Hello, everyone. I just got back from a business trip to Vegas. I’m not supposed to reveal the details of my work there, but let’s just say that if I have to sing “What’s New, Pussycat?” one more time, there’s going to be trouble.

As usual, my trip provided a wealth of odd incidents to report. Allow me to offer you three mildly-entertaining

TALES FROM LAS VEGAS

I. MILK CARTON
Things started to get weird before we even got off the plane. I was in the airplane bathroom attending to my appointed duties when I noticed a sign affixed to the inside of the toilet seat. It appeared to be warning the user not to flush foreign objects down the toilet. The sign provided simple pictures representing specific items that are forbidden: cups, baby bottles, forks, diapers, rattles, milk cartons... Wait, milk cartons?

I stood there for a minute or two in a somewhat compromising position while I tried to puzzle out the meaning of this particular symbol. Was it really a milk carton? It certainly looked like something was being poured out of something else, but the something that was being poured appeared to be rectangular. Was this some kind of cubist interpretation of milk with which I was unfamiliar? Not only that, the container was in the shape of a triangle, and it had a racing stripe down the side. There's a geometric mindbender for you: a triangular milk carton that pours rectangular milk. Do you hear that, Euclid? We won't be needing your services any longer. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

I was completely stumped. I'd been in the bathroom for a good five minutes, and I still wasn't any closer to solving the mystery. My only choice was to record the sign so that I could ponder it later. I washed up, reached into my pocket, and got out my camera phone.

My heart was pounding. This was a flagrant violation of FAA rules. Who knew what those stewardesses would do to me if I got caught? Rectangular milk would be the least of my worries. With trembling hands I framed a shot, clicked the shutter release, and...nothing happened. The phone had frozen up. Holy crap, my phone was being jammed by interference from the plane's communication systems! We'd lost contact with the tower! Surely this would spell the end—

Seconds later the phone came back to life. It was just a little slow to boot up. Whew! That was close. I moved the camera in closer to get another shot. This time, as soon as I clicked the button the plane jerked violently and began to shake. Dear God, what had I done? My foolish photojournalistic instincts had knocked the plane from the sky! Why, oh why, hadn't I listened to the flight crew when they warned us about the consequences of in-flight cell phone usage? We were going down in a fiery—

Seconds later, the shaking stopped. We'd just hit a bit of turbulence. Relieved, I slipped the phone back into my pocket, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and returned to my seat as nonchalantly as I could. When I was seated I carefully pulled my phone out again and showed N— the contraband:

"What is that thing on the right?" she said.

"I think it's a milk carton," I said under my breath, glancing around to see if any G-men were breathing down my neck. "It makes no sense. Why would you throw a milk carton down a toilet, anyway? Is this a major problem for the airlines right now? I just don't get it - wait a second..."

It was like one of those 3D art posters. As soon I looked at the picture from a certain angle, it snapped into focus. The object in question wasn't an M.C. Escher-inspired milk carton - it was a disposable razor. The "carton" was the head, the "racing stripe" was the blade, and the "milk" was the handle.

So, okay, I'll admit that maybe I was a little slow on the uptake. I'm sure that many people would recognize it instantly. All I'm saying is that if you're an artist whose goal is to come up with universally-recognizable symbols for things, and your picture of a razor can be mistaken for a milk carton, even by just a few people, you might want to find another line of work. Failing that, please don't start designing street signs. I don't want to be behind some person who's going 25 miles an hour on the highway trying to figure out why your railroad crossing sign bears such an uncanny resemblance to a bowl of cereal.



II. SMOKING OPTIONAL
As we stepped out of the jetway and into the terminal, we walked smack into what I like to call the Las Vegas Wall: that impenetrable layer of cigarette smoke that seems to cover the city like a blanket.

"I hope you asked for a non-smoking room," I said, coughing. "Because sometimes they'll just give you whatever room they have left. You have to ask."

N— rolled her eyes. "I asked for a non-smoking room. It will be fine. Stop worrying about it."

We made our way to the hotel and checked in. The woman behind the counter brought up our reservation on the computer and then spoke to us.

