Saturday morning, we got up painfully early (i.e. 9am), checked out, said goodbye to Colleen and Steve, and went to get a shuttle to the airport. We stood around for what seemed like forever, as several shuttles pulled up, dropped people off, and headed off without picking people up. Finally, we gave up and got a cab.

The flight was uneventful, and I was happy to have a window seat, because I was dying of sore. We got home and promptly took up spots on the couch to watch football. I couldn’t have been happier to have almost the whole weekend to recover, because we needed it.

Man, I love Vegas.

We got started early at the lovely Hubert H Humprey Terminal at Minneapolis-St Paul International Airport. We continued the party on the aeroplane. The party also included canasta and the sammichsammich. We landed in Las Vegas, and were greeted at the airport by a limo driver holding a sign reading TEAM AWESOME.

We hopped in our limo and broke out the champagne. We got to Excalibur, checked into our widely-scattered rooms (which they told us would be together), and regrouped half an hour later, ready for action.

We had dinner. We drank tequila-based beverages. We video-gambled at New York New York. We wandered up the strip and eventually found ourselves in the Barbary Coast, the lesser-known pirate casino. While most of our crew headed for more games, Matt and I circled the casino and stopped cold at the entrance to the bar. There, onstage, was a cover band with a keytar. We were ecstatic. After a series of hair-metal ballads, and as if it was not already the best day ever, they launched into Faithfully. We died of joy.

…And then were resurrected to go across the street to the Flamingo. Katie and Wendy ran over to play the Wheel of Fortune, so I grabbed a seat, put in $10, hit ‘max bet’, cashed out, and walked away with $81. We watched poker for a while, and headed back to the hotel sometime around 3am.

Now, not to ruin the suspense or anything, but I’m going to go ahead and tell you that Saturday was the all-time official best day ever. Really.

our pretty-pretty-princess castle.

We got up and met up with everybody at Mandalay Bay for the brunching. The AVN Awards were going on that day, so we saw several porn stars and producers in the restaurant. We hopped cabs to downtown, and wandered into Binion’s to play blackjack. We found an empty table so all six of us could play. And then, we met Robert. Our lives will never be the same.

Robert alternated between berating us and telling jokes (some of which he would forget partway through) for the next three hours, with regular 20-minute breaks during which we missed him a LOT. Our favorite moment was when he started talking about buying nickel and dime bags, then tried to explain what they were to his pit boss, who had no idea. He said that it was heroin, as opposed to cocaine, which one buys in rocks. Also, he remembered the days when one could walk down Fremont Street counting a handful of cash; nowadays, you walk down a few blocks holding a twenty, and you’re bound to get shot.

Robert took all our money over the course of that three hours, but I don’t think any of us minded it too much. We departed Binion’s and headed across the street to the Golden Nugget, where we poked around on video machines, for which we all know the main purpose is losing money at a slow, measured rate while getting as many free drinks as possible. Then, knowing we had a long awesome night ahead of us, we headed back to the hotel for an hour-and-a-half nap, during which I had a highly exciting dream involving the football game that was on TV. We awoke and got dressed: Matt in a suit, and me in a black cocktail dress, wrap, and high heels (SERIOUSLY). At 7:30, the rest of the group joined us in the pimp room for champagne, and then we headed downstairs to catch our limo.

The driver was Clint, and he had a bluetooth headset grafted to his head. We told him we had reservations at the Venetian at nine, and would like to ride around the strip until then. He drove us down to the Las Vegas sign, parked in a turn lane, took our picture, and then drove us back up and down the strip until ten to 9. We drank champagne and talked a lot about awesome.

We dined at the Pinot Brasserie, and the food was incredible. Our goal was to hit $500 on the bill, but we came up a little short. We met Wendy’s boyfriend, a dude in way-too-tight pants barrelling into the kitchen to pee, who was escorted out shortly thereafter by giggling staff. Katie walked around the bathroom with her pants down, because they were out of toilet paper. We talked too loudly and swore too much, and in short, we were motherfuckin’ classy. As always.

