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Tuesday, September 16, 2003
I'm back from Vegas! I could write an entire book about our trip. Unfortunately, all I have time for is the glossary:
Aladdin
This is the hotel we stayed at. On the whole, I'd give it a rating of "Fair-To-Middlin'". It wasn't super-duper nice, but it wasn't bad. It's also very conveniently located in the middle of the Strip, so it was easy to get to everything. You'd better hurry if you want to stay there, though - apparently it's turning into a Planet Hollywood casino next year.
Alarm, Best Ever
We were in a bar at Caesar's Palace hanging out when an alarm went off. White lights flashed all over the casino, and a "woop woop" noise played over the loudspeakers. No one noticed. When it finally occurred to us that the "woop woop" noise was different than the other noises we'd been hearing for the better part of two hours, we assumed that someone had won the jackpot. A few minutes later, a friendly recorded female voice came over the PA.
"The alarm you are currently hearing is being investigated. Please do not panic. We will keep you informed as we find out more about this problem. Thank you."
Nonplussed and without panic, we continued to drink. Five minutes later the voice returned.
"We have found the cause of the alarm and corrected it. We apologize for the inconvenience. Enjoy your day at Caesar's Palace."
Fair enough. I'm not sure why they needed to sound the alarm in the first place since there didn't seem to be much we could do about it either way, but that's OK. You have to love a city in which additional information is required to distinguish alarms from everyday life.
America West Airlines
Luckily there was no airline drama on this trip. The only thing out of the ordinary, in fact, was the scene that took place when we were checking in. They didn't have electronic check-in, so we had to go up to the counter. The counter was staffed by a ragtag band of ticket agents who appeared to be at their first day on the job, having been recently hired away from the circus. (See First Day Syndrome.)
It was so surreal that it bordered on art. The five of us approached the counter and informed an agent that we were all together and would like to check in. The agent in front of me immmediately sprang into action and walked away. The remaining agents picked up the slack by madly shuffling papers around and shouting random phrases.
"Last row," said the agent in the center to no one in particular. "Last row, last row!"
"753?" said the agent on the left. "753!" I had no idea what she was talking about so I chose to stare at her blankly. She seemed very frustrated that I would not answer her simple question. "753!" she exclaimed. "753!"
An older gentleman appeared behind the counter and began clattering away at a terminal keyboard.
"I'm checking people in," he said matter-of-factly, as if in answer to a question. "I'm checking people in, and I'm having trouble with the printer."
The other agents looked at him as if he were crazy. This may have been because they didn't know who he was or where he came from. It may also have been because there didn't seem to be any customers in line in front of him, thus raising the question of whether the people he was checking in were imaginary or merely invisible. The agents handled the situation with aplomb by ignoring him and going back to their busy jobs of shouting things at us. The cocophany that followed was a complex and beautiful interplay of rhythm and sound. If we'd had a tape recorder, we would have a hit single on our hands.
"753? 753!"
"Last row; last row!"
"I'm checking people in!"
"Last row!"
"753!"
"I'm checking people in, and I'm having trouble with the printer!"
Eventually some boarding passes with our names on them emerged from the fully-functional printer, and we snapped them up and got the hell out of there. I fully expect that that guy is still sitting in front of that terminal, checking his imaginary passengers into their imaginary flight.
Blackjack, Sucking At
I like to play blackjack when I go to Las Vegas, but boy do I suck. I either win and then lose it back by staying too long, or I start to lose right off the bat and never recover. Both situations happened on this trip. I played blackjack exactly twice. The first time I played I went up $175 but stayed too long and ended up only winning $70. The second time I lost $240 in a pain-filled 30 minute session at the Venetian. I think I won 5 hands the entire time. Everything I did was wrong. If I played by the book, the dealer got some insane five-card 21. If I took a risk, I busted. It was terrible. Including some other miscellaneous gambling, I ended the weekend $200 down. I'd like to think that this will cure me of my desire to play blackjack, but I know better.