"I'm sorry, but we don't have your room available right now," she said apologetically. "We're going to move you to your regular room tomorrow, but just for tonight we're going to put you in a 'smoking preference' room. Just to be clear, this is a smoking preference room - you don't have to smoke, but you do have the option."

My mind reeled at the implications of this statement. The hotel clearly had three kinds of rooms: "non-smoking", in which you are forbidden to smoke; "smoking preference", in which you have the option to smoke but don't have to; and "smoking required", in which you have to smoke. There is no option on that last one - the occupants of "smoking required" rooms are expressly prohibited from not smoking.

I further assumed that the casino employed their own paramilitary police force (which I will call "The Smokies") who roam the halls enforcing the smoking-required policy. If a room's non-smoke detector records statistically significant traces of fresh air in a smoking-required room, The Smokies would be dispatched to remedy the situation. "Start smoking or we'll light you on fire," is The Smokies' motto.

N— and I both had a good laugh at the thought of jackbooted brown shirts busting down a hotel room door and jamming lit cigarettes in the mouths of the unsuspecting guests inside, but I soon became uneasy. What if it were true? It may seem far-fetched, but let's face it: if this kind of thing is going to happen anywhere, it's going to happen in Las Vegas.

I started to worry. Why had the woman been so apologetic about giving us a room in which smoking was only an option? Did she think we'd asked for a "smoking required" room? Was that where they would be putting us tomorrow? I tossed and turned all night, haunted by horrible nighmares of being roughed up by The Smokies. In my dream they were ten feet tall, and instead of hair they had wavy locks made of Winstons, Marlboros, and Lucky Strikes. They burst into our room and rousted us out of bed while Joe Camel unpacked their horrible instruments of torture. One of them turned to me, grinned evilly, and began distributing ashtrays throughout the room, "When we're through with you," he said with a maniacal laugh, "you're going to like smoking!" I woke up screaming, the sound of a thousand Zippos ringing in my ears.

It turns out that we got our non-smoking room, and everything was fine. I assume that the woman simply misspoke, but perhaps she revealed more than she intended. Perhaps there really are secret smoking-required rooms in Vegas. Perhaps The Smokies aren't just a fairy tale that good suburban mothers tell their children to prevent them from sampling the debauchery of Las Vegas.

Just to be safe, be on the lookout for any suspicious-looking paramilitary types roaming the halls the next time you're in Vegas. If they're ten feet tall and have an anthropomorphic camel with them, you'll know that you need to light up, but quick.



III. CAUTION: PAMPERING IN PROGRESS
I have a semi-regular tradition of getting a massage when I go to Las Vegas. I'm not the kind of guy to be piling hookers into the jacuzzi of my penthouse hotel room, so I have to do something indulgent, right?

This time I decided to take my spa experience to the next level. I started with something they called the "Aroma Stone Massage."

"What's that?" I asked when it was offered to me.

"It's really nice," said Tina, my massage therapist. She was short and friendly, and looked not unlike Marilyn Quayle. "I put hot stones on your body and massage you with them."

I didn't really understand, but I figured I might was well go for it. It turned out to be exactly as she described it. Picture the best possible skipping stone you can imagine. It's smooth, round, black, and perfectly flat. Now imagine that this stone is really warm, and it's being massaged into your back by Marilyn Quayle. That's basically what happened.

It actually felt really good. She had stones of every possible shape and size in seemingly infinite supply - big huge ones for the back, medium sized-ones for the arms and legs, and little tiny ones for between the toes. Who knew? The Aroma Stone Massage now has my full endorsement.

• • •
I'm a little embarrassed to talk about the next bit, but in the interest of journalistic integrity I must give you my report.

After my massage Tina returned me to the men's locker room, where I sat in my robe blinking and wondering where Tina got all of those stones. A few minutes later, someone came to take me to the second portion of my spa treatment: the Gentlemen's Facial.

Yes, it's true - I had a facial. I realize that this is going to elicit laughter and derision from those who would accuse me of being a metrosexual, and that's fine. To these people I would simply like to point out that I could have been over at the Bellagio mall buying Prada, so the facial was by no means the most metrosexual option available to me. (It was certainly cheaper.)

