Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Forty Plus Vegas

A new day dawns over Las Vegas.  A beautiful sun rises over the picturesque mountains that surround this jewel of the desert.  Not a cloud appears to disrupt the deep, azure blue sky.  Desert flowers open their petals and lean towards the life giving ball of fire in the sky.  Birds chirp a cheery reminder that another day, that sun drenched miracle of possibilities known as a day, stretches out before us, offering an unlimited number of opportunities to create memories.  You, however, notice none of this, because you’re in a hallway somewhere on The Strip, where you’ve been for the past thirty minutes.  You’re wearing one shoe, mismatched socks, and a shirt that says “I Heart Cocker Spaniels.”  You smell like Munich in October.  You’re unsuccessfully attempting to get your hotel room key to work.  It says “Room 217” right on the card.  It says room 217 right on the card sleeve.  It says room 217 on the hotel room door.  So WHY WON’T THIS STUPID KEY WORK?!?!?!  At that moment the hotel manager appears.  It seems the occupants of room 217 called down to the front desk, saying that  they were frightened because an obviously crazy homeless person reminiscent of Ted Kaczynski was trying to break into their room.  You show the manager your key and explain that YOU are in room 217.  He says “Yes sir, you are, but you’re staying in room 217 at The Luxor.  This is Mandalay Bay.”  You, my friend, are a resident of Twenty Five Year Old Vegas.  (As a refresher course, read up on Twenty Five Year Old Vegas in Part 1 of this series, by clicking HERE)
We’re not here to discuss that Vegas today.  We’re here to discuss the other Sin City, or as I call it “Forty Plus Vegas.”  It’s the Vegas for those of us a little gray at the temples.  Truth be told, it’s not really Sin City at this age.  It’s more like Misdemeanor City, or even Comedy Traffic School To Get Those Two Points Off Your License And Keep Your Insurance Rates Down City.  I discovered Forty Plus Vegas on day three of a trip with my old friend Tom last year (and delved even deeper into it on a trip with my wife earlier this year - more on that later).  Loyal readers already know that day one with Tom did not go well as far as we can recall, and day two went even worse (“Mgggwt!” “Pllrmmmmr!” “Aye, matey” “Punches!” “Let me know if you find my spleen.”).  Day three we discovered that in Las Vegas, it’s apparently acceptable to NOT be stumbledrunk at noon.  I know, I know, it was as much of a shock to us as it is to you.  Everyone please calm down.  As I write these words, The High Council of Twenty Five Year Old Vegas is drawing up paperwork to have me officially declared a heretic and burned at the stake. (Luckily, The High Council will be on Sambuca shot #4 before the paperwork is finished, forget all about it, and embark on yet another evening of firebombing their liver and auditioning for roles on the show “Las Vegas Jailhouse;” I feel pretty safe)  Day three, after breakfast - not half-eaten PopTarts found in the sock drawer and washed down with warm remnants of last nights beer, but actual food - we had a drink.  Let me repeat that - we had “A” drink, as in “one drink,” as in “Let’s at least pretend we’re grownups, if only for a little while.”  We sat in a lounge at Palazzo with that drink, people watched, and played a fun Vegas game called “Are They Hungover Or Still Wrecked?”  Around 1PM, we rediscovered the wonders of napping.  That’s right, napping; not just for children anymore.  Tom chose the couch in our room for his slumber. (Middle aged guys will know why I pointed that out - there are couch nappers, chair nappers, and bed nappers - in Twenty Five Year Old Vegas, there are Unintentional Driving Nappers, but they don’t count here.  Rarely, if ever, will a guy stray from his preferred method of napping, except during a life threatening situation such as being held at gunpoint by terrorists, or being forced to spend Sunday afternoon at his in-laws house by terrorists, or avoiding the annual gutter cleaning)  A bed napper myself, I awoke at 3PM feeling like a human being.  It was a strange feeling to have in Las Vegas, and it was at this precise moment that the existence of Forty Plus Vegas was revealed. 
What is Forty Plus Vegas?  I’m so glad you asked....