We gambled for a bit at the Venetian, then decided to head back down towards Excalibur to find a bar we could stumble home from sometime the next morning. We stood for what seemed like two weeks in the cab line (more like 20 minutes, but I was wearing 3″ heels). We readjourned at MGM Grand, and wandered around looking for a bar. Eventually, the shoes lost the battle, and Jumi and I walked around the casino barefoot (and saw several other girls doing the same). We finally found the bar I’d remembered as perfect for what we were seeking, and it was. Therefore, we found us some seats at Rouge, and we closed the place down.

All I remember from the walk back across to Excalibur is Jumi loudly insisting that I go right up to the room and take photos of my feet, because we had been walking around inside and outside casinos barefoot (fun fact: casino carpeting has a LOT of wet spots!). She told the same thing to another pair of girls who were walking around shoeless, too. Hahaha. I’m pretty sure that 3am-5am Las Vegas is one of my favorite things ever.

On Sunday, we walked up to Aladdin for brunch-buffet, an idea which seemed really great at the time, and even better once we saw the insane variety of food they had there. While the food was indeed excellent, it was all most of us could do to not lie down and nap afterward.

some big-pimpin dude told wendy he liked her prada sunglasses. they’re from superamerica.

Jumi and Matt and I went over to Caesar’s to mostly windowshop in the crazy overpriced stores there, and I actually made it out of Diesel without buying anything. Not too surprisingly, our only purchases came from the Playboy store. We walked up to the Wynn and dedicated ourselves to blowing a few more bucks in the machines while exploiting the beverage service. We discovered there that Steve Wynn mixes much stronger drinks than anyone else we’d yet encountered. We liked Steve a lot.

We hopped a cab back to our hotel, then another limo to the airport, and hung out eating pretzels and watching planes take off from the giant window in the D concourse until Jumi texted, ‘you know the flight’s leaving early, right?’ We hurried to the plane, and laughed about sammiches for at least half of the flight home. Also, I lost at canasta, dammit.

We arrived in the middle of a snowstorm, which made the landing somewhat nervewracking, and the drive home at least four times as long as it should’ve been. I went to bed way too late, cursing the universe for the fact that I was the only one who had to work on Monday. Holy crap, that hurt.

So here’s the Vegas stuff I have decided to tell you about! The rest you will have to imagine with your twisted little minds, amigos mios.

• It’s not that I didn’t lose the money I gambled, but I took a really really long time doing so on video poker. I make up in luck what I absolutely lack in card-counting ability.
  The people around us didn’t seem as amused by us yelling, “FIVE OF A KIND!!” as we were.
• I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as hard in my life as I did playing Dance Dance Revolution. I was out on the street hopping around like an idiot, trying to devise a communication system based on arcade game dance moves.
• Aerial acrobats are freaky, but still not as freaky as buskers. Or giant clowns.

  

• I screamed my fucking head off on the rollercoaster at New York, New York. LOVED IT.

  

  I also went on the Big Shot on top of the Stratosphere, the thing that catapults you up a pole like you’re going to shoot off the top of the building. I didn’t scream like I wanted to on that, because I was with three drunk fratboys:
  Attendant: Check your pockets for anything loose. Is that a cellphone, man?
  Drunk Fratboy #3: Dude, that’s my DICK!

• Paul took us to tapas at Cafe Ba Ba Reeba at the Fashion Show Mall, which apparently used to be superghetto but is now fantastically equipped with stores like Diesel, Quicksilver (see my Hawaii travel journal for my feelings about surf shops), and Paul Frank (the Julius monkey is way old, but the skully and Wienermobile and pirate shit rocks hard).
  Two things of note:
  1. I’ve never been able to go out for tapas. It’s usually 100% meaty. This was unbelievable. The drinks were just ok, but I’m not complaining because I take 4 sips of a martini and I’m good. to. go. Cheap drunk!
  2. I LOVE PAUL. You don’t realize how much you miss someone until you spend time with them again. We reminisced like a couple of old-timers. He remembered all the stupid jokes we used to have, even some I’d forgotten. It was so awesome to see him again.
• I think we saw all the casinos on the strip except the trashy ones I’d seen before, like the Boardwalk, the Frontier (free bikini mud wrestling!), and the Barbary Coast.

