Sleeping in Las Vegas

I have never really cottoned to that whole Theory of Relativity thing.  Einstein was a weird cat and I think probably a closet prankster.  Nobody wears his hair like that unless he is up to something. 

I’m supposed to believe that the faster I move, the slower time goes.  That does nothing to explain how I worked at my fastest yesterday and somehow 8:30am turned into 6:00am the next day in a blink.  It also doesn’t explain how, at the end of this monster shift, I tossed and turned in bed until finally giving up on sleep at 10:15.  Einstein was a cheeky cat, and I’m not entirely sure he’s not still alive and opening my hotel room curtains.  Somebody has to be doing it, and it’s certainly not me.

I’m not usually afflicted with jet lag.  Hop and skip to Monte Carlo and I get back on sleeping track within a day.  Usually, after 24 hours in Vegas, I have fixed my body to understand it is unseemly to wake up before noon.   This trip, however, I can neither go to sleep or—if I manage to doze—stay that way for very long. 

I don’t know why I question it.  It seems counterintuitive to believe anyone can sleep in this environment.  For the love of all that’s holy, Jerry Buss is walking around here with a comb-over that, if I could sleep, would give me nightmares.  How anyone can keep a red-dyed marmoset so still on their head is beyond me.

Of course, by late afternoon, to quote Henry Rollins, I feel like Billy Idol himself.  There are no white weddings in Vegas, however, so nice day or not, I’m not entirely sure who I am.

And so I busy myself with the fun sleep depravation provides.  All senses, except the ones that matter, are heightened.  There’s a guy nearby with a bag of weed that smells like it came straight out of a skunk’s hindquarters.  The tats on the waitress’ arm dance like a Japanese cartoon.  I actually am conscious of the blood moving from my heart to my hands.  I don’t know why people get off on drugs so much.  Go two days without decent sleep and the trip is hoo-haw happy.

I think maybe that’s what Einstein was getting at with the whole relativity thing.  Given a decent time-tweak, everybody seems like your brother, grandmother, or future child.  This little family reunion goes on for a few more weeks.  I only hope I come out of it with my hair looking less like ol’ Albert and more like the guy I would dream of being, if I could only sleep.

Brad Willis

Brad Willis is a writer based in Greenville, South Carolina. Willis spent a decade as an award-winning broadcast journalist. He has worked as a freelance writer, columnist, and professional blogger since 2005. He has also served as a commentator and guest on a wide variety of television, radio, and internet shows.

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1 Response

  1. Da Goddess says:

    Okay, this “sometimes the site remembers me, sometimes it doesn’t” thing is making me a little cranky.

    And I’m going to pretend the Billy Idol reference was meant totally for me.

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