Photo by Jon Estrada for Vegas Seven
Chumlee cover story! (Photo by Brian Hainer)
Photo by Byan Hainer for my first Chumlee interview
Bryan Hainer has captured a slightly older and slightly wiser Chum for my second Vegas Seven interview
One of the things about living in Vegas is that people (read: tourists) always want to know if you live in a casino, gamble all the time and hang out with the cast of Pawn Stars. This phenomenon is especially true on airplane rides to Vegas. I often find myself writing out a full itinerary for my curious seatmate on a Southwest Airlines napkin by the time we’re touching down in McCarran airport. Even though it’s kind of annoying to play tour guide, I’m happy to help because I see it as my duty as a Las Vegan to keep our city’s livelihood happy and healthy.
So, to answer those cliche queries about casino housing, gambling and Pawn Stars: Nope, almost never and sometimes, kinda yes.
As A&E editor for Vegas Seven magazine, I live in the weird, liminal space where the Vegas fantasy and journalism collide. In such a land, I recently found myself spending a delightful afternoon sharing my love of all things literary with Pawn Stars’ rare book expert and Bauman Rare Books manager Rebecca Romney.
The interview came out a couple weeks ago, and you can read it here. She’s truly such a wonderful and intelligent woman that I URGE you to read the interview just to bask in her smartness.
I’ve also interviewed Pawn Stars’ lovable clown, Chumlee, at least twice. He’s an equally likeable guy, but, as you might imagine, with vastly different attributes.
Read those interviews here and here.
After a year of practice, I finally made it onto the B team, where I went on to have a short and unspectacular volleyball career.
I was such a joiner as a kid. Heck, I still am. That’s why journalism fits me so well. Often my desperate attempts at joining were blocked by the cold hand of ineptitude. The below instance is no exception, but at least I got a fun personal essay out of it for Vegas Seven’s 2014 Storytelling Issue.
I made it into the junior high yearbook holding a basketball! Too bad I wouldn’t make the team.
THE ETERNAL OFFSEASON
Street basketball reigned at elementary school recess. If fate sent the ball into my hands, I would freeze in the confusion and exhilaration of everybody suddenly calling out to me. Cindi, pass the ball! Pass the ball, Cindi! Cindi! Cindi! Cindi! It was heady stuff for an invisible 11-year-old with delusions of grandeur. Dribbling would get me nowhere. Shooting would result in shame. So I clutched that orb of attention as long as I could, savoring my moment of glory. And then I passed. It would always be a letdown, my name forgotten as my classmates played on without me. READ MORE