Alabama and offered for me to come see her on one of my birthdays. I was excited; she seemed to be excited. And I got about halfway there when her sister texted me and explained that we couldn’t go through with it because of some ridiculous bullshit. Before the Vegas Ordeal, she knew that she couldn’t do that again, and that if she tried that shit when I was halfway there I was likely to absolutely hate her forever, no holds barred, and would be uninterested in ever speaking to her again. But what would have been the next closest thing? Turning me away within days. And that’s precisely what she did.

Blinded by the hope that we could repair our relationship and unable to see that I was playing directly into the hands of a psychopath, I stayed in touch with her; we immediately went back to talking on the phone every night, and I did my best to keep a smile on my face as the fallout from the Vegas Ordeal struck me repeatedly. As I said, evidently I was supposed to be more cheerful about the inevitability of living out of my car then, because she turned away from me for being a downer. Yes, this chick for whom I’d given up my entire life, closed my company, spent all my money, and moved across the country to be with… threw me out of her life because I was being a downer about the incredible consequences I faced from all of that.

Then I dabbled and thought about reigniting my old site, and she almost immediately contacted me through it. I emailed her explaining something she’d misinterpreted. She replied with a post on her blog. I replied via email. She replied with another post. Soon we had fallen into a cycle of posts, where I would post something direct and meaningful, and she would post vague, non-sensical poetry that had to be interpreted–and even then didn’t make a lot of sense. I grew frustrated and threw the gauntlet at her feet: engage me directly, because I’m finished with this stupid shit. And it was stupid, to be communicating that way. She clearly wanted to communicate with me; I clearly wanted to communicate with her. But she wouldn’t give me the “satisfaction” of doing it directly.

Through all of this, I was motivated by need–the same need I’ve written about before–and it’s no coincidence that I was only ever able to go to her blog to read her replies as Aria. Otherwise, it was just too painful. And though I’ve minimized that need substantially, and though she went to great lengths to make that a need for her (as psychopaths do) and succeeded, I did force myself again to throw my hands up and walk away, which made this the third time I’d had to do it. If you’ve ever walked away from someone you love, you know how difficult that is. And I had to do it not once, not twice, but three fucking times. It is more complex because of the psychopath/victim game that she has played, but that doesn’t change the fact that I do love her, and that this is merely on top of the standard relationship interplay of a psychopath and her victim.

The manipulation in the apology she sent is blatant. Out of respect and love for her, I will not post it here, but suffice it to say that it’s the most unapologetic apology I’ve ever seen. While professing to be sorry, she creates a shadow version of herself that “has no empathy” and magically has an “undiagnosed mental disorder” (a refrain I’ve seen so often from women attempting to excuse their fucked up behavior), and, here is the best part, “a work in progress.” As though we’re not all works in progress. But it’s more insidious than that, isn’t it? You can’t be too harsh on a work in progress. When aspiring musicians share their music, they say it’s a work in progress as a buffer against criticism. Shitty Early Access games on Steam hide behind “It’s an alpha build” or “It’s a beta build” as a matter of policy, because they know–we all know–that you can’t judge a paper too harshly when it’s still a “work in progress.” It is the phrase of a coward, someone who wants to indemnify themselves against criticism and consequences; it is not the phrase of someone who admits they were wrong and is genuinely apologetic for it.

It’s of extreme significance that among the last things she’d heard from me, before I walked away in October, was that I demanded an apology. Because it made her aware that the only way she could keep playing with her toy would be to offer me an apology–and so she did. In the most insincere way possible. At the end, she also added that she wants me to know that it wasn’t my fault. That blew my mind to read.

She didn’t have to tell me that. I’ve known that from the beginning. I have never said or believed otherwise. I have said countless times that I rolled the dice, but she was the one who determined the outcome. I have never said or implied otherwise. Why does she think that she can make me believe it was my fault? She can’t. I was there; I know what happened. I know how it went down, and I’ve known from the beginning that none of this was my fault. That doesn’t have to be said.

This would be the fourth time that I’ve had to walk away from her, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. But I know now… that walking away doesn’t do any good in this sort of relationship. It simply doesn’t. I have to make her lose interest, and I do that with the Gray Rock technique. You can’t always walk away from a psychopath who has targeted you as her toy, because she won’t leave you alone; like clockwork, she will pop back up and rip the wounds open again, all while denying that it was her intention to do so and all while apologizing for how sorry she is in the first place. See why I can’t accept the apology as sincere? The very fact that she would contact me to voice her apology is ipso facto proof that it isn’t sincere and can’t be sincere.