Boobs
They were numerous, they were enormous, and they were in my face. I'm not talking about strippers or showgirls here; I'm talking about incredibly well-endowed tourists walking around in the most revealing outfits you can imagine. At first I was trying to be polite and not look, but I gave that up after a few hours. I believe my exact phrase was, "I'm done not looking at boobs." It was simply too time-consuming. If I'd made the continuous effort required to figure out where I could direct my gaze without locating a giant pair of half-naked breasts, I wouldn't have had time to do anything else.
This eventually led to what I will affectionally refer to as "Boob Patrol": the five of us talking and drinking at a bar in the Bellagio while waiting for Cara to shout "Boobs!", at which point we would all crane our necks to see who she'd spotted. At one point we saw a woman with $200 jeans, ultra-collagened lips, and a sequined bikini top, and it didn't seem that out of place. Many of these outfits were so near the breaking point that any additional strain - say, a mild earthquake - would have caused total structural failure. I wonder if the casinos have special seismic alarms to warn their patrons in such an event. "The alarm you're hearing indicates a Class A Breast Emergency. Please cover yourselves immediately. If you cannot or do not wish to comply, please calmly make your way to the Shadow Bar, where ladies receive 50% off on all well drinks."
Dion, Celine
Celine Dion is taking over the world, and she's starting in Las Vegas. I read months ago about her long-term engagement at Caesar's Palace, but I had no idea of the magnitude of the undertaking. Naturally, the box office and the theater where she performs are plastered in Celine posters. We also discovered that she has her own giant store, complete with Celine Dion T-shirts, hats, track suits, greeting cards, skin crème, perfume…it was a sight to see. There are Celine billboards all over the city. Celine Dion Chrysler commercials play on giant video screens. Caesar's Palace even has her face on their casino chips. I spent a few hours on Saturday staring at her on my $5 and $25 chips while I played blackjack.
The only conclusion I can draw is that she, Caesar's Palace, and Chrysler (her title sponsor), are aiming for total media saturation in Las Vegas. With this as their power base, they'll eventually branch out and start taking over other cities. Using an incredibly deadly and flexible army of Cirque du Soleil gymnast-assassins, they'll force the world's leaders to fall to their knees and submit to an all-Celine existence. Eventually Ms. Dion, Mr. Chrysler, and Mr. Palace will declare themselves deities, and the triumverate will exert absolute rule from the godhead.
Given all that, it's a good thing I have a picture of myself in this Celine Dion hat. I'll probably be given a position of power in the new regime.
Drivers, Cab
All of the cab drivers in Las Vegas are batshit insane. There's really no other way to describe it. In Seattle the cab drivers, like everyone else, drive like weenies. In Las Vegas, they get pissed if they have to go slower than 55. In residential districts. On the sidewalk.
The best example was when we caught a cab at the Riviera on our way back from the Fireside Lounge. As the driver pulled out of the taxi stand and up to the street, we saw and heard the siren from a fast-approaching ambulance in the far left lane. Instead of waiting (like a normal person) or accelerating into the right lane (like a semi-crazy person), the driver gunned the engine and rocketed into the far left lane in front of the ambulance, almost slamming into the back of another cab that was about to turn left. He also nearly ran over two pedestrians in the process, which would have been convenient since there was an ambulance right there. He honked madly to get the other cab to move so that our car wouldn't be rammed from behind when the ambulance arrived in four seconds. Luckily, the other cab complied. Our driver swung us around in a tight U-turn and blasted down Las Vegas Blvd., nearly running into the same two pedestrians, who were still attempting to cross the street without being killed.
By the end of our stay we were unhappy if our cab driver was anything less than homicidal. On our last cab ride of the trip, our driver drove no faster than 50 on city streets and completely missed an opportunity to run over some orange cones that marked the edge of a construction zone. He didn't even skid when he slammed on the brakes. As we got out of the cab we were all muttering disappointedly at the lack of excitement. We were hoping to end our trip with a bang, and we didn't even get a single tire squeal.
Fireside Lounge, The
This was an amazing bar we went to on Saturday night. It's in the older part of town, and it's…well, it's pure Magnum. Red wraparound booths, fireplaces in pools of water, fake trees...truly amazing. Also, it contained more smoke than I ever thought possible. This place couldn't have been smokier if it were on fire. (And as someone pointed out, if it were on fire people would just use the flames to light their cigarettes.) I attribute my rough Sunday morning to all that smoke.