I was greeted in the hallway by Nancy, who was to perform the facial. Like Tina she was very friendly, but she was taller and looked slightly less like Marilyn Quayle. She led me to a room that had a big red sign on the door which read "CAUTION: PAMPERING IN PROGRESS". Paradoxically, the inside of the room bore a striking resemblance to a dentist's office. There was an adjustable chair, a tray of mysterious-looking instruments, and a giant magnifying glass with a built-in light. It looked so much like a dentist's office, in fact, that I instinctively stopped and wondered if I'd flossed that morning. (Answer: no.)

"I'm going to leave the room now," she said. "Go ahead and get under the sheet. There's a hook for your robe on the back of the door."

This comment may seem innocuous to some of you, but those who have had a massage know that this is code for, "Get naked and sit in that chair." I'd expected this for the massage portion of the afternoon, but since a facial by definition involves the face, I'd sort of assumed that I'd be keeping my clothes on. I guess I was still drowsy from all of those hot stones, though, because I didn't bat an eye. I took off the robe, got under the covers, and waited for Nancy to return.

As I was to learn, a facial is somewhat goop-intensive. She started by applying a thin sort of goop, which she quickly mopped up with little finger towels. I took this to be a basic cleanser of some sort. She repeated the process two more times. That's three cleanings in a row - my face was already more spotless than it had ever been. (I presume that a standard part of the Gentleman's Facial is the assumption that the Gentleman probably hasn't washed his face in two weeks.)

After that she took a thicker, smellier goop and applied it to my face with what felt like a wide, fan-shaped paintbrush. I was still coherent at this point, so I asked her what the goop was.

"It has bamboo in it," she said. "It attacks the dead skin cells. Don't worry, it's really nice - it doesn't have any alphahydroxies in it."

I had no idea what she was talking about, of course, but I got the impression that alphahydroxies are kind of like the carbs of the skin care world. I felt safe knowing that Nancy was looking out for me, alphahydroxy-wise.

After I was thorougly painted, she wheeled over a device which blew a jet of warm, dry air across my face, not unlike those wind tunnels they use to test airplane aerodynamics. It felt like my face was right behind the exhaust pipe of a very clean-running car.

When the goop was completely dry, Nancy produced what I can only describe as a miniature floor buffer. It was a hand-held device with a round, flat brush on the end that rotated thousands of times a second. It felt less like a floor buffer, however, and more like someone was going over my face with a power sander. I presume that the purpose of this device was to clear the battlefield of the skin cell corpses that did not survive the bamboo attack. It felt good once it was done, but it was a little painful for a couple of minutes.

After my face was sanded to a nice sheen, Nancy put on some rubber gloves and pulled out the giant magnifying glass. There is no dignified description of her next task, so I'll say it the only way I can: she went over every inch of my face with her fingers and squeezed out all of my blackheads. I felt extremely embarrassed to have someone doing this for me - it was like having someone else wash my underwear. At one point I tried to beam a telepathic message to Nancy: "Whatever they're paying you for this, it isn't enough." (I tipped generously on my way out.)

After that she went through a long series of goops, which she applied in a very pleasing massage-like manner. It was at this point that things started to get a little hazy. I stopped asking about the contents of the goop. All of the pampering was making me sleepy. She massaged my hands and arms too, and later she put some kind of cool, wet paper over my eyes. Or maybe it was cucumber slices. It's hard to say.

Eventually we got to the final goop, which I think was some kind of lotion, and I have to say I was a little disappointed when it was over. Nancy left the room, and I reluctantly pried myself out of the chair and into my robe. I doddered out into the hallway, where she greeted me with a bottle of water. I thanked her dreamily and weaved my way back into the locker room, where I sat for several minutes in a beautiful leather chair, drinking water and wondering absently where I'd left my clothes.

All told, I am forced to admit that the facial was very good. If that makes me a metrosexual, then so be it. There was a moment in the middle when the truth occurred to me: I was paying $100 to lie naked in a dark room while someone massaged gunk into my face, and I was enjoying every minute of it. As silly as it may sound, the pampering is really nice. If you don't believe me, try it for yourself the next time you're in Vegas and can't find enough hookers to fill up your jacuzzi. Just be sure to avoid the alphahydroxies.