Merry Christmas, everyone! I start by getting my coffee fix at the Horseshoe, and breakfast there also. I finish my draft of my story on Longines watches, then call Aunt Pat to wish her a merry Christmas. It's the usual monologue about how she is overwhelmed at every turn. Her speech is barely understandable at this point. But I try and listen patiently and interject a benign phrase here and there in an attempt to avoid exacerbating her already seemingly agitated state, but at the same time not sound patronizing, which I know will piss her off. I feel like this will be her final Christmas, and that an extra measure of patience is called for and deserved. She has certainly pulled more tricks out of her bag than any us in the family could have imagined, but I believe the bag is finally empty, and that one day in 2014 Dawn and I will be going to Maryland to take Aunt Pat on her final journey, fulfilling her prophecy that "feet first" will indeed be the only way she will leave her trailer.
I do the fitness center routine again, except for the swim, because suddenly the hotel has been mobbed with Asians and their offspring, of which a whole squealing swarm has filled the miniature pool to capacity and beyond. At least I get a nice soak in the hot tub.
For my dinner tonight, I opt for the "American Buffet" at the Horseshoe, because they are advertising steamed crab legs this evening. I hit the buffet at 5 p.m. to try and avoid the crowd, and get early dibs on the crab before the lines start forming in front of the crab station within the buffet. It is delicious, and I peel crab legs until my fingers are sore. I compliment that with some peel-and-eat cold shrimp, a nice salad plate, a modest slice of prime rib, and a couple of dessert items. I feel somewhat gluttonous about the pound or so of crab legs I've taken (resulting in about 8 ounces of meat) until I see diners walking away from the crab station with plate in each hand piled high with crab. There are motorized wheelchairs and Rascals everywhere, as many diners are so large they cannot move under their own power. There are people with walkers with built-in seats, and they use the seats as shelves on which to place mountainous platters of
food as they shuffle their way among the food stations.
A whole platoon of servers literally run back and forth from the kitchen, carrying stacks of dishes piled with crab shells and other detritus on their way in, and trays full of beverages on their way out. Meanwhile, I take note of a guy sitting solo at a table next to mine who looks like he just stepped off the set of "Swamp People." Six foot four (I'm guessing), and dressed in jeans, a desert camo shirt, and suspenders, he has one plate piled with what must the equivalent of an entire KFC bucket of chicken. Another dinner plate is piled with mashed potatoes, mac-n-cheese, and enough squares of corn bread to fill a 9-by-9 baking pan. And to wash down this enormous heap of food, he has instructed his waiter to bring him two large Mountain Dews, lest he run out mid meal and --God forbid -- have to put down his fork or a minute or two.
Even though I've eaten a generous portion of food, I feel like a lightweight. I enjoy my visit here, and every tasty mouthful. But to an outside observer (and certainly from the perspective of the folks who must keep this food trough operating smoothly) it must appear as though Dante invented a 10th circle of hell.
I return to the Gold Strike, where I am royally spanked at one of the $5 blackjack tables, losing eight hands in a row before coming to my senses and cashing out. My $20 winnings earlier today at the Family Guy slot machines have been completely wiped out, and I'm behind $20. But all in all a fun and delicious day.
Bruce
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