First Day Syndrome
Although we experienced some incredibly good service in Las Vegas, at a lot of places we went it felt like it was the first day. Take the Starbucks in our hotel, for example. The people working there had NO idea what they were doing. It was like a Three Stooges episode: baristas running around with their heads cut off, cash register mishaps, pastry disasters. It took fifteen minutes to get coffee at 2:30 in the morning. It was eerie how this same sort of scene played out all over the place - at the airport, at the New York New York roller coaster, even at X. A former Playboy Playmate fumbled while taking off her bra. Our waitress at Paris had a 33% success rate at filling our drink orders. These are fairly common procedures, so the problems could only be attributable to opening-night jitters. As Feng put it, "This Las Vegas will be something once they get the kinks worked out."
Jack and Coke
We sat on the balcony at the Fontana Bar at Bellagio, watching the fountain and working through our hangovers. The waitress took our orders and glided away. As I settled into my chair and tried not to move, I noticed two red pills sitting unopened in their foil package in front of Feng.
"Are you waiting for your Jack and Coke to wash down your Sudafed?"
"Yes."
"Man, that is pure Magnum."
Magnum
The three guys sitting in front of us on the plane were classic. It was as if the gods had taken three little pieces of Las Vegas, formed them into the shape of people, swathed them in fake vintage T-shirts, and put them on the plane for us to enjoy.
Their aesthetic was something I'll call "Stylish Frat Boy". They started drinking as soon as it was legal, and didn't stop until the plane landed. Their leader had dark hair, 70's-style sunglasses, and a British accent. We overheard him discussing his plan with the steward: start drinking on the plane (mission accomplished), don’t stop until they pass out on Saturday night, and use Sunday to "let their kidneys recover" so they could wobble to the airport for their flight on Sunday night.
As the plane landed, the three men yelled at the top of their lungs, "VEGAS!" It was beautiful: three men singing the praises of their creator, all in one voice. "I'm glad they did that," Cara said, "so that I didn't have to."
As soon as the plane came to a stop, they hopped up to use the restroom. As the line of people ahead of them started to deplane, one of the guys pounded on the bathroom door to warn the leader. "Hey Magnum, hurry up!"
Feng and I looked at each other incredulously. Magnum? we mouthed silently. Of course his name was Magnum. As he and his crew marched happily up the aisle, eager to get started on phase two of their plan, I noticed that Magnum had no carry-on luggage. All he had were the clothes on his back and three miniature bottles of rum he'd purchased on the plane. Atta boy, Magnum.
From that point forward, Magnum represented the spirit of Las Vegas. Anywhere a guy hit sloppily on a woman, there was Magnum. Anytime we saw someone wearing a flashy suit with Elvis sunglasses, there was Magnum. Whenever someone stuck their head out of a passing car and yelled "VEGAS BABY!" it was as if Magnum himself were there at our side, possibly mooning us.
"I wonder where Magnum is right now?" I said on Monday as our plane lifted off the runway to wing us back to Seattle. We all sat together quietly with our thoughts. In prison? Laying in an alley in a shallow puddle of vomit? Attached to a dialysis machine? In the end we knew it didn't really matter, for Magnum will always be with us in our hearts.
Retarded, Let's Get
Thanks to Stephanie, purveyor of everything cool, the Black Eyed Peas song "Let's Get Retarded" became the unofficial theme of the trip. Stephanie mentioned the song a couple of weeks ago, and I didn't know what to think. I mean, the title isn't very PC, and I wasn't sure how comfortable I was with that.
Then I heard the song. Man, oh man, is it good. They use the word "retarded" to mean "excited", kind of like the phrase "let's get stoopid", only with more O's. The song is so exuberant and innocent that you can't help but like it. As you hear the chorus crescendo and a gospel-style choir commands you to "get retarded, Get Retarded, GET RETARDED!", you imagine that even God must be getting a little retarded, wherever or whoever he is.
