ora was taken aback by its size. She had pictured a small, quaint family-style building somewhere off the Strip, with low ceilings, a few friendly stories high. Instead, she found herself staring in amazement at a dinosaur of a structure more than twelve stories high. "Jesus," she murmured, her eyes wide. Carrie Fisher, Delusions of Grandma, 1994

I have to admit, it was with a delicious sense of horror that I approached this hotel that had a fabulous marquee, but from the looks of it, fabulous little else. "Hoo hoo hoo!" I chortled, noting about seven cars in the parking lot. There was a big convertible sedan parked in the front entrance, with a license plate that read: NAYNAY. I wondered: Is this 's car? Does she have a bawdy sense of humor?

As I approached the front entrance, which was flanked by two doormen, I suddenly felt very self-conscious. Am I supposed to be here? Am I trespassing on a celebrity's house? Then I had to remind myself, Debbie needs your business, dude. But I also had insight into why people might not stay here. It feels weird. In a way, celebrity is constructed so that in this situation, you feel unworthy. So I thought of all the dollars I'd be handing over to as I crossed the threshhold into her lobby and casino area. As casinos go, it was pretty mini. A few rows of slot machines, basically. These had signs on them: "'s Hollywood Reels," whatever the hell that meant.

I approached one of the machines, dug into my pockets, and fed the thing. One after another, the quarters clunked in. In literally 30 seconds, I'd emptied eight quarters into Debbie's reels and then I laughed out loud, in a somewhat mean-joke mode: At the Reynolds casino, you never win! You just keep dropping in those quarters!