  

  My favorites are the Aladdin (the shopping), Caesar’s (the shopping), the Wynn (the most insanely opulent and miraculously least-tacky), New York New York (the entertainment), Paris (the insane gaudiness), and Mandalay Bay (the restaurants).

  

  MGM struck me as the stupidest, but maybe because I had to walk something like two miles through its vast cavernousness to a Starbucks that was technically right across the street from my hotel.
  Have you ever really noticed casino carpet?

  

• BTW, Americanos cost $4-5 in Las Vegas. Fuckers.
• We had a great view of ass from our room at the Tropicana.

  

  Also, Tom Jones on the giant video screen at MGM. He wasn’t there til next week, though. SIGH.

• Walking around in 100-degree weather after dark is disturbing. It’s fine during the day in the sun. One day we walked from the Tropicana, at the south end of the strip, to the Stratosphere and back. Ouch.
• The Fremont Street Experience would be most excellent if you were totally baked, dude. Otherwise, it’s just bizarre.

  

  I’m a little sad that the cowboy is under that gigantic big-screen-TV-canopy-thing now, too.

• On Monday, we went to rent a convertible. They were out of Mustangs, and only had Sebrings. Shudder. David the Budget Man pointed at the parking lot and said, “What about that one? It’s a V8.”
  “We’ll take it,” I answered.
  Two hours later, Hot Park Ranger Man found us in the middle of the Mojave Desert, our Bright Red 50th Anniversary Edition Thunderbird Convertible parked half on the road, half on the sand, just past a wash-out, with both doors and the trunk open, music blasting, roaming in the scrub looking for scorpions (me) and taking photos of the approaching storm (her).

  

  He said, “I seriously hope you girls are turning around and heading back.” Perhaps we seemed a little unprepared for desert survival?
  Was it the flipflops?
  He hung out for a while and told us the travails of a park ranger, which are basically that he wants them to mark more hiking trails in the park (there are currently two, even though the reserve is something like 90 million square miles of nothingness), and that his job is mainly to keep people from dying in the heat. Which apparently they do at an alarming rate.

  

  It was actually only in the 90s in the desert that day, due to the occasional rain. We wandered not too far from the road on the hiking trail closer to I-15.

  

  

  I spooked jackrabbits and white chipmunks from under fallen Joshua tree branches as I crept up to this broken-down shack at the intersection of the railroad tracks, near the Cima Store (WE ARE OPEN! KNOCK LOUDLY!).

  

  There was rusted sheet metal and old pre-pulltab cans scattered around it for a hundred feet, and a pile of untorched kindling in the middle of the crumbling floor.
  We raced through the desert from Baker, California to Las Vegas, never going under 90. It was so Fear and Loathing, minus the beat-up sun hat.

  

  And the ether.

I got up at 6:30 and ran to Starbucks before heading out. My car was covered in what could only be described as humidity dust. It was in the mid-60s, but still insanely humid. I got on I-15, going the opposite direction from the rest of the traffic. They were going to work, I was going to Vegas. Suckers.

About halfway to San Bernardino, all the traffic on the interstate had to stop for inspection, even though it was a good 40 miles north of the border. The guard waved me through. I realized that this was a new potential career. Next time I go to Tijuana, I’m loading my trunk with illegal immigrants. So, like, never.

As I drove, I realized I was tired and sore. Not just sore, but sore everywhere. I had gotten used to that state, but it seemed a little more extreme that day.

