Vegas, Baby!

Where Stars Go To Die...

I know, I know.  What happened to New Zealand and Australia - the food; the wine? where are the photos from Idaho of whitewater rafting? What about my most recent herping escapades?  How come only two lousy photos and an embarrassing video for the Clan Bake...?  I don't know.  Haven't been in the groove.  Got distracted.  Went to 'Vegas!  That's right: Vegas, Baby!


Yes, my dysFUNKtional sister and I tripped the light FUNKtastic [I'm killin' myself] with a Sister's Only (which would be all two of us), trip to Lost Wages!  It was Grrrrrreat!

I drove to Vegas from Phoenix, stopping en route at the lovely hamlet of Bagdad to spend the night with my beloved, who is drilling at the mine there, and after several wrong turns and semi-frantic phone calls, picked up my sister from baggage claim and hit the ground running.  All the way to the hotel where she promptly took a nap. [Note to self:  Schedule trip to Vegas for day after the day after sister attends "Scorpion" and "Rat" concert.] So, like a good tourist, while Amy examined the backsides of her eyelids, I walked to The Strip and took in the Forum Shops at Caesar's Palace.

I do love me some Titan!

Discovered the area between our hotel - the Candlewood Suites - and The Strip is a kind of no-man's land - or rather, a land where a "no-man" might think you're a hooker if you happen to be walking along with a cell phone to your ear when they stop and ask in broken English for the "way to the office."  (That's a new one.)  I pointed off towards valet parking at the Tuscany and then headed on towards the Corner from Hell (Las Vegas Blvd and Flamingo - uggg!).  He tried to call after me, but I faked deafness and kept moving. [Don't make eye-contact!] A bit later he drove by, honked and waved.  I don't know if he thought I was his new Best American Friend or what, but I decided I wasn't gonna walk this way with Amy, 'cause she likely would've smacked him in the side of the head making American Women look kind of bitchy and aggressive.

When I got back to our fine accommodations, Amy was up and ready to rock and roll.  This time we drove back to The Strip and parked at Treasure Island.  Hey, people, free parking is all over the place.  I dig that one thing almost more than any other about Vegas.  And it was shaded, too!  Sweet!

So, into Treasure Island where we are promptly handed a two-for-one drink coupon good at this cocktail lounge with patio seating and great views of the Pirate Ship Sinking Sirens of the Something or Other show.  Cool.  First a little gaming and then we're off to the patio.  The show was pretty good although $9 for a beer is a little steep - that's worse than Chase Field prices, which I didn't think was possible.  (Although, this was just a warm-up for the truly astonishing price of beer at Cirque du Soleil - although that came in a souvenir cup, which made it slightly less horrific.)

We shared a table with a couple from Germany and quite possibly the dumbest Americans I have ever met.  The American guy was kind of quiet, but the woman reminded me of a skinny yet more vacuous version of Roseanne. She thought the foreigners were exotic and demonstrated an embarrassing lack of knowledge of our own country while she tried to impress them. It was painful.  After the Pirate Show and some covert eye-rolling, Amy and I decided it was time to hit the gift shop and then Gilly's (yes, the bar from Urban Cowboy).

Now, when Urban Cowboy came out in 1980, I was still in High School, and my sister and I had horses.  We were the Urban Cowgirls and I used to dream about riding the bull all sexy like Sissy (Debra Winger), did in the film.  Later on, after I'd graduated from High School, we actually went to see Micky Gilly in Reno (he sings and wears flashy rings, like all good cowboys do...).  It was for my sister's birthday.  I had written a note to Micky about how awesome my sister was and how it was her birthday and how it would be GREAT if he would wish her a happy birthday.  Problem is, I kind of forgot to mention her name or my own in the note.  He got a lot of mileage out of that one, but he DID wish her a happy birthday, so it all worked out.

So, now, here we are at Gilly's in Vegas and I'm getting on that cow bull if it's the last thing I do - well, right after the line dance lesson and the beer - it was happy hour and beers were only a buck.  [Liquid courage and enhanced inability to dance and/or ride the cow bull.]  Sadly, there was nothing at all sexy about my riding.  The guy driving the cow bull tried to shake me off, but I held on with both hands and rode him out, whooping all the way.  I got off and he told me to get back on and let go with one of my hands.  Crap.  I did pretty good until he started spinning the cow bull, and I sort of slid sideways.  I grappled frantically, but it wasn't enough, and I landed on my butt with the cow bull staring me down.  Ah, yes, Vegas.  The place where dreams come true - sort of.

Next day was Fashion Show (a huge shopping mall with free parking in the shade).  I bought a few things, the most notable of which was a corkscrew for Steve so he would no longer have to lacerate his hands with the cheap piece of shit he had in his trailer in Bagdad (I'm thoughtful that way).  Then it was off to see Cirque du Soleil's performance of Ka'.



Ka' was freaking amazing!  I've seen clips and trailers but had no idea!  The Ka' Theatre at the MGM Grand is a huge space and the performers work on a moving platform that rotates in three dimensions - flat, angled, to perpendicular - and is retractable.  The costumes are wonderful; the sound and lighting are fabulous.  I cannot describe it - words don't do it justice.  One simply has to experience it, that's all there is to it.  No cameras were allowed, which was fine because I sometimes don't like having a lens between myself and life, and there were "camera police" throughout the theatre, anyway. (This was fun to watch, because the camera police would tell people that they would be thrown into the fire of doom, or something like that, if they didn't put the camera away now.  It was all I could do to not jump up and holler and wave every time I saw some one trying to sneak a picture.)   I want to go back!

Lastly, as if Sirens of the Something or Other, Ka', line dancing and the cow bull weren't enough, I met the Hit King.  That's right, Mr. Pete Rose of the Cincinnati Reds.  Love him or hate him, this was way cool for me.