Day 3:



Corey recorded a bit of Jeff's snoring from Saturday night/Sunday morning and e-mailed me the clip. Trust me when I say this is nowhere near a true indicator of the ferocity of the power of Sir Snores-A-Lot. I can hear Bill saying ''Amen'' as he reads this.




On Sunday morning Bill laid out his remaining cache of business cards. He still had the original four Brian had given him but only three of the 25-30 I had given him from our special order. Poor Brian.




Look at the sad state of this group when they came down to check out.




If you think Bill looks worked...




...check out the birthday boy.




Goodbye Luxor.




We dropped off Corey at McCarran so he could catch his 10:30 flight.




Then headed back to Blueberry Hill where Bill ordered the banana pancakes.




I kept my breakfast hand strong with the chocolate chip pancakes. This was later enhanced by the waitress with extra chocolate chips and whipped cream. She was tipped well.




Over Jeff's shoulder I noticed someone familiar.




Is that 14-year old Will Crockwell?




Bill was unamused by both the comparison and Jeff filling his water glass to the brim.




Why does Bill look so bored?




Because we had to return to the Luxor and wait for Jeff to cash in a couple of his winnings vouchers that he had forgotten in his pocket.




The first sign of senility is memory loss.




On second thought, two mornings in a row at Blueberry Hill might not have been the best idea. Much of the ride home included windows being rolled down at 80 mph.




On the way out of town we made a point of ending the trip with a ''blast''.




I find it funny that they had so little faith in the intelligence of their clientele that they felt the need to add the numbers.




Bill, Brian and I filled out waivers.




Jeff, on the other hand, just wavered. I love the choice of targets on the wall.




You can prepare yourself for a masked assailant, an Al Qaeda search and destroy mission in the mountainous regions of northwestern Pakistan, or the slim chance you find yourself among the living during a zombie attack. Because you never know.




We were prepared to bring the muthafuckin' ruckus.



I was up first, going fully auto with an M16.



It was pure adrenaline.




The silhouette that threatened my family is history.




Bill was up next with a 9 mm Uzi.




Is that Vinnie Favorito in his sights?



Ready... Aim... Click? The dude left the safety on Bill's AK.



Wild Bill Crockwell blasting some fools.




Bill likey.




I'm not sure if it's just a coincidence but dude is now pointing like he's holding a gun. We've created a monster.




Then it was Brian's turn. His gat of choice? The OG .45 caliber Tommy Gun.



Machine Gun Brian making short work of his target.




Is that Jimmy Cagney I see through the smoke?




It was curtains for the target.




The aftermath.




Oh, yeah, Jeff was still there. I guess he doesn't do rollercoasters or machine guns.




We were on the road for 30 seconds when Blueberry Hill reminded Brian to stop at Panda Express to use the restroom.




While we were waiting outside we got a text from the Public Enemy himself.




And another.




I won't even explain that one.




Finally back on the road I remembered how much longer the trip back from Vegas always seems.




Fortunately Bill and Brian played dueling iPods.



Bill threw down ''Im On a Boat''.



Brian went back to the mean streets of Temple City as he countered with Mic Ta Tone. I have only two complaints about the weekend's music: 1. The battery on Brian's iPod died halfway home; and 2. I never got to hear any of the Bobby Brown promised to me by DJ Will.he.is and his 23,000-song mp3 player. Bell Biv Devoe, yes, but no Bobby Brown. I mean, don't ask me what I want to listen to if it's clear that it really isn't my prerogative. I've learned one thing: never trust a big iPod and a smile; that's poison.




We stopped at Peggy Sue's 50s Diner where we encountered this sweet piece of Italian machinery. It's not quite the 1961 Ferrari 250GT California that Cameron's father spent three years restoring, but it'll do.




Allow me to introduce the lady who thought Jeff and I were twins!




That's ok because I had Betty Boop to console me.




Mint chocolate chip milkshakes? Check.




We ran into a bit of traffic on the way into Barstow.




The stop and go driving put Brian to sleep.




Bill took advantage of this brief opportunity.




Thanks for keeping me company, Jeff.




If you don't look like this on the way home from Vegas you did something wrong.



Some finals words: I learned much about friendship, family and, ultimately, myself this weekend. But the most significant lesson I want to share is about midgets: After calling three different companies I learned that it costs $500 an hour to get a midget dressed like a cop to come to your hotel room at midnight and dance for your friend who is celebrating his birthday. I learned that the chance of the midget actually showing up is 50/50 due to ''health issues'' (apparently the little people get sick often). Finally, I learned that male midgets will not perform for other males, even if you give your most heartfelt and sincere assurances that no one in your group is gay. Such are the hard truths of this business we call life. So it goes for the best laid plans of mice and men.