Las Vegas hadn’t been on my original non-itinerary, because I figured I could get there anytime. However, having just read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I kind of wanted to go. Specifically, I wanted to take that drive from Los Angeles, going through Barstow and Baker. It’s a thing. When I realized that I could take that same route heading up from San Diego, it was decided. So I got past Riverside on the way to Barstow, and it was starting to turn into desert. It was about 95 degrees and a steep incline, so I had to turn off the air conditioning to avoid overheating. My car paranoia was already in full swing, based on my track record and the intense heat. I figured that driving through the Mojave Desert would be the biggest test of Chico’s stamina to date. I wasn’t sure I was up to it, either.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the temperature display, which kept climbing upwards. All of a sudden, I was in road construction, on a narrow 2-lane highway with a concrete barrier on my left and a wall of semi trucks on my right. I panicked. I was having trouble seeing. I had to keep reminding myself to just breathe, because I was worried about passing out behind the wheel. Even though I was doing 70, it felt like this slow-motion creep uphill. I had never been so scared; I was convinced that I was going to die alone in the desert.

I think part of the problem was that I had gone from almost 0 to 4000 feet elevation in about 10 minutes. I knew I had had trouble with that before. Also, because of my weird eating habits on the road, I was on a blood sugar rollercoaster. I was honestly freaking out about my safety, so I grabbed my phone and called Heather, and asked her to talk me down. And she did.

When I got to Barstow, I pulled off at a truck stop, like she told me to do. I got out of the car and the backs of my pants were soaked through, dark green stains down the backs of my thighs. I was beyond caring. I went and sat in the bathroom for ten minutes or so, trying to calm down (which was an indication of my mental state, that I would prefer sitting in a truck stop bathroom). I bought a pop and commented to the girl at the counter that my hands were shaking because I was terrified of driving through the desert. She laughed and said that a woman had told her the exact same thing the day before. She asked if I had a cellphone, and told me not to worry, because I would be safe.

I felt a little better, having survived the first leg, and knowing I only had 200 miles to go to Vegas. I ate a banana and felt less shaky, so I got back on the road. Since I was past the big uphills, I turned the air back on. The engine temperature needle hadn’t budged the whole time, so I relaxed a little. I was going to make it to Vegas before 1pm. Apart from the freaking-out part, I liked the desert. I saw Joshua Trees and salt flats where they race cars. I couldn’t believe people lived in Baker, out in the middle of nowhere. I saw Primm, Nevada, one of those cities trying to make itself a mini-Vegas. I saw a huge waterpark complex that had closed, with some of the slides starting to collapse. I came over a rise and saw Vegas, and regretted just a tiny bit that I wasn’t approaching it at night, and seeing the neon. Instead, I saw smog. But, still. It was Vegas!

I called the bellhop at my hotel to find out which exit to take. I went to the north end of the strip, turned at Circus Circus, and I had arrived at my perfect oldschool casino: the Stardust. Home of the Wayne Newton Theater! I walked through the lobby, intending to go ask when check-in time was, but a sign told me I could do so at noon. Awesome. I checked in and ran to the car for my bags. Another cool thing about Vegas: free parking. My room was great, especially since it was so cheap. I grabbed the things-to-do magazine to look up shows, because I really wanted to see something while I was there. I briefly considered Wayne Newton, but then decided against paying so much money for a joke. I finally picked Jubilee!, and called to reserve my ticket. The guy on the phone said, “You know it’s topless, right?” It better be, dude. I hung up and flipped to the dining section of the magazine to examine my options. MGM Grand, featuring no less than 82,000 restaurants, seemed like a safe bet. Plus, it was at the other end of the strip, so I’d be able to see everything in between.

I fixed my hair, changed into something a little less ‘I’m-in-the-car-all-day-so-I-could-give-a-fuck-what-I-look-like’, and headed out. I got probably the best iced coffee ever at the little coffee counter in the lobby, go figure. When I walked out the door, I ran smack into a 115-degree wall.

I started walking. It was fine for two blocks, if a little surprising. After three blocks, my contacts had melted to my eyes. After four, my eyeballs had melted to my brain. All the ice in my coffee had long since melted. The passing buses gave off waves of heat that were physically painful to walk through. The wind was dusty. Thankfully, it was hazy, so the sun didn’t come out very often. I walked as fast as I could, but when I had to stop at intersections, I could feel the heat of the pavement through the soles of my shoes. I had never, ever felt heat like that before. It was miserable.