At the most basic level, it can be explained thusly: Forty Plus Vegas involves quality, not quantity. This is the Vegas of excellent steak at The Palm, not $4.99 “Prime Rib Meatlike Product” at Rotten T Dirtbags Casino And Bowl-A-Rama.  The Vegas of Macallan, not 3-for-1 shots of rotgut Gin with a curse word in the name and a picture of a Lizard on the bottle.  The Vegas of shows that are actually worth the price of admission, and where the performers are clothed. (*Guy Note: These are not the only shows we attend, but they are in addition to the nudie shows.  Also, in Forty Plus Vegas we go to the nicer nudie bars; the “Gentlemen's Clubs” where you don’t need to wear a plastic slipcover under your clothes, and the chances of catching anything simply by breathing the air are somewhat less than 50/50)  This is the Vegas that adheres to the legend of the Rat Pack Vegas: a sportcoat or cocktail shirt instead of a tuxedo t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, a bar or lounge where you can have a conversation without shouting yourself hoarse, mens rooms that don’t make you wonder if the monkey from Outbreak is dead in one of the stalls.  You know, fun but classy.  In Forty Plus Vegas, we actually unpack our suitcase in the room and put stuff in the drawers. (We also put our cholesterol and blood pressure medicine on the countertops) Oh, we also use coupons in this Vegas, and we’re proud of it.  You know that $ we saved on our show tickets?  We use that to buy top shelf booze, instead of forcing down a gallon of cheap stuff simply labeled “Wine,” with a taste reminiscent of sweaty dress socks on a hot Cleveland sidewalk in July.  We couldn’t drink that much these days anyway, we’re going to be up four times a night to tinkle as it is, and that much liquid will only exacerbate the problem.  
Forty Plus Vegas is the Vegas where “morning” actually exists.  The Strip is amazingly quiet and spacious before noon.  The breakfast buffets have some of the best food out there (The Sunday buffet at MGM is one of my personal favorites).  I think the food is better early in the day because the properties know us older folks are the ones who are awake at that time, so they need to raise the quality and appease us - we have good credit we’re willing to gamble, and no qualms about complaining to the management (Not nearly as much complaining as Sixty Plus Vegas, but that’s a WHOLE other story).  Vegas hotels know that at night, they can fill the all you can eat buffets with reheated, overly curried meat Taco Bell rejected, and the younger denizens won’t notice; they’re too busy making sure their sideways hat is just exactly sideways enough, debating whether to put on a sixth coat of Drakkar, and plotting how to meet the way-out-of-their-league females across the way, to care about taste.  They’d eat well seasoned Alpo without noticing.  In the morning, however, Las Vegas puts on a gourmet spread, and we’ll attack it like my Italian family - in other words, we’ll sit there forever.  We Forty Plusers will lounge at breakfast for as much as two hours, passing the time talking about the previous evening, saying things like “...and after the one young guy with the ring in his eyebrow put out the flames in his girlfriend’s hair, they took off.”  Then we laugh derisively, because we are required by law to show public disdain for the younger generation. (Memo to Twenty Five Year Old Vegas: Someday, you will too)   Mornings are a cornucopia of enjoyment in Las Vegas, though most people don’t now that for years and years.  At least once during a Forty Plus Vegas trip we’ll miss breakfast though, and head out to some of the most beautiful scenery in the world - the finely manicured golf courses of Misdemeanor City.
