What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Is it July 10th already? Really?

Last I remember, I was telling you that the next blog would be published on July 10th, all the while thinking to myself: "that's a long time from now..." But as we've discussed here in the past, time flies at incredible speeds and after looking at my calendar for most of June and saying, "two weeks until my trip...one week to my trip...", that trip is now more than a week in the rearview and it's back to New Jersey, the cats, and the blog.

So yeah, I'm gonna take this time to tell you about my trip(s). And I understand that sounds pretty self-serving, maybe even boring, like standing in your co-worker's office the day he gets back from Florida and trying to look interested while he swipes through pictures of his kids exploring the Everglades on his cell phone. I hope I can make it a little more interesting than that.

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FIRST LEG- THE FUNNY BOOKS

I've been attending comic book conventions since I was 13 years old. I'd bring the birthday money my grandmother gave me, add in whatever cash I had collected from my allowance or doing odd jobs, and take the train to the comic show in Manhattan. There I'd carefully pick out books I needed to complete a collection, and drool over the Superman and Batman books from waaaay back in the 1940's, finally choosing one to take home. At three, four and five dollars each, they were all that I could hope to afford.

Now? I bring my checkbook!

When I decided about six years ago to sell my long-held childhood collection and flip the money to buy the more coveted books from the '30's and '40's, I got together with one of the biggest comic dealers in the country; I had been a regular customer of his since the late '90's. I proposed we work out some kind of deal to help sell my collection, and he agreed to give me a smaller table next to his; in return, I'd pay for the space and turn over 10% of my profits. It worked out well.

When you consider that I paid between twelve and thirty cents each for most of my comics and was now selling them for as much as five to six hundred bucks a piece, I did very well, even after turning over the 10%. Of course I didn't get that much for all my books. Most sold for between forty and a hundred dollars each. Still, nothing to sneeze at....

Since that time, I have been attending conventions in different cities but had been told that for the specific books I'm looking for, the Charlotte convention was the place to be. So I hopped on a plane on June 19th and spent the next day walking around what was probably the biggest display of vintage comic books I've ever seen, the famous New York Comic Con included.

I went from table to table perusing the goods like a jewelry dealer looking over exotic diamond collections, before deciding which dealers I was ready to bargain with. By the end of the day I had a full backpack, a lighter bank account and a couple of fat-boy pimples on my right thigh from walking up and down the aisles for four hours.

But my obsession was satiated, and I flew home happy.

I've posted a pic of one of the more unique items I bought, a Superman giveaway from 1948.

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SECOND LEG- TALKIN' BASEBALL

David lives in Port Townsend, Washington and we've been attending the SABR baseball research convention together almost every year since 2006, visiting cities from Philadelphia to Long Beach, California. This year's get-together was in Dallas but having been brought up in the tri-state area, David is a life-long Mets' fan, so we took in a game the night before our flight. The seats were good. The Mets were not.

The next morning, I gave my newest housekeeper her explicit instructions on the care and feeding of my brood ('Mikey and DJ get three spoonfuls of wet food...Consuelo comes down later and eats from the can, but make sure she gets her treats!') Then I packed a suitcase and a backpack and jumped into the car with David.

Less than a week after my comic book orgy in North Carolina, I was headed back to the airport, bound for Dallas.

I got in line for the security check and proudly presented my Real ID to the TSA agent (See: "No Appointments Available" blog- 5/15.) All seemed easy enough until said agent snapped my picture and looked at the ID.

"Can you stand in front of the camera again, please?" he asked. I did.

He took another picture, then checked it against the information he had in his computer. "I'm sorry sir, you're going to have to go downstairs to the check-in desk. Something on your ticket is not matching..."

Uh...what?

He apologized again. I held my temper and, loaded pack on my back and rolling my suitcase behind me, went down the escalator to the United Airlines ticket desk, my right thigh starting to throb again after the comic convention marathon of the week before.

Fortunately, since most tickets are pre-paid and most boarding passes already downloaded, not many customers still use the ticket desk, so I was able to get some help quickly. I produced my ID again and explained the issue. The girl at the desk looked up my info and shook her head. She seemed confused.

"Is your name Irvinjay?"

