This past weekend I took a little trip to Vegas. Now, Vegas is difficult navigation for the conscientious drinker, but for the sober idiot like myself, it's an obstacle course complete with urine landmines and overpriced memorabilia. For just $700, you too can go home with a shitty sweatshirt and a plastic cup from your favorite casino; both of which will smell like an ashtray if you stay in one place for longer than 4 mins.
Why might I go to Sin City if I don't drink, don't do drugs, and have no intention of selling my ass to the first dude not wearing neon green sneakers with electric blue denim jeans, a baseball cap, and a thick accent, you ask? Well, I went to see Van Morrison play what I thought might be his last show before he kicks the bucket. I think he may make it to 2020. Though I went to Vegas, I don’t bet like I’m in Vegas; I wouldn’t put money on it. Don't bet against the house.
Aside from having an impressive set of jowls, Van has pipes. The man can still belt it out. His sound is classic, even if his look is not. I swear to God, it looked as though his suit had been made straight from the drapery at the Caeser's Casino where he was playing.
He does this odd contortionist thing with his tongue while he sings. It's strangely hypnotizing. I caught myself mimicking his movements with my own tongue. We tongued. There, in the darkened music hall, I think it's fair to say that Van and I effectively "made-out." Typing this now, my vagina just dried up. Like a vast desert of scorched earth. Chapped. All I can think about is that old man's writhing tongue, that terrible suit, and those jowls.
I'll move on to more light-hearted topics.
Our adventures began with a car ride. A very long car ride.
I rode to Vegas with two girlfriends of mine. Along the way, we talked about Megadeath, muscle cars, and masturbation. Typical chick stuff. We stopped once to pee and refuel. I love these bitches.
We rolled into Vegas around 2:30pm and checked into The Venitian. After some considerable people watching down in the casino and judgment passing on my part, we went up to our room. For the first time in my 39 years on this planet, I squeed with delight. I, legit, had a Pretty Woman moment. Remember muscle cars and masturbation? Toss it. You might as well dress me up in satin and chiffon and ask if I want to play dolls. It took every ounce of dignity I had to not jump on the bed like a 12-year-old at a slumber party. I did stand on the couch and half-bounce. I'm not that mature.
I always check out the tub. It's kind of my thing. Bathrooms are important. If I'm not sleeping, eating, or cooking, chances are I'm shitting or showering. I've always had a thing for tubs. I think they're sexy and this one did not disappoint.
This is my best Pretty Woman impersonation in case you're curious.
After a while, we decided to go downstairs and grab some food. We hit some Italian spot called Canaletto. Our waiter was friendly and earned extra credit points for dropping some Digital Underground lyrics on us right off the bat. Any time you come at me with "Stop what you're doing, cuz I'm about to ruin the image and the style..." you have won a friend. Not an 'I'll get into a bar fight with you' friend, but a friend none the less.
The Lobster (my husband, in case you were unaware) came to see me the second night of my stay in Vegas.
He picked me up at my hotel. I dangled my long hair from the hotel tower for him to climb up. Real fairy-tale shit. Just fucking with you. From out front and we drove over to Harrah's.
We spent the evening walking up and down the strip. So many sights. So many obstacles.
As a sober person, you are acutely aware of your surroundings. I'd prefer to have been intoxicated on a couple of occasions. For instance; the time I walked through the puddle of fresh urine.
I've never maintained that I'm exceptionally bright. I spent the ENTIRE evening declining business cards from nice men (and some women) on corners. Each time, I would smile and say "No thank you, have a nice night." It took me all goddamn night to understand that they were peddling ass. Each time, I smiled and said "No thanks, have a nice night," like I had been offered a coupon for a free frozen yogurt from the local shop that was ok, but not my favorite. Vegas is funny. I wondered why they all seemed perplexed.
So many sights, smells, tits, and urine. One thing I knew for sure, it was Lobster's birthday and hotel sex is reliably the best. It was time to get off the streets and back to our hotel so I could present my gift. Harrah's may not be up to par with The Venitian, but it served our purposes just fine. Thanks for memories, Vegas!