Last night there was a big fancy Vegas party for the launch of some big fancy Vegas magazine. It was going until midnight, so, we got out of the show and Jonesy, Glenn, and I headed over. It was a pool party at the Palms, and I guess they had written up that every beautiful woman was going to be there. Well, I know a couple they missed, but there sure were a lot of those "club girls." There were Playboy models and all sorts of people of all sexes handing out business cards for other clubs and parties. We missed the fancy red carpet stuff and Pamela Anderson and stuff, but the party was still going. It's all this decadence stuff. They had big screens with women go go dancing behind them, way up in the air so you could watch the shadows and they had a pool with platforms in the middle with women in big big big platform shoes dancing on them. They were stranded on little islands. There was a lot of alcohol and remixes of songs I hardly knew in the original playing. I walked around and a lot of people said they liked my work. I didn't bother telling them that they hated my work, they hated me sitting around with Teller looking sour and coming up with ideas that suck and then finding out that the ones that didn't suck, don't work, what they like is the RESULTS of my work - but why quibble with people who don't mean what they say anyway?

There were very attractive people and I was walking around. A couple women tried pretty hard to get me to dance, but I wasn't going to unless I was up in one of those shadow boxes, and then only if I were naked. My hair keeps getting longer, my beard keeps getting bigger and I keep losing weight. I'm not going to stop until I look like jesus. Then dancing nude in the shadow box would be even better.

So, you know, I posed for pictures with Carrot Top (I get to call him "Scott") and we exchanged phone numbers and said we should hang, and it was stuff like that. I kept asking people how the women dancers got on and off the platforms. No one seemed to know. I was talking to a very attractive young woman, who said her friend was out dancing in the middle of the pool and she was worried about her because she was afraid of water, couldn't swim, and "had a weave." I don't know what this means, but I guess her hair was fragile. At least not robust in the water. She said the pool was only 4 feet deep, but she was so scared.

Just then it was time for the party to end and they just pushed little plastic blow-up rafts out to the women. We watched from shore as her roommate struggled with the raft. The poor thing looked terrified and she was getting no where with her big white boots trying to get on the raft. She looked terrified. It was awful to watch.

Well, you know, my life is dedicated to fighting crime, telling the truth, and helping citizens, so . . . "Reach, row, throw, and go" came to mind. I couldn't reach her, the little raft wasn't working, there was nothing to throw, so I started taking off my shoes. I was wearing jeans and a button up shirt. As I walked in I realized that either the pool was deeper than the woman I was talking to thought, or 4 feet was deeper than I thought. I came up a few steps and emptied my pants pockets and handed all the stuff to a random homosexual photographer who was complaining that he didn't have a camera. I walked with the attitude of Gamera, friend to children, out to the platform. The water came to just above my belt (is that 4 feet?). It was hard to walk, and there were disco lights, and very loud music. I got to the platform and the woman seemed very confused, I said, "Come here." She came toward me a bit, I picked her up, wrapped her around my neck in a modified fireman's carry (let's call it a crime-fighter carry) and we walked to safety. As I walked out of the water, expecting a parade, there was long-suffering Glenn, negotiating with several bouncers and officials from the hotel. They had decided to throw me out and Glenn was, I presume, explaining that crime fighters always do stuff like this and it was okay.

The woman I carried out was very grateful and I was very wet. She came back to thank me more later, but apparently thought that telling me how grateful she was was better than showing me. Well, we crime fighters don't do this stuff for rewards, now do we? My jeans were soaked, and I realized I had left a deck of cards (all gimmicked and ready to go) in my hammer pocket on my jeans that are like the kids wear and they were ruined. I gave them to a club girl, so look for them on EBay, as real crime-fighter cards.

Glenn asked me if I wanted to be thrown out of every hotel in town and how much of a trouble maker I wanted to be. Glenn is wonderful. I walked around the party a bit more and took some pictures, but crime fighters start to chafe. I went to my car, took off my pants, and drove home bottomless (which is probably illegal anywhere but Vegas).

So, I made Glenn work during his time off. Blaire has some stuff to dry out. And I'll be watched more closely at another hotel.

But, I do what crime-fighters have to do.

Penn

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