I sighed. Since becoming a United Airlines member, the website had mashed up my first and middle names, hence whenever I bought an airline ticket, it listed me as 'Irvinjay', like some sort of "Hunger Games" mutation. I explained this all to her.

"That must be the problem," she said confidently. "I'm just going to fix it in the system." But somehow the system wouldn't take the change, so she printed out a new boarding pass for me, hoping it would match what she saw on her screen. It didn't.

With the computer info still reading 'Irvinjay' and my boarding pass saying 'Irvin', she assured me that if I returned to the check-in agent, they'd accept me. And if they didn't, I should come back and she'd help me get through.

I didn't believe anything she said, but I trudged back upstairs anyway, ignoring my right thigh. Miracle of miracles, I got through this time with no issues and boarded the plane. We had splurged for first class seats, so I was able to drink immediately.

Once in Dallas, we met up with Mike from San Antonio and the three of us spent the next four days listening to baseball presentations that included subjects so obscure that I wouldn't dare list them here. Let's just say it was a baseball nerd's paradise. The weekend highlight came on Friday night, when we attended a Texas Rangers' game where Mike had landed us tickets to the most expensive section in the park.

Expensive because it included a veritable orgy of food in a huge banquet room the size of a catering hall. By the time we were done eating and drinking and got back to our seats it was the fifth inning!

I have posted a picture of one of the simpler food tables. This was a baseball game!?

The next day was my landmark birthday and I spent the morning having breakfast at Denny's; the afternoon listening to former Major League ballplayers tell stories; and the evening at a Mexican restaurant outside of Dallas.

Was it the most exciting birthday I've ever spent? Probably not.

But I was eagerly anticipating my third and final stop--VEGAS, BABY!!

Where sun, drinks, gambling, and airline f*ck-ups awaited!

There was also a carving station, dessert table and an open bar!

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THIRD LEG- SIN CITY!

I landed in Vegas on Sunday afternoon and took a shuttle downtown. This is a unique thing to do when visiting this city, since the majority of visitors head toward the over-crowded strip. But I was registered at the Circa Hotel, a place I chose because it houses a national radio station known as VSIN, the Vegas Sports Information Network. I won't go into details about this station--it was created by sportscaster Brent Musburger and his brother--and it focuses 24/ 7 on a subject I've been interested in for many years. If you're curious, you can find it on iHeart radio or on Sirius/ XM channel 158.

As a matter of fact, I kind of got my current job at the Borgata in Atlantic City due to my listening to this network: my current boss makes regular appearances on the air every week and it was my familiarity with his name that opened the door for me to introduce myself on a visit to AC.

And of course, in true Zelig fashion, I've also become friendly with the hosts of the afternoon show, meeting them the last time I was in Vegas two years ago and planning on having lunch with them again on this trip.

But first it was officially vacation time, so I started it by sitting down at the three-card poker table, the only game I really play when I'm in a casino. My first attempt didn't turn out all that well, so after a few hands, I cut my losses and took a side door out to Fremont Street.

I'm not sure if you're familiar with Fremont Street in downtown Las Vegas but think of it as a west coast version of Times Square, with half-naked women brandishing whips in place of costumed Cookie Monsters and Spider-Men. It's a hot, vibrating, tourist-populated carnival, where every storefront is either a hotel/casino, a restaurant or, seemingly at every available spot, a bar.

I have posted a very descriptive picture below.

I bought a Jack Daniels-flavored slushee (a disgusting concoction which I quickly discarded,) then ducked into the Golden Nugget. I often have good luck at their Atlantic City location, so I thought I'd test my fortune at their Vegas three-card poker table.

Didn't work.

Suffering another financial setback, I headed to dinner back at my hotel, then hit the sack.

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The next day was my afternoon at the pool. The Circa boasts an immense array of pools, surrounded by huge television screens, all showing different sporting events, and populated by waitresses in bikini tops and very small thongs.

As part of my hotel package, I was given a free 'day bed' for the afternoon, a large, blue, couch-sized piece of furniture at poolside that could easily sleep three. It was covered with hotel towels however, as its surface was already scalding hot by 11 am.

One of the thong-clad pool girls ushered me to my couch-bed, while another attendant brought me more towels and a menu. I opened up to the drinks and asked for a mimosa.

"Sorry," the girl said. "We only sell champagne by the bottle."

"How much?" I asked foolishly.