In talking to a friend, I was asked what kind of apology I would accept as sincere. If she showed up on my doorstep one morning, in tears with her arms wide, saying, “I’m so sorry” when I answered the door, then I would accept that as sincere. But she wouldn’t do that under any circumstances. But I don’t want that, really. I don’t. What I want… is for her to be sincere. And she can’t do that. Or she won’t do that. It doesn’t matter, whichever is the case. The result is the same.

If you’ve never been in such a relationship, count your blessings, because it’s much easier to become ensnared than one might think. The psychopath knows what you want. The psychopath knows what you need. The psychopath knows where you are weak, and the psychopath knows how to exploit those weaknesses. The psychopath knows where you are strong, and the psychopath knows how to avoid those areas. The psychopath knows how to get into your head and into your heart, and how to keep herself there. The psychopath knows how to hook you, and the psychopath knows how to keep you on the hook.

And walking away doesn’t always work; it depends on what the psychopath is getting out of it. The key thing is that the psychopath has to lose interest. The psychopath has to come to believe that her toy is broken; only then will she move on to find a different toy. As long as she is getting what she needs out of the toy, she will keep picking it up. I don’t pretend to know what she wants from me or what she is getting out of this, but her apology was most assuredly not for me or my benefit, and her immediate switch back to cold, one-line responses is all the proof that I need of that. She just wanted to elicit an emotional response from me, and I gave it to her, because I reacted emotionally–because she knew how to stir those latent emotions back up, how to rip those scabs back off. The psychopath has to be made to lose interest. And this means I must be a gray rock to her.

Because she won’t leave me alone… And goddamn it all part of me doesn’t want her to leave me alone. Part of me wants her to be the person that she pretends to be. But she never will be. That’s what I want, though: I want her to be the person she pretended to be, to be the person she ostensibly wants to be. But she isn’t that person. And I’ve accepted this. I accepted it long ago.

Relationship Reflections: Will You Be My Mirror?

2015 was a life-changing year for me, and 2016 is going to be even more life-changing, but for different reasons. 2015 showed me how truly self-destructive some of my behavior was, and 2016 shall be the year marked by my move away from that path. In order to truly do this topic justice, I have to explain a few things.

First, there is the simple fact that I love women. I love everything about women, and “feminine beauty” is a phrase that you will read here more than any other. I am totally and completely in love with feminine beauty, feminine grace, and femininity–whatever you wish to call it. This is pervasive in my life, and it’s one of the greatest ironies of my life that I have no attraction to men whatsoever. In fact, my love for femininity is part of the “problem,” as is my failure to see anything attractive about what is masculine–with the exception that I have a bit of a penis fetish, but there’s no need to get into that, because it’s not really pertinent. The core of this paragraph is just to say that I wholeheartedly love everything about women, and that I find very, very little about men that is appealing.

This included my male self for the most part, but it gets more complicated than that.

People who know me also know that I have a very specific “type” in regard to women: slender brunettes with long hair, preferably straight, without bangs. For some reason, the hair is a major aspect of my attraction, and bangs are almost a deal-breaker. I don’t know why that it is; it just is. And it’s easy to see this from my relationship history. My ex-wife (from whom I divorced for reasons entirely unrelated to this) was, of course, one such figure. Slender brunette, long-haired, no bangs. The girl I dated before I met the ex-wife: slender brunette, long-haired, no bangs. The girl before the girl that I dated before I met the ex-wife: slender brunette, long-haired, no bangs. The girl for whom I drove 1700 miles to be with last year by moving to Las Vegas: slender brunette, long-haired, no bangs.

There’s definitely a pattern, and my haste and willingness to drop everything, gamble everything, and move across the country to be with someone I hadn’t really seen since early adolescence was entirely a result of her being a slender, long-haired brunette with no bangs. She was also intelligent and fun to talk to–don’t mistake me for being shallow, because it wasn’t that simple. If physical appearances were enough, I wouldn’t have left my ex-wife. This does not change the fact, however, that the physical appearance is why I was so willing and eager to move to Las Vegas; I wouldn’t have done that for just anyone. In fact, I’d had the opportunity a few years before to move to New Jersey to try a relationship with another woman, but I didn’t pursue it, and I tend to think that it’s because she wasn’t a slender brunette–she was slender, but also blonde. There’s nothing wrong with that, but…

Those slender brunettes are my weakness.