I bought the album and put it on my iPod right before we left, and we listened to it in our room constantly on my little travel speakers. Not only was the phrase useful in describing what we wished to do ("We are going out tonight and getting SERIOUSLY retarded!"), it was also helpful in describing counterexamples. While sitting in a bar we noticed a couple energetically dancing in a very unfortunate way. "Those two are getting retarded," said Feng, "and not in a good way."
Saints and Sinners
On Saturday we saw some fervent evangelists attempting to convert the masses as we walked down the Strip:
They weren't getting many takers, as you might suspect. You've got to hand it to them, though: they're not backing away from the problem. Most people approach a project by starting with something simple and then working their way up. These people saw a world full of sinners and went right to the source. I don't expect they'll have much success, but you have to give them credit for trying.
Truck, Run over by a
This describes how I felt on Sunday morning. We got back from the Fireside Lounge at about 3:00 AM and fell face-first into bed. When I woke up after a few hours of fitful sleep, I was in the middle of what I believe to be the world's first non-alcoholic hangover. My eyes felt like they weighed 100 pounds each, and my body was desperately trying divorce itself from my head. My sinuses were so full of second-hand smoke that I set off the smoke detector every time I sneezed.
Let me reiterate that I did not touch a drop of alcohol - and if that's what a hangover feels like, then I don't plan on starting any time soon. It took an entire day of laying in bed just to get myself vertical, and my head hurt every time I came near a cigarette. I felt a little woozy the rest of the day, and my headcold is still with me. It's going to take me several days of clean Seattle air to clear things up. How do you drinkers put up with this on a regular basis?
Wedding
The wedding was great. The chapel was very classy, and Jen looked beautiful in her dress. The ceremony was a very quick affair, which I thought was nice, and the dinner afterward was great. The food was very good, and the service was spectacular. At one point I stood up to gawk at this guy who allegedly looked exactly like Feng. Before I knew it a waiter was there, catching and folding my napkin and helping me into my suit jacket. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I was just getting up to stare at someone, so I went to the bathroom. It was great - I could really get used to being waited on hand and foot.
So anyway, everything went well, and Jen and Matt seemed really happy. Have a great honeymoon, guys!
X
This is the adult show at the Aladdin. "An erotic adventure!" proclaimed the sign. "The sexiest show in town!" We clearly couldn't take that kind of challenge lying down, so we bought tickets for Sunday night.
If that's the sexiest show in town, then I need to find a different town. The show, in a nutshell, was topless dancing. This is not necessarily a bad idea, but it's generally more successful if the people in the show can dance. You could tell that some of the women were talented, but as a team they just weren't very good together. (See First Day Syndrome.) There were a few parts that I thought were creatively designed, but it was fairly standard stuff overall. It certainly wasn't an erotic adventure, at least not by my standards. The one pleasant surprise is that there were very few fake breasts. We were expecting a lot, but I only saw two pairs. Maybe I'm not the best judge, I don't know.
All in all, the show was watchable. Everything would have been fine if it weren't for the comedy. Dear Lord, the comedy.
Let me give a tip to any budding adult show producers out there: comedy and showgirls don't mix. Anyone that is sexy enough to be a showgirl and can act well enough to pull off the comedy is already working somewhere else, probably on Fox. You aren't going to get them for your cheesy show, so don't write material for them. X upped the ante even more by adding a comedian to the mix. I think his set was only 15 minutes long, but it felt like a lifetime. He was terrible. He relied on cheap sex jokes and swearing, and those were the good parts. "In and Out Burger? Hey, that's one of those double entendres I've heard so much about! Hi-larious!"
We derived far more humor out of the name of the show's costume designer, which we believe to be "Schrempf". Now that's comedy.
Yam!
We ate breakfast at the café in our hotel on Monday morning, and our waiter was a little off. He kind of huffed and puffed when he talked, like a locomotive picking up steam. He gave me a non-consensual shoulder rub at one point. He also had this habit of muttering things at you when he took your plate away. At one point Cara swears that she heard him say "Yam!"
After some guffaw-laced discussion, we theorized that "Yam" might be a radically-contracted form of "Yes, ma'am", but we were unable to obtain any additional samples with which to test this theory. We decided that "Yam" should be the next big slang interjection that everyone uses. Please work it into daily conversation whenever possible.
