Las Vegas Tale

I've wanted to see D'Angelo in concert for years. I still remember where I was when I first heard his album Voodoo. It was about eight years ago, I was at my brother's house in North Carolina visiting him and his wife and son with my mother, my sister and my niece. I bought this album Voodoo because I'd read that D'Angelo was a big fan of Prince and Marvin Gaye. I'm fairly cynical about contemporary music so I figured he probably wasn't that good. My family all sat down to watch a movie, I think it was either Transformers or Old School. Either way, it was a movie I didn't care to see. I was tired because I had been up all night texting this woman I had recently met, a housekeeper at the hotel where I was working, and I was starting to fall for her. So I skipped the movie, laid down on the floor in my nephew's nursery and put Voodoo on my headphones. It was a sonic blast. I've been hooked on his music ever since. (Still hooked on that woman, too, unfortunately :/ )

Last Friday I finally got to see D'Angelo perform live. I went to Las Vegas, braved the 113 degree heat, and had a blast at the concert. The audience was kind of weak, but the show was impeccable. He models his live shows after James Brown quite a bit, meaning he keeps it tight and his band is sharp. His bassist, Pino Palladino, is a legend.

Vegas itself was a stranger experience this time around. Normally I get drunk and play blackjack all night, but I didn't do that this time. As I left the D'Angelo concert I was standing on a street corner with about thirty other people, waiting for the light to change. These two drunk, scrawny, white douches came walking up to our sidewalk group. I overheard their conversation and one of them used the word "niggers". I didn't say anything, figuring no one else heard and that he wouldn't dare to say it again. The Vegas Strip population is at least 50% black. Then, this drunken idiot addresses the crowd. He announces, right in front of me, "Hey, do you guys like black guys?! Fucking niggers!" then he and his buddy laugh and stand at the front of the line as if they're untouchable. I glanced at the group of people I was standing with. There was a black guy taller and bigger than me just a few feet away, but he either hadn't heard what they said or wasn't paying attention. Now, most people probably think I'm a pussy, just because I'm sensitive, easy-going and diplomatic. I believe in non-violence. But I am not a pussy and I'm not afraid to stand up for myself or for others. Clearly nobody was going to say anything to this moron so I said, firmly, "You need to stop using that word now, please." I said it very directly while staring him down. I could tell immediately from his body language that he was going to back down, he was about a foot shorter than me and had a real douche-bag smirk on his face. He said, "It's my word, I own it." I said, "I don't care. I'm not interested in your explanations. Keep it to yourself." Then he backed down. He looked at the ground and went inside himself and quit talking.

I've never been so close to punching someone in all my life. I almost wish he hadn't backed down. I've never punched anyone and I felt the rage burning all inside me and my fists were like mallets. I wish I had punched him but at least I shut him up.

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My other Vegas adventures included a visit to Bauman Rare Books, a bookstore that deals in expensive collector's items, where I met Debbie, whom I had a nice conversation with about James Joyce and classic literature. I went through the store's collection when I came across a rare edition of Ulysses that was illustrated by the artist Henri Matisse and autographed by Matisse. They also had a first edition copy of Finnegans Wake by James Joyce, autographed by the author. It was $21,000. I stared at it for a long time in its glass case, then I went up to Debbie. I was clearly not a buyer, but I figured it couldn't hurt to ask. I said, "How impossible would it be for me to see one of the books in the case there?" She laughed and said, "Which one?" I told her I wanted to look at Finnegans Wake and she obliged. Presumably because the store wasn't busy and because she could sense that I was a real fan and not many people ask to see a James Joyce book in Las Vegas (while I was staring at it in the glass, I listened to her discussing James Bond novels with a dude in flip-flops). She got the book out for me and laid it on the table. I said, "Can I touch it? I don't need to wash my hands?" She let me hold it and look through it. She asked me if I was a fan and I said, "Absolutely. I actually have a tattoo on my arm from Finnegans Wake in Joyce's handwriting." I opened the book and stared at his autograph. It was incredible. I was holding a copy of Finnegans Wake that Joyce had held. We talked about his autograph, I pointed out that it was interesting he had chosen green ink. Debbie said that he probably chose it so that it would stand out on the paper and then she told me that Virginia Woolf used to autograph her works in purple ink. I flipped through the book and told Debbie I just wanted to read the final passage, so I sat and read the last couple pages.

I thanked Debbie profusely and left the store feeling overwhelmed. I actually had to sit down on a bench for a few minutes because my head was spinning.

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I was hoping to get laid in Vegas, but I have no skills.

Hopefully I get laid soon. But life, pleasure, happiness and getting laid don't feel like they used to anyway, without her. Life without my heart, both pieces, is suffering. It's like D'Angelo sings, "I used to get real high, now I just get a buzz."