Also, things in Las Vegas were a lot farther apart than I had expected. I know now that the strip is 3 miles long, and I wish I had known that when I was walking it. However, it was fun to see all the casinos, and I stopped to take lots of pictures. Lots of them had water misters and giant fans set up near their entrances, so those offered a little escape from the heat. Walking past the doors was like torture, though, feeling the air conditioning blasting out into the street.

It took me almost an hour to get to MGM Grand. I had a headache and was feeling fuzzy. I walked in and immediately felt 100% better with the air conditioning, until I realized I was now completely damp and freezing cold. I started following signs pointing to restaurants. Rainforest Cafe? No. Maybe Spago – but it wasn’t open yet. I went past ten places, checking menus. There wasn’t even an attempt to have vegetarian food – even the salads were meaty. I was willing to settle for anything, since it was 2pm and I was hungry, but I could honestly find nothing. I walked the whole length of the casino, which appeared to be about the size of the Mall of America. Then I wandered back to the one restaurant I had intentionally ignored – Emeril’s. I had avoided it for two reasons. First, it was a seafood restaurant. Second, Heather’s deep, burning hatred for Emeril had rubbed off on me. I recalled the time we were driving down St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans, past his restaurant, and Heather spotted him standing in the front window. She let out a string of expletives that surprised even me. So, yeah. We hate Emeril.

They sat me at the back of the restaurant at a table immediately next to another couple, even though the place was almost empty. It was one of those restaurants that tries to act really upscale so you feel funny wearing Old Navy clothes, but then you realize you’re in a casino, it’s tacky by nature, and everyone else there is dressed like crap, too. They pull out the chair and put your napkin in your lap for you (which creeps me the hell out, actually) just so they can justify charging $35 for an entree.

I decided on the portobello-blue cheese burger, but then got suspicious, knowing the tendency towards meat in Vegas. When the server came to take my order, I asked him: it’s just a grilled mushroom, right? No actual burger? He seemed offended, and assured me that it was 100% prime-grade beef. He seemed to be drooling, reveling in its meatiness. I shuddered, and ordered a salad instead. I ate almost the whole basket of bread while I waited. They served me Diet Coke in a champagne flute. The salad was OK, not great. Emeril can go to hell.

The guy at the next table started talking about the food, because they were vegetarian, too. We thought it was funny that they put the vegetarians in the back corner together, probably to make it easier to ridicule us from afar. We exchanged stories – they were from Bermuda, in Las Vegas for their anniversary. They were appalled by the heat, too. We talked about food, travel, and having kids. He and I laughed really hard about Starbucks, and our mutual love of it: it’s not good coffee, but it’s consistent. Wherever you go, it’s exactly the same. He confessed his love for their raisin scone, which he pronounced ‘scoon’. I was charmed.

Just as I was finishing my meal, they started talking about their business: they were Herbalife salespeople. I took this as my cue; I wished them a very happy anniversary, and escaped before they could hit me up.

I stopped at one of the fifty or so Starbucks in the casino, bought coffee, and sat at a table to do the writing I would usually be doing during dinner. It was 4pm, and my show was at 7:30, so I decided that I would wander back towards Bally’s, touring all the casinos in between. Also, I’d try to scope out a place for a very late dinner, because I knew if I ended up looking afterwards, I was just going to be angry.

From MGM Grand, I crossed to New York, New York. It was pretty cool inside, but I got lost trying to get back out the other side. I was hoping to be able to work my way up the strip mostly staying indoors, and out of the hellish heat. No luck; I ended up walking a few blocks outside anyway. I stopped into CVS and bought a giant bottle of painkillers for the pounding headache I had since I had started walking earlier that day (as Heather pointed out, I was dehydrated, and the coffee was just making it worse. Of course, I didn’t realize that at the time). I crossed to the Aladdin and went into the shops entrance. After walking around for a while, I decided that this was my favorite casino. The shops were laid out in a big circle with the casino in the center. I thought that was kind of ingenious, as it allows you to buy souvenirs and window-shop while making your way from one entrance to another, without having to deal with the casino insanity. Also, it’s divided into four sections, each decorated in a different middle-eastern theme. I liked the giant couches for lounging and the simulated thunderstorm, which was mildly entertaining. From there, I went to Paris. It was one of the better casinos, too – the legs of the Eiffel Tower inside the casino were cool. I went into a couple shoppes and used les toilettes.