She pointed to the cheapest bottle, priced at a cool $495. I shook my head.

"How about a screwdriver?" she suggested.

"I'll take it!"

The pool boy stepped in. "Can I get you a bucket of beer? Or water?" The hot surface of the day bed and pool deck suggested that a few bottles of water might be a smart purchase. I ordered a bucket, then lay down and opened my book.

'Ahh....finally. Vacation!'

Thong-girl brought me my screwdriver, served in a milk bottle-sized plastic cup. My bucket of waters soon followed: six full-sized bottles of Smart Water. I drank, napped, read, took a dip in the pool, tried to read my phone under the blazing Nevada sun, drank a bottle of water.... but here's where I divert from most people: I got bored.

I watch countless beer commercials where the main goal in life seems to be to lie on a beach with friends, drink endless bottles of beer, and leave everything else in life behind.

I used to travel around the country with my late brother, and whenever we'd get to a city like San Diego, Laurence would see a seaside cafe and say, "If I lived here, I would sit at that table reading my book all day!"

Not me. I can deal with that lifestyle, for, oh, maybe two hours. Then I get antsy. I need to get up and do something else: look for a new restaurant, watch a ballgame, play three-card poker. SOMETHING!

So after a couple of hours of Vegas Paradise, I asked for the bill and Thong Girl brought it. The screwdriver (that I was still drinking and would be for the rest of the day) $38. The bucket of Smart Waters? $36.

A 14% pre-charged gratuity was already added, along with tax and the usual shadowy 'convenience' fees. Then of course, the bill challenged me to add an additional tip if I so chose, so to not look like a cheap tourist, I tacked on another ten bucks.

Final total for my 'free' day bed? $102!

(I have to be fair though: $200 worth of complimentary food and drinks were part of my package, so all I really paid for were the fees and the tips. So yeah, I didn't really have to pay the whole $102...)

I packed up and headed toward the studio to finalize lunch plans with my radio friends for the next day. When one of them came out to meet me and we had settled on a meeting place, he returned to the studio. It was then that I noticed a guy standing in a corner watching us. Having been in radio for so long (and having been one myself at times,) I knew a groupie when I saw one.

I turned to him and he looked back at me in awe. "How do you know them?" he asked; he had obviously been standing around the studio looking for a chance to meet his radio heroes.

I explained that I had started by writing pithy emails to their show and how they started reading them on the air until they knew me by name. I didn't mention anything about my lifelong Zelig tendencies.

Ron was visiting from Virginia and was a 30-year Navy veteran who told me he had one more mission coming up: he'd be deployed on a flight connected to the George H.W. Bush soon (the ship, not the late President.) He seemed like a really nice, genuine guy, so as we left, I leaned towards him. "Listen," I said. "We're having lunch at the deli upstairs at 11 tomorrow morning. I'm sure if you happened to stop by, they'd be happy to say hello..."

His face lit up and he thanked me profusely. I nodded and headed back toward Fremont Street where half-dressed stud cowboys were still mingling with half-naked showgirls. Everybody was drinking. I found another hotel/casino about a block away, the sister property of the Circa; I went inside figuring I'd give my favorite game a try one more time.

This was a little bit of an old-timey Vegas casino, reminiscent of the ones that populated the 'old' strip fifty and sixty years ago. But their three-card tables looked as promising as anyone else's, so I sat down across from a guy about my age who looked like a regular; between us sat a younger fellow whose friend had lost and gotten up to leave.

"I'm just watching to learn this game." the remaining guy said.

The other regular and I explained as we played. The good thing about three-card poker is that you don't play against each other; it's everyone against the dealer, which creates a bit of camaraderie. And the object of the game is to hit three of a kind, or better yet, a straight flush: three consecutive cards, all the same suit. As you can imagine, when you only get three cards, this is very difficult to achieve. The three-of-a-kind pays 30-1 on your bet, the straight flush 40-1...

"See," I said, showing the novice my hand. "This is a regular straight. It pays well, but it's not a straight flush. The suits aren't all the same." He nodded.

The fun part of this game for me is 'squeezing' my hand. I pick up my three cards, seeing the top card first, then revealing the back one. This leaves the one in the middle unseen. If the first two cards are promising, I literally then squeeeeze the cards apart, slowly revealing the third card.