You know those golfers I described in the Twenty Five Plus Vegas article?  Well, we see them.  We see them because we’re early for our tee time as well, the difference being that we’re not early so we can have more beer before teeing off.  No, we’re early so we can properly stretch, and eat so we can take our blood pressure pills, and work out the many, many, many, many kinks and creaks in our joints before hitting the #1 tee. (We do this so as not to pull anything while riding in the cart and ogling the refreshment girls from a discreet yet still creepy older man distance)  Yes, we grinningly watch over our reading glasses as you younger guys stumble into the clubhouse and order shots at 6:15AM, then sit back and bet each other on which one of you will be “the hurler.”  (On a side note, I’ve won more $ on young guys hurling than any other table game in Vegas - the trick is to always bet on the guy wearing the trendiest sports team apparel; for example, this year watch for guys wearing stuff from TCU or the Arizona Diamondbacks.  These are teams that weren’t supposed to do much but have been wildly successful; by wearing their gear this guy has shown that he’s willing to do anything to gain male peer acceptance, including the rapid ingestion of a Foster Brooks level of tequila shots.  See, there’s a science to betting on vomit) By the time you whippersnappers have bailed on your tee time and retreated to your dank, partially forested $29 hotel room, we’re on the 4th fairway (OK, in the trees down the right of the fourth fairway)(OK, on the 12th fairway, which is on the opposite side of the trees that run down the right of the 4th fairway)(OK, in the sand trap along the side of the 12th fairway)(Shut up).  We’re laughing and having fun and feeling great, ordering beer and casually flirting with the beer cart girl in a way that will make her call her friends later and say something along the lines of “The dude was like my Dad’s age, it was gross!”  By the time we’ve hit the turn, you’re passed out in what is either an uncomfortable bed or a rather nice bathtub (Way to save money on that room, sport!).  Yes, we finish 18, have our 19th hole scotch, and head back to our luxurious accommodations at Palazzo or Wynn or The Hilton Grand Vacations Club to take a nap on a clean bed that feels like you’re floating on air.  
I know full well that young guys think that Forty Plus Vegas is “lame,” (or whatever word these kids use today ... is it me or do all of these damn songs sounds exactly the SAME?) but here’s the thing you young ‘uns need to know: We, the residents of Forty Plus Vegas, are OK with that.  More than OK.  We’re perfectly happy not being considered cool by guys with vomit on their shoelaces, and heading back at the end of the evening to a nice, comfortable, clean room devoid of most insects.  We’re perfectly OK with watching you parade off down the street, yelling and war whooping towards a group of girls (who subtly reach into their purse and grasp their mace as you approach) while we order another Macallan (the 18 year old this time) light an Arturo Fuente, and wonder how long it will be before you realize you left your phone on the table next to us ... and how long before we succumb to the guy temptation and start calling Guatemala, photographing certain body parts with it, and texting those photos to your friends. (We’re forty, but we’re still guys, Giggity Giggity!)  Yes, my young friends, we are perfectly OK with all of it.  Twenty Five Year Old Vegas has its place, and a wonderful place it is, but most of us have done it.  We’ve done it, and done it well.  Now, we’re more than thrilled to pass the baton to a new generation of ralphers, while we enjoy the best of what Vegas has to offer.  Oh, and it does have quite a bit to offer.  Vegas is nothing short of a world class destination, with entries among the best on the planet in the areas of entertainment, dining, shopping, sightseeing, and of course golf.  Obviously gaming is still far and away the #1 attraction - and make no mistake, Forty Plus Vegas in no way eschews the tables ... we dump our cash into the house’s coffers as much as anyone -  but it’s quite possible to have a fantastic trip without ever setting foot on a casino floor.  Eat a delectable meal, then see a spectacular show.  Shop an amazing variety of stores, for budgets of any size.  Hit a golf ball into a sky so blue it makes you dizzy.  
Then head back to The Strip and watch idiots yak on each other.  I mean come on, that’s entertaining no matter your age.
Next, An Addendum: Forty Plus Vegas With Your Spouse (Also known as “Girl Vegas”)
As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at  OR SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG VIA EMAIL THROUGH THE LINK ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE PAGE!  IF YOU DO, THERE WILL BE MUCH REJOICING!    (YAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!) ---------------->

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Twenty Five Year Old Vegas

Las Vegas.  Sin City.  What happens there, stays there.  There’s nowhere in the world like it, except the “other” Las Vegas, and I’m not talking about Laughlin.  I’m talking about the two separate Las Vegas’s (Las Vegasi?  Las Vegasen? What is the plural of Las Vegas? Los Lobos? Les Nessman? Julio IglasiVegas?  Perhaps an informed English major will let me know).  These two cities are separated not by lines on a map, but by the laugh lines and crows feet of age.  Just like in your hometown, Vegas has loud, ultra-hip, crowded places that the young congregate.  In addition, it has places with comfortable chairs, a complete acceptance of pants with loose waistbands, and significantly less floor vomit, where more seasoned individuals gravitate.  These two Sin Cities exist side by side, and their existence is as certain as taxes, death, and The Priory Of Scion (Which I’m pretty sure is either a car company or some kind of runny cheese).