Aladdin
This is the hotel we stayed at. On the whole, I'd give it a rating of "Fair-To-Middlin'". It wasn't super-duper nice, but it wasn't bad. It's also very conveniently located in the middle of the Strip, so it was easy to get to everything. You'd better hurry if you want to stay there, though - apparently it's turning into a Planet Hollywood casino next year.
Alarm, Best Ever
We were in a bar at Caesar's Palace hanging out when an alarm went off. White lights flashed all over the casino, and a "woop woop" noise played over the loudspeakers. No one noticed. When it finally occurred to us that the "woop woop" noise was different than the other noises we'd been hearing for the better part of two hours, we assumed that someone had won the jackpot. A few minutes later, a friendly recorded female voice came over the PA.
"The alarm you are currently hearing is being investigated. Please do not panic. We will keep you informed as we find out more about this problem. Thank you."
Nonplussed and without panic, we continued to drink. Five minutes later the voice returned.
"We have found the cause of the alarm and corrected it. We apologize for the inconvenience. Enjoy your day at Caesar's Palace."
Fair enough. I'm not sure why they needed to sound the alarm in the first place since there didn't seem to be much we could do about it either way, but that's OK. You have to love a city in which additional information is required to distinguish alarms from everyday life.
America West Airlines
Luckily there was no airline drama on this trip. The only thing out of the ordinary, in fact, was the scene that took place when we were checking in. They didn't have electronic check-in, so we had to go up to the counter. The counter was staffed by a ragtag band of ticket agents who appeared to be at their first day on the job, having been recently hired away from the circus. (See First Day Syndrome.)
It was so surreal that it bordered on art. The five of us approached the counter and informed an agent that we were all together and would like to check in. The agent in front of me immmediately sprang into action and walked away. The remaining agents picked up the slack by madly shuffling papers around and shouting random phrases.
"Last row," said the agent in the center to no one in particular. "Last row, last row!"
"753?" said the agent on the left. "753!" I had no idea what she was talking about so I chose to stare at her blankly. She seemed very frustrated that I would not answer her simple question. "753!" she exclaimed. "753!"
An older gentleman appeared behind the counter and began clattering away at a terminal keyboard.
"I'm checking people in," he said matter-of-factly, as if in answer to a question. "I'm checking people in, and I'm having trouble with the printer."
The other agents looked at him as if he were crazy. This may have been because they didn't know who he was or where he came from. It may also have been because there didn't seem to be any customers in line in front of him, thus raising the question of whether the people he was checking in were imaginary or merely invisible. The agents handled the situation with aplomb by ignoring him and going back to their busy jobs of shouting things at us. The cocophany that followed was a complex and beautiful interplay of rhythm and sound. If we'd had a tape recorder, we would have a hit single on our hands.
"753? 753!"
"Last row; last row!"
"I'm checking people in!"
"Last row!"
"753!"
"I'm checking people in, and I'm having trouble with the printer!"
Eventually some boarding passes with our names on them emerged from the fully-functional printer, and we snapped them up and got the hell out of there. I fully expect that that guy is still sitting in front of that terminal, checking his imaginary passengers into their imaginary flight.
Blackjack, Sucking At
I like to play blackjack when I go to Las Vegas, but boy do I suck. I either win and then lose it back by staying too long, or I start to lose right off the bat and never recover. Both situations happened on this trip. I played blackjack exactly twice. The first time I played I went up $175 but stayed too long and ended up only winning $70. The second time I lost $240 in a pain-filled 30 minute session at the Venetian. I think I won 5 hands the entire time. Everything I did was wrong. If I played by the book, the dealer got some insane five-card 21. If I took a risk, I busted. It was terrible. Including some other miscellaneous gambling, I ended the weekend $200 down. I'd like to think that this will cure me of my desire to play blackjack, but I know better.
Boobs
They were numerous, they were enormous, and they were in my face. I'm not talking about strippers or showgirls here; I'm talking about incredibly well-endowed tourists walking around in the most revealing outfits you can imagine. At first I was trying to be polite and not look, but I gave that up after a few hours. I believe my exact phrase was, "I'm done not looking at boobs." It was simply too time-consuming. If I'd made the continuous effort required to figure out where I could direct my gaze without locating a giant pair of half-naked breasts, I wouldn't have had time to do anything else.
