Apologies for neglecting my blogging duties but I just returned from a brief trip to Las Vegas where having regrets is the name of the game. My personal favorite is that chicken sandwich I had in the hotel cafe the night before we left. By the time we got home (after a myriad of airport delays) my stomach felt like a balloon filled with nauseous gases about to explore. As a result, I’ve just spent the last three days curled in a ball, never more than six feet from the bathroom.
Vegas is proof that the end of the world is upon us. You only need look at the roster of shows to support this thesis: Michael Jackson at Mandalay Bay, The Beatles’ Love at the Mirage (Okay, half dead), the Jersey Boys at the Paris and the Rat Pack at the Rio. All memories of days gone by.
And then there’s Divas – the Liza, Cher, Tina, Bette and Ann Margret transvestite review. Whenever I see ads for one of those reviews, I thank God I never became a celebrity. I can’t imagine anything worse than being selected number one on the list of Celebrities Who’ve Aged the Worst or Plastic Surgery Gone Bad.
In Vegas people start drinking at – well, what am I saying – they never stop drinking. The four foot deep serpentine pool
at our hotel was filled all day with folks holding monster sized plastic cups filled with beer or margaritas. Late afternoon they all trek back upstairs for a nap, only re-emerging after nine when the nightlife begins.
To see all those gorgeous show girls on the arms of half-dead beasts is a feminist’s vision of hell. Coincidently, ambulances roll down the strip all night long, not quietly. Sleep is impossible.
But how silly of me. Sleep? In Vegas? If you want sleep, stay home!
We stayed at the Tropicana which is one of the older hotels and sits across the street from the Disney-inspired Excalibur.
Thus we had a view of the pink and blue spires of the “castle.”
We’d flown down from the SF Bay Area to babysit our granddaughter, who will only dress in princess gowns and refuses to answer to any name other than “Cinderella,” while her mother was at a conference. Of course, Cinderella was delighted that there was a castle right across the street and kept asking when we could go. So after meeting up with Princess M&M at the M&M Museum we took her over to the Castle. Naively we were expecting at least one princess-themed display, game or event. Just one!! However all hopes were dashed when we were greeted at the door by a dominatrix and some of the boys from Thunder Down Under (male strippers from Australia).
All were bare-chested and dressed in skin tight leather pants. “Where are the princes and princesses?” I asked, “I mean this is a frigging castle, right?”
They looked at me as if I was speaking Martian.
The hopes of the young are soon dashed in Vegas. But if you’re dead, it’s the place to be.