I became aware of the two Vegas’s on a trip to Sin City last year with my friend Tom.  Tom and I have been friends since 1986 (a year which, according to my twelve year old daughter, was shortly after the discovery of fire) and have stayed that way through all of the ups and downs and sideways’s of our lives (Sidewaysi? Sidewaysen? SideWynona?).   Tom currently lives in Germany, where after a decade in the Army he retired and is now the morning radio personality on the American Forces Network there; CLICK HERE and check out AFN Power Connect With Tom Arnholt if you have the opportunity.  (If you ask Tom to say “Gooooood Morning Germanyyyyyyy!!!” he thinks it’s a riot.  No, really, go ahead and do it!  Nothing bad will happen, he won’t try to punch you in the rucksack or anything!)  Tom is the type of guy that other guys like to have Vegas weekends with, an old trustworthy friend who will always back you up, who speaks your particular dialect of stupid, and most importantly is always willing to buy the next round if you nurse your drink long enough and wait him out.  Being old friends, Tom and I remember Twenty Five Year Old Vegas, so on the first night of our 2010 weekend we gamely attempted to recreate those younger days.  They say “You can’t party like you did when you were younger,” but that’s not entirely true.  The truth is you can’t RECOVER like you did when you were younger.  Oh, we had no trouble that first night putting down the beer and the shots and howling at the moon, but when Day Two rolled around, we discovered that despite the Jack Daniels induced delusions the previous evening of a recaptured youth, we were indeed still men over forty.  (GUY TIP: Slamming down JD while saying “If it was good enough for Frank Sinatra, it’s good enough for me!” is nice in theory and an homage to the greatest performer of the 20th century, but you have to remember that there was only one Sinatra, and over his lifetime of being “Francis” he proved he was beyond superhuman.  We, on the other hand, can’t drink like Sinatra.  Can’t sing like Sinatra.  Heck, I even look stupid in a Fedora.  You’re not Frank, so don’t try to act like him. It’s really that simple)(The same goes for Charlie Sheen, but for entirely different reasons)  When the unholy ball of fire known as “the morning sun in Vegas” appeared the next day, I felt as if some of those “guys” Frank was rumored to have been “connected to” had been doing the lead-pipe Pesci dance on my temples. My head hurt.  My knees hurt.  My hair hurt.  I’m not entirely certain, but I think my ovaries hurt. (Ovaries are somewhere on the back of the neck, right?)(Ovari?  Ovaren?  Ovaralifragilisticexpealidocious?)  Everything hurt, folks, that’s the point I’m trying to make.  Tom?  My old friend spent the bulk of the morning staring into a neverending cup of in-room coffee and saying things like “Mrpndhstwww,” and “Uoosaaalm,” and “Ggggggpft.” (I’m paraphrasing)  We undoubtedly deserved the pain, for our brazen act of “age invading” was both unprovoked and indefensible.  The pain was no less than a message straight from God, telling us we were trespassing in the world of the young, and buddy we were not welcome.  That’s right, when paunchy interlopers with graying temples, and mortgages, and photos of our kids in the spot in our wallets where we used to store “protection” attempt to crash the party in Twenty Five Year Old Vegas, punishments from the universe are quick and severe.  So, what is Twenty Five Year Old Vegas?  I’m so happy you asked ...
LAS VEGAS #1: “Twenty Five Year Old Vegas” 
This is the Las Vegas that immediately leaps to mind when someone yells “VEGAS ROAD TRIP! WHOOOOOOO!” The Vegas of movies and beer commercials.  The Vegas of rock stars and Paris Hilton and surprisingly few underpants.  This the Vegas that stays in Vegas after you leave (Partly because you shouldn’t tell anyone what happened, and partly because there’s a Watergate sized gap in your memory tape)(Which is an odd reference to make because in 2011, the majority of people eligible for Twenty Five Year Old Vegas are far too young to have any idea what I mean by Watergate). This is the Vegas with all of the night life and three foot Yaegermeister drinks and loud music and way-out-of-your-league girls who flirt you into buying them drinks until dawn but leave with the guy in the cool car and then you wake up on the sidewalk without pants and sporting a tattoo that says “Hells Accountants - Dubuque Chapter.”  This Vegas is excruciatingly loud,  but no one seems to notice or care.  Yelling into someone’s face who is less than four inches away is not considered rude, and “dancing” with women in a manner that would get you slapped and maced in any other city is an accepted form of woo and charm.