I’ll spare you the details of the Vegas ordeal, for the most part, except to say that she turned out to be a shallow liar; I was her Mount Everest, and she simply wanted to climb it. It was surely more complex than that, but that’s sufficient for now. And I suddenly found myself in Las Vegas and totally alone, having spent nearly all my savings moving there and then surviving there while I sought a job, and trying desperately to make the relationship work so that I hadn’t just given up my entire life for nothing. In the end, however, I had given up my entire life for nothing, and I had no choice but to return to Mississippi. My funds ran dry, and I barely had enough money to get back. All my fault for taking the leap, I don’t and haven’t ever denied that. I will never dispute that I was the one who rolled the dice. However, I did so because she was the one who controlled the outcome, and I had every reason to believe, prior to this, that the outcome would be what I expected it to be.

When I returned, I began evaluating myself, what I had done, and why I had done it, and I did so with sincerity. I was not trying to trick myself or deluding myself; I knew what I had done was stupid, and I wanted to know why I had been so willing and eager to do something so stupid. But the answer was staring me in the face, and it was one I’d told to a friend shortly after my divorce, a friend who was, until last year, the only person who knew any of this: I needed a slender brunette in my life. It wasn’t a question of wanting. It was a question of needing.

And as I evaluated my past relationships and my awful reactions to the ends of those relationships, it became more and more obvious. All I’d ever done was transfer feelings for one slender brunette to another. When J. and I broke up, I was devastated until I got with L. I immediately just transferred everything I’d felt for J to L. Then the same thing happened again, but I got with A., who I eventually married. N., the Vegas chick, was just the latest in a long series of women as I transferred my feelings from one to the next, caring for and loving the woman in question, but loving something much deeper that was entirely independent of the person involved.

It is no coincidence that I am a slender, long-haired brunette with no bangs.

Messing around on Craigslist one night when I was bored, I posted a listing. I don’t remember now the details of the listing, but it wasn’t anything particularly big, and it wasn’t anything sexual, either, because I’m not that kind of person. But it was about cross-dressing, and one of the people who replied said something like, “Good girl” in reply to something I’d said. And in that one moment, I realized that what I’d told that friend years ago was far bigger to me than I’d thought. She was the friend I’d told I was considering SRS shortly after my divorce, but I played it down with her; I played it down to myself. It was too big of a thing, and I wasn’t ready to face it or even acknowledge how much it meant to me. I just thought of it as an anomaly, some weird fetish I had, but certainly nothing that could make or break my spirit.

I was chasing after these other women trying to almost parasitically get something from them that I should have been producing myself. I shouldn’t have been trying to draw feminine beauty from them–that was too destructive, too parasitic, and the Vegas ordeal showed me keenly how incredibly destructive that could be. I knew that I couldn’t do that again; I barely survived the last one. When you’re sitting at the starting point of a 1700 mile drive with nothing to look forward to at the end and nothing to go back to, walking into the desert with your 38 special is extremely tempting.

It was never the brunettes that I loved. Well, it was, because I did love and care about all of them, but that’s not what I mean. They were just symbols of my inner self, the one I wouldn’t let myself acknowledge. So losing them when the relationship ended was like having a piece of myself die, and it was brutally devastating. It wasn’t J. or L. or N. that I had a difficult time letting go of–it was that they represented a part of me, they provided the slender feminine brunette beauty that I needed, and that was what I loved, and even was addicted to.

It’s a fact of extreme significance that since I made the decision last year to move forward with this, to stop hiding it, and to stop trying to convince myself that it isn’t as important to me as it is, that need to have a relationship with someone like J., L., or N. evaporated entirely. Now it is a matter of “want,” not a matter of “need.”

As always, Mississippi does not make this transition easy, and the physical changes hormones bring will make employment virtually impossible six months from now, once I begin growing breasts and stuff. Your assistance to help me get through this would be beyond appreciated:

https://www.gofundme.com/ariatransition