This eventually led to what I will affectionally refer to as "Boob Patrol": the five of us talking and drinking at a bar in the Bellagio while waiting for Cara to shout "Boobs!", at which point we would all crane our necks to see who she'd spotted. At one point we saw a woman with $200 jeans, ultra-collagened lips, and a sequined bikini top, and it didn't seem that out of place. Many of these outfits were so near the breaking point that any additional strain - say, a mild earthquake - would have caused total structural failure. I wonder if the casinos have special seismic alarms to warn their patrons in such an event. "The alarm you're hearing indicates a Class A Breast Emergency. Please cover yourselves immediately. If you cannot or do not wish to comply, please calmly make your way to the Shadow Bar, where ladies receive 50% off on all well drinks."
Dion, Celine
Celine Dion is taking over the world, and she's starting in Las Vegas. I read months ago about her long-term engagement at Caesar's Palace, but I had no idea of the magnitude of the undertaking. Naturally, the box office and the theater where she performs are plastered in Celine posters. We also discovered that she has her own giant store, complete with Celine Dion T-shirts, hats, track suits, greeting cards, skin crème, perfume…it was a sight to see. There are Celine billboards all over the city. Celine Dion Chrysler commercials play on giant video screens. Caesar's Palace even has her face on their casino chips. I spent a few hours on Saturday staring at her on my $5 and $25 chips while I played blackjack.
The only conclusion I can draw is that she, Caesar's Palace, and Chrysler (her title sponsor), are aiming for total media saturation in Las Vegas. With this as their power base, they'll eventually branch out and start taking over other cities. Using an incredibly deadly and flexible army of Cirque du Soleil gymnast-assassins, they'll force the world's leaders to fall to their knees and submit to an all-Celine existence. Eventually Ms. Dion, Mr. Chrysler, and Mr. Palace will declare themselves deities, and the triumverate will exert absolute rule from the godhead.
Given all that, it's a good thing I have a picture of myself in this Celine Dion hat. I'll probably be given a position of power in the new regime.
Drivers, Cab
All of the cab drivers in Las Vegas are batshit insane. There's really no other way to describe it. In Seattle the cab drivers, like everyone else, drive like weenies. In Las Vegas, they get pissed if they have to go slower than 55. In residential districts. On the sidewalk.
The best example was when we caught a cab at the Riviera on our way back from the Fireside Lounge. As the driver pulled out of the taxi stand and up to the street, we saw and heard the siren from a fast-approaching ambulance in the far left lane. Instead of waiting (like a normal person) or accelerating into the right lane (like a semi-crazy person), the driver gunned the engine and rocketed into the far left lane in front of the ambulance, almost slamming into the back of another cab that was about to turn left. He also nearly ran over two pedestrians in the process, which would have been convenient since there was an ambulance right there. He honked madly to get the other cab to move so that our car wouldn't be rammed from behind when the ambulance arrived in four seconds. Luckily, the other cab complied. Our driver swung us around in a tight U-turn and blasted down Las Vegas Blvd., nearly running into the same two pedestrians, who were still attempting to cross the street without being killed.
By the end of our stay we were unhappy if our cab driver was anything less than homicidal. On our last cab ride of the trip, our driver drove no faster than 50 on city streets and completely missed an opportunity to run over some orange cones that marked the edge of a construction zone. He didn't even skid when he slammed on the brakes. As we got out of the cab we were all muttering disappointedly at the lack of excitement. We were hoping to end our trip with a bang, and we didn't even get a single tire squeal.
Fireside Lounge, The
This was an amazing bar we went to on Saturday night. It's in the older part of town, and it's…well, it's pure Magnum. Red wraparound booths, fireplaces in pools of water, fake trees...truly amazing. Also, it contained more smoke than I ever thought possible. This place couldn't have been smokier if it were on fire. (And as someone pointed out, if it were on fire people would just use the flames to light their cigarettes.) I attribute my rough Sunday morning to all that smoke.