Twenty Five Year Old Vegas is the Vegas where you need one friend who is “that guy.”  The guy who just knows people, and no one else in the group can figure out how he does it.  He’s an odd sort of Norm Peterson/Gadabout hybrid, who knows someone, some insider, no matter where you go.  He seems to have fifty six hours in his day and never sleeps.  He may or may not have been created in a lab. There’s one in every group of guys, that one that your wife/girlfriend is uneasy around, and hints that he may be a con man who’ll be played by a nattily coiffed Leo DiCaprio when they make a movie about his life.  The kind of guy that if for some reason you have a desperate need for six iguanas and a calliope, he’ll “know a place that can hook you up.”  You know that guy?  Of course you do.  That guy is essential to Twenty Five Year Old Vegas.  Without him, a night in Vegas would be just another trip to a bar.  With him, a night in Vegas is like a CIA mission - it’s a fantastic story that will get you killed if you ever tell anyone.
Twenty Five Year Old Vegas doesn’t like morning, in fact morning is its personal Kryptonite. Compared to the freedom of nighttime Vegas, morning has too many things to DO, like figuring out who that girl is, why her husband is there, where you got this Daddy Warbucks costume,  etc.  This Vegas is nearly defenseless against the “morning terrors,” but there is one way to combat it - by having limited contact with the unholy ball of fire known as the morning sun.  To reduce the power of the unholy ball, it is only seen at the end of a night, and is usually greeted with giggles, war whoops, and an unwise trip to a Dennys.  By keeping the night going directly into the next day, the darkside power of the morning is reduced, and everyone knows that Dennys has an almost supernatural force field protecting it from sanity or common sense.  At this late night snack/breakfast trip hybrid, there’s usually one member of your party who ends up asleep in the booth, blissfully unaware of the syrup mustaches and whipped butter sideburns he is given.  This is where the game of golf comes in.  The four guys who planned to play golf stumble to the parking lot and head over that way, with one passing out in the car.  Sure, we can play golf!  We can’t find our shoes or form complete sentences, and we smell like Milwaukee, but put us in a motorized golf cart and hand us those bags full of deadly weapons!  What could possibly go wrong! The remaining three arrive an hour early for their tee time and brilliantly decide to have a 6AM beer in the clubhouse, where one of them returns his breakfast “from whence it came,” if you get my drift, and joins his unconscious buddy in the car.  Seeing the surveillance-level looks they are getting from the golf course staff, the guy somewhat within shouting distance of the far fringes of sober decides that they should bail, over the loud protests of his never-say-die-or-done-drinking pal, who bursts out the door into the parking lot yelling something along the lines of “WE’RE GOING TO VEGAS!!!” They are next seen around 4PM, in a hotel room that may or may not be theirs, trying to make a meal out of the crushed pop tarts in their backpack and asking “Well, how the hell did I lose ONE sock?”
What happens then?  Well, they’ve lathered, so they rinse and repeat.  Twenty Five Year Old Vegas is a loop of debauchery where mortals attempt to become Caligulas (Caliguli?  Caligulen?  Caliguramlamadingdong?), and this is one of the larger differences between it and Forty Plus Vegas.  What is Forty Plus Vegas?  
You’ll just have to come back and see...
As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at  OR SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG VIA EMAIL THROUGH THE LINK ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE PAGE!  IF YOU DO, THERE WILL BE MUCH REJOICING!    (YAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!) ---------------->

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Viva Centerfield

I’m heading to Vegas next week, loyal readers.  I’ll be attending The World Series Of Comedy, a fantastic comedy event produced by my good friend Joe Lowers (More info at  I won’t be competing, but it looks as if I’ll be closing the show on the last night, during the Finals of the contest, so if you happen to be in town that weekend please stop on out and support live comedy by maniacally cackling at everything I say and throwing money and casino chips on stage.  In addition to making the ha-ha stew, I’ll also be writing an article on an interesting duality, of which I’ve only recently become aware; there are indeed two Las Vegas’s. There’s “Twenty Five Year Old Vegas,” and “Forty Plus Vegas.”  I’ve lost money in both, but that’s not the point.  One Vegas involves single malt Scotch, high end cigars, and playing golf.  The other Vegas involves cheap beer in three foot containers, multiple visits to the $1 street burrito buggy, talking about playing golf and possibly even making a tee time, but somehow never making it to the course, because crawling out of bed for your 2:30PM start is WAY too early.  Between now and next week, I’ll be comparing and contrasting these two Sin Cities in detail, in preparation for my highly technical, Nobel-esque scientific experiment in Vegas next week.  Yes, it’s science, and the hunger for and gathering of knowledge for the good of mankind is the only reason for the trip.  What? I love science! Science rules!