About a half a dozen hands into the session, I picked up my cards and sat face-to-face with a King of Hearts; the back card was a Jack of Hearts.

Well! Simple card knowledge alerted me that if the middle card was a queen, I had a

straight. But if it was a queen of HEARTS...I squeezed. Hard. The following facts about the middle card as I slowly revealed it went through my brain within about three seconds:

It has a round shape: a three, an eight, a queen. I squeezed harder.

It's a queen.

It's red.

At this point I resigned myself to the fact that it would be the queen of diamonds and I had a straight; I'd collect a nice amount. But not the same as if it had been a heart. I squeezed one more time.

Queen of hearts!

I yelled out loud.

The regular at the other end of the table looked up nonchalantly. "That sounds like a straight flush," he remarked. I smiled and put down my cards. "Yeah," I admitted. "The yell for three of a kind is a little different." We chuckled.

I showed my cards to the newbie and explained why I won and why so much. I tipped the dealer, played a few more hands and soon realized that I had peaked. I have a pretty good sense of when to walk away after a win, rather than staying there and trying to break the bank.

I don't like talking money like a big shot, but let's just say I won enough to spend the rest of the week on the pool day bed if I so desired. I did not desire.

The next morning, Navy-man Ron was dutifully stationed outside the restaurant. I greeted him and we waited for our favorite radio guys to show up. They did, then spent a nice amount of time talking with their newest fan. As he left, Ron told me it was the thrill of a lifetime for him. Having done my good deed for the day, I headed into the restaurant.

Mitch Moss and Pauly Howard were both brought up in the mid-west and came to Vegas about 20 years ago to make their fortunes. They ended up hosting a very popular national radio show dealing with sports. This made it easy enough for us to trade stories until it was time for them to prepare for that day's show.

When they left, I went up to pack. I had one more stop to make: my cousin was in town, and I spent the rest of the afternoon with and her husband at the ridiculously opulent Caeser's Palace shopping mall across town. Ande and Frank travel extensively, so a quick hop from LA to Vegas was not a big deal for them to come and belatedly help celebrate my birthday.

They've both spent their careers in the movie-making business, which provided the opportunity to talk something other than sports or cards for a change. But honestly, I was starting to hit a wall. Two weeks, three cities, lots of money spent. Time to pack it in.

They drove me to the airport where my flight unfortunately included a one-hour layover in Phoenix. (Four cities!) But that was fine. I just needed to go home. Incredibly, a storm was being predicted for the greater Vegas area, but so far we had seen no sign of it. I got dropped at the airport two and a half hours before my flight.

I was coming to the end of a fairly successful and satisfying vacation, which happily had no major speedbumps, obstacles, or setbacks.

Till I got to the airport.

BEATS Times Square any time!

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THIRD LEG, PART 2- THE RECKONING

With so much time to go before departing, I stopped for a drink, then moseyed down to the American Airlines desk to confirm my flight. I got there, then stared at the board in disgust. The flight had been moved to a gate on the other end of the terminal.

Fortunately, I had bandaged up my barking right thigh. so the walk was more annoying than painful. With my backpack, rolling suitcase, and smaller drawstring bag in tow, I finally got to the new gate, where I learned that the flight was delayed for at least an hour. I did the math quickly. That wouldn't give me a whole lot of time to catch the connecting flight from Phoenix to Newark. I sat down to contemplate this development when my phone began to ping. It was American Airlines alerting me that the flight was now delayed by an hour and fifteen minutes. Another ping. An hour and a half.

At this point making my second flight was totally out of the question. While I was trying to come up with options, the airline had figured this problem out as well, and politely informed me, via text, that when I finally got to Phoenix I would be put on their next available flight to Newark--at 4pm the next day!

This was becoming a nightmare. I've never really experienced major issues when flying, but now I felt totally helpless. I was being told that I would fly to Phoenix, Arizona, sometime tonight, be forced to find a hotel where I would no doubt have to check out by 11am, then wait five hours for a flight from Phoenix to New Jersey. Not acceptable!

An airline representative finally showed up at the desk; I ran up and explained my predicament.

"There was a bad windstorm a while ago," she explained. "Air traffic control was affected. We don't even know when the flight to Phoenix will be cleared to leave."