First Day Syndrome
Although we experienced some incredibly good service in Las Vegas, at a lot of places we went it felt like it was the first day. Take the Starbucks in our hotel, for example. The people working there had NO idea what they were doing. It was like a Three Stooges episode: baristas running around with their heads cut off, cash register mishaps, pastry disasters. It took fifteen minutes to get coffee at 2:30 in the morning. It was eerie how this same sort of scene played out all over the place - at the airport, at the New York New York roller coaster, even at X. A former Playboy Playmate fumbled while taking off her bra. Our waitress at Paris had a 33% success rate at filling our drink orders. These are fairly common procedures, so the problems could only be attributable to opening-night jitters. As Feng put it, "This Las Vegas will be something once they get the kinks worked out."
Jack and Coke
We sat on the balcony at the Fontana Bar at Bellagio, watching the fountain and working through our hangovers. The waitress took our orders and glided away. As I settled into my chair and tried not to move, I noticed two red pills sitting unopened in their foil package in front of Feng.
"Are you waiting for your Jack and Coke to wash down your Sudafed?"
"Yes."
"Man, that is pure Magnum."
Magnum
The three guys sitting in front of us on the plane were classic. It was as if the gods had taken three little pieces of Las Vegas, formed them into the shape of people, swathed them in fake vintage T-shirts, and put them on the plane for us to enjoy.
Their aesthetic was something I'll call "Stylish Frat Boy". They started drinking as soon as it was legal, and didn't stop until the plane landed. Their leader had dark hair, 70's-style sunglasses, and a British accent. We overheard him discussing his plan with the steward: start drinking on the plane (mission accomplished), don’t stop until they pass out on Saturday night, and use Sunday to "let their kidneys recover" so they could wobble to the airport for their flight on Sunday night.
As the plane landed, the three men yelled at the top of their lungs, "VEGAS!" It was beautiful: three men singing the praises of their creator, all in one voice. "I'm glad they did that," Cara said, "so that I didn't have to."
As soon as the plane came to a stop, they hopped up to use the restroom. As the line of people ahead of them started to deplane, one of the guys pounded on the bathroom door to warn the leader. "Hey Magnum, hurry up!"
Feng and I looked at each other incredulously. Magnum? we mouthed silently. Of course his name was Magnum. As he and his crew marched happily up the aisle, eager to get started on phase two of their plan, I noticed that Magnum had no carry-on luggage. All he had were the clothes on his back and three miniature bottles of rum he'd purchased on the plane. Atta boy, Magnum.
From that point forward, Magnum represented the spirit of Las Vegas. Anywhere a guy hit sloppily on a woman, there was Magnum. Anytime we saw someone wearing a flashy suit with Elvis sunglasses, there was Magnum. Whenever someone stuck their head out of a passing car and yelled "VEGAS BABY!" it was as if Magnum himself were there at our side, possibly mooning us.
"I wonder where Magnum is right now?" I said on Monday as our plane lifted off the runway to wing us back to Seattle. We all sat together quietly with our thoughts. In prison? Laying in an alley in a shallow puddle of vomit? Attached to a dialysis machine? In the end we knew it didn't really matter, for Magnum will always be with us in our hearts.
Retarded, Let's Get
Thanks to Stephanie, purveyor of everything cool, the Black Eyed Peas song "Let's Get Retarded" became the unofficial theme of the trip. Stephanie mentioned the song a couple of weeks ago, and I didn't know what to think. I mean, the title isn't very PC, and I wasn't sure how comfortable I was with that.
Then I heard the song. Man, oh man, is it good. They use the word "retarded" to mean "excited", kind of like the phrase "let's get stoopid", only with more O's. The song is so exuberant and innocent that you can't help but like it. As you hear the chorus crescendo and a gospel-style choir commands you to "get retarded, Get Retarded, GET RETARDED!", you imagine that even God must be getting a little retarded, wherever or whoever he is.