Starting tomorrow: Twenty Five Year Old Vegas.
For today, I thought I’d do a monologue joke style blog entry, since I haven’t done one of those for awhile.  Following are assorted snippy comments that lodged in my brain while reading the news.  Please send all hate mail to  Someone will get back to you in 6-8 weeks.
...joke me in, Coach...
A judge in France has ordered a man to pay his ex-wife $14,000 for failing to sexually satisfy her during their marriage.  Upon hearing this, Lisa Marie Presley immediately filed a claim to be awarded Michael Jackson’s entire estate.
Staff and students at the University of Massachusetts set a new world record for the world’s largest stir-fry, which was over 4000 pounds.  Shortly thereafter, the world record for speed-eating 4,000 pounds of stir-fry was set by another group of UMass students, who had been attending the nearby “Legalize Cannabis Rally.”
Statistics show that China now has one of the highest suicide rates in the world.  Man, we are falling behind them in EVERYTHING.
Green Day lead singer Billy Joe Armstrong was removed from a Southwest Airlines flight last week after he refused to pull up his sagging pants.  OK, how bad are Green Day’s sales lately that he has to fly Southwest?
A leaking gasoline pipeline in Kenya's capital exploded this week.  According to Fox News, none of President Obama’s hometown family or friends was injured in the blast.
According to a new international poll, America was voted the world’s “Coolest Nationality.”  The same poll, which apparently consisted of high school seniors, voted Canada “Nationality Most Likely To Hang Out With The Coolest Nationality,” China “Best Nationality To Cheat Off Of During A Math Test,” and France was simply voted “The Smelly Kid.”
The Native American Cherokee National Council has sent letters to about 2,800 descendants of slaves once owned by its members, revoking their citizenship and reducing their tribal benefits.  To cushion the blow, the Council did offer them all $50 in match play at the craps tables and 2-for-1 buffet tickets.
Using an exoplanet-hunting telescope, scientists have discovered what they call a “Super Earth,” a planet that could support life.  Astronomers say this planet, called “HD 85512 b,” already has many things necessary for human life, including oxygen, water, and over 4,000 Starbucks.
Nearly 70 people in New York City were injured by gunfire over the Labor Day weekend.  Mayor Bloomberg praised the NYPD for their performance, as that’s about 1/3 of the gunfire injuries on a typical New York City weekend.
A new survey shows that 80 percent of people engage in “dirty talk” during sex.  Of the other 20%, 14% engage in “romantic talk” during sex, 4% remain silent, and the remaining 2% make vaguely disturbing erotic remarks involving Ed Asner. 
A man in Montreal was arrested after he broke into Celine Dion’s house, ate a pastry from the refrigerator and poured a bath for himself.  This proves beyond a shadow of a doubt just how freaking weird Celine Dion fans are.
This year’s Muscular Dystrophy Association telethon, which was the first without Jerry Lewis as host, earned 2 million dollars more than last year’s program.  Asked for comment, Lewis replied “MAVENCLAVENAGOWYYYEEEEE!” 
An 81 year-old woman in England who is a right-to-die advocate has tattooed “Do Not Resuscitate” on her chest.  Imagine the disappointment of the young, horny tattoo artist who was told “Hey, there’s a chick out here that wants you to ink her knockers.”  OR Actually, she wanted the tattoo on her knees, but she’s 81, so....
The Federal Trade Commission said that two mobile phone apps that claim to treat acne do not work.  Investigators are most curious as to how someone dumb enough to believe acne can be treated by an app can even afford a mobile phone.
As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at