"If I have to stay in Phoenix, do you compensate for a room?"

"Sorry," she said. "It was an air traffic control problem, not ours."

Whatever that means.

"Look, I don't want to spend a day in the Phoenix airport waiting till 4:00. Are there any other flights to Newark before that?"

"We don't have any" she said. "But I think United has two."

I perked up. "Do they have any seats open?"

She checked her computer screen and nodded. "Yes. If you go to Terminal D, you can catch one of those."

I thanked her, packed up my items and looked for Terminal D. Naturally, I had to take a tram to get there, then a couple of escalators, followed by a moving walkway (which wasn't moving.) Once there, I made my way to the gate and asked if I could still buy a ticket to Newark. The friendly United guy said yes and proceeded to take my information, charge my credit card, and assign me a decent seat on the earlier of the two flights.

"But you have three items, so you'll have to check one of those in before you board," he informed me. I was so happy to be booked on a direct flight home, that I didn't care.

"That's fine," I said and thanked him, then moved over a few gates to wait for the early flight. The scene here did not tell a good story: Groups of people, families, bedraggled customers sat, laid, and sprawled around the gate area, having obviously been there for quite a while. I looked up at the board and my jaw dropped.

Apparently, this flight was originally scheduled to depart at 3pm but was now listed as leaving at 8. These folks had been waiting here over four hours, with another hour to go. At least!

I sat down at an empty plastic seat and plugged in my phone. It had suddenly occurred to me that I had now paid for two flights: I had just bought a ticket on Untied but had never officially canceled my ticket on American. I went on their website, but I didn't think that trying to explain why I deserved a refund via an email message would work out in my favor, so I called them instead; I was quickly informed that there would be a "30-to-60-minute wait for a representative" unless I wanted to leave a callback number. I did.

Then I sat back and prepared myself for the next surprise announcement. I didn't have to wait long. This new flight was being delayed again: another half hour...then forty-five minutes. Then the capper:

"Ladies and gentlemen, due to the delays from the air traffic control problems, there is a good chance that this flight may not be leaving for a while. We have another flight departing soon for Newark, so if you would like a seat on that, please form a line right here and we will get you on."

This of course, started a mad rush to the front. I debated. Do I join this cattle call, or just wait to see when this current flight leaves? With everyone abandoning ship, it would no doubt be half-empty. And worse came to worst, there was one last flight at 11pm. Either way, I knew I wouldn't be home until early the next morning, so what was the difference?

I watched the line as it lengthened, every passenger impatiently waiting for a boarding pass for the next flight. I stretched out and got comfortable. Didn't stay that way for long.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there is a good chance this original flight may now be canceled. We don't have a pilot and only half of a crew. We suggest you get a boarding pass for the next flight leaving in fifteen minutes."

I looked to the heavens and sighed. Dare I wait for the last flight out at 11? What if that got canceled as well? I unplugged my phone, grabbed my three items and got on line. On the way up, the string on my drawstring bag broke and I had to carry it. My fear now was that I would get a middle seat and have to fly for four-and-a-half hours sitting between... who-knows-what....

Miraculously, there was still an aisle seat available when it was my turn and I thanked my good luck before hurrying to the new gate which was, of course, the gate where the guy had sold me the original ticket in the first place!

Now they started calling out names in the order that we got our boarding passes. They finally got to me and I trudged ahead with my backpack, my rolling suitcase and the drawstring bag with the broken drawstring.

"You're going to have to check one of those," the attendant said.

If I was an emoji at that point, I would have been an eye roll. I nodded and handed over my suitcase.

Five minutes later I was ensconced in my aisle seat, feet stretched out best I could, head back, ready for blissful sleep. Over two hours after my original flight was to depart for Phoenix, four-and-a-half hours after arriving at the airport, I was on my way home.

As the plane built up speed on its way down the tarmac, my cell phone rang. 'Who would be calling me now?' I wondered.

It was American Airlines, calling back about my refund. I shut off the phone.

And I still haven't received it.

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So there it is--I talked about my summer vacation. Never thought I would do something like that. Now I definitely am like that guy in the office who forces you to sit there while he swipes through his endless array of waterfall photos. If you were bored, I apologize.

Could be worse. I could have posted a picture of my right thigh.

Talk Thursday.

IG