I bought the album and put it on my iPod right before we left, and we listened to it in our room constantly on my little travel speakers. Not only was the phrase useful in describing what we wished to do ("We are going out tonight and getting SERIOUSLY retarded!"), it was also helpful in describing counterexamples. While sitting in a bar we noticed a couple energetically dancing in a very unfortunate way. "Those two are getting retarded," said Feng, "and not in a good way."
Saints and Sinners
On Saturday we saw some fervent evangelists attempting to convert the masses as we walked down the Strip:
They weren't getting many takers, as you might suspect. You've got to hand it to them, though: they're not backing away from the problem. Most people approach a project by starting with something simple and then working their way up. These people saw a world full of sinners and went right to the source. I don't expect they'll have much success, but you have to give them credit for trying.
Truck, Run over by a
This describes how I felt on Sunday morning. We got back from the Fireside Lounge at about 3:00 AM and fell face-first into bed. When I woke up after a few hours of fitful sleep, I was in the middle of what I believe to be the world's first non-alcoholic hangover. My eyes felt like they weighed 100 pounds each, and my body was desperately trying divorce itself from my head. My sinuses were so full of second-hand smoke that I set off the smoke detector every time I sneezed.
Let me reiterate that I did not touch a drop of alcohol - and if that's what a hangover feels like, then I don't plan on starting any time soon. It took an entire day of laying in bed just to get myself vertical, and my head hurt every time I came near a cigarette. I felt a little woozy the rest of the day, and my headcold is still with me. It's going to take me several days of clean Seattle air to clear things up. How do you drinkers put up with this on a regular basis?
Wedding
The wedding was great. The chapel was very classy, and Jen looked beautiful in her dress. The ceremony was a very quick affair, which I thought was nice, and the dinner afterward was great. The food was very good, and the service was spectacular. At one point I stood up to gawk at this guy who allegedly looked exactly like Feng. Before I knew it a waiter was there, catching and folding my napkin and helping me into my suit jacket. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I was just getting up to stare at someone, so I went to the bathroom. It was great - I could really get used to being waited on hand and foot.
So anyway, everything went well, and Jen and Matt seemed really happy. Have a great honeymoon, guys!
X
This is the adult show at the Aladdin. "An erotic adventure!" proclaimed the sign. "The sexiest show in town!" We clearly couldn't take that kind of challenge lying down, so we bought tickets for Sunday night.
If that's the sexiest show in town, then I need to find a different town. The show, in a nutshell, was topless dancing. This is not necessarily a bad idea, but it's generally more successful if the people in the show can dance. You could tell that some of the women were talented, but as a team they just weren't very good together. (See First Day Syndrome.) There were a few parts that I thought were creatively designed, but it was fairly standard stuff overall. It certainly wasn't an erotic adventure, at least not by my standards. The one pleasant surprise is that there were very few fake breasts. We were expecting a lot, but I only saw two pairs. Maybe I'm not the best judge, I don't know.
All in all, the show was watchable. Everything would have been fine if it weren't for the comedy. Dear Lord, the comedy.
Let me give a tip to any budding adult show producers out there: comedy and showgirls don't mix. Anyone that is sexy enough to be a showgirl and can act well enough to pull off the comedy is already working somewhere else, probably on Fox. You aren't going to get them for your cheesy show, so don't write material for them. X upped the ante even more by adding a comedian to the mix. I think his set was only 15 minutes long, but it felt like a lifetime. He was terrible. He relied on cheap sex jokes and swearing, and those were the good parts. "In and Out Burger? Hey, that's one of those double entendres I've heard so much about! Hi-larious!"
We derived far more humor out of the name of the show's costume designer, which we believe to be "Schrempf". Now that's comedy.
Yam!
We ate breakfast at the café in our hotel on Monday morning, and our waiter was a little off. He kind of huffed and puffed when he talked, like a locomotive picking up steam. He gave me a non-consensual shoulder rub at one point. He also had this habit of muttering things at you when he took your plate away. At one point Cara swears that she heard him say "Yam!"
After some guffaw-laced discussion, we theorized that "Yam" might be a radically-contracted form of "Yes, ma'am", but we were unable to obtain any additional samples with which to test this theory. We decided that "Yam" should be the next big slang interjection that everyone uses. Please work it into daily conversation whenever possible.