I was wandering and abruptly found myself in Bally’s, quicker than I had expected. I stopped to pick up my tickets for the show, then decided I needed more coffee, and still had an hour and a half to kill. I crossed to the Bellagio. It was swank, but in that ridiculous Vegas way – so overdone that it’s obscene, and incongruous because all the tourists are still Bob and Ann from Omaha, and Bob is wearing a Hawaiian shirt. The lobby was amazing, and they were piping in flower scent. I was confused about the giant liberty bell, though. Why is it there? Weird. The Bellagio offered me no coffee, nor did Caesar’s Palace, or the Flamingo, or the Barbary Coast (ha). I decided to go back to Paris, because I had passed a coffee shop there where I could sit down for a while. I wound my way through the maze of escalators and moving sidewalks back to Bally’s. I had noticed a trend on this type of public transport, by the way: I radiate impatience. I must, because every time I would be standing behind someone on an escalator or moving sidewalk, they’d turn, look chastened, and move out of the way with a quickness. Sometimes, I was just standing there, being calm and trying not to curse them for being slow, and they could still tell. It’s funny.

I found the patisserie and got an iced latte. I sat and wrote for 10 minutes, then used les toilettes again, and headed over to Bally’s for my showgirls show. I went into the theatre and watched all the funny people finding their seats. As for Jubilee, there’s a lot to be said. If your fetish involves feather plumes, sequins, rhinestones, and impossibly-large hats, this is the show for you. (I was going to add ‘boobs’ to that list, but everybody likes boobs.)

So, the show opens with the big typical showgirl-style revue. There are breasts, and lots of them. Most of them are fake, and too many ribs are poking out beneath them. The men in the show are super-queeny, and it’s hard to buy them singing about how all they want is hundreds and hundreds of girls. The music is cringe-worthy, as is the choreography. All the musical numbers are those montage-style bits, really overdone and cliché. I’d think the show was making fun of itself, but I doubt that was the case.

Act 2 is the Long Twins. They juggle and contort themselves. There’s a too-long section where they wriggle in and out of garbage cans.

Act 3 is Samson and Delilah. In my opinion, this gem should’ve been saved for the finale, it’s that good. All the guys are dressed in leather-and-studs quasi-bondage gear, including those exaggerated banana thongs. When they dance, all I can think of is Party Boy from Jackass. There’s lots of simulated sex that’s supposed to look like dancing. Samson is a huge hunk of a man who stands at the side of the stage and flexes his pecs absently while watching the writhing. After Delilah seduces him and chops off his long, lustrous hair, the scene evolves into this bizarre S&M dungeon-type thing. It ends with Samson re-enacting King Kong – he escapes, knocking shit down and starting things on fire. Then he scales the gigantic bull sculpture, as smoke pours from its angry red nostrils. It starts breaking into pieces and collapsing very, very slowly, with Samson riding it all the way down.

At this point, I couldn’t hide the fact that I was in hysterics. Everyone else there seemed to think it was pretty damn good. When I looked at the program, I noted that the last part was labeled Scene VII – Cataclysm. You got that right.

Next up, act 4 is called ‘Fuzion’. It’s a very athletic, very aryan couple getting into various poses to the beat of German industrial techno. Their strength and balance is impressive. The fact that they’re doing a slo-mo ‘robot’ isn’t.

Act 5 is the Titanic, and it’s the pinnacle of cheesy. I was giggling before it even started. The costumes are terrible. The men wear candy-colored suits with giant white piping. The women have huge, overgrown muffs. (Ha! No, it’s only topless. Really.) They lipsynch really poorly. I was wondering if they were going to show tits again before or after the ship sank. The Titanic’s crewmen are putting on horrifying British accents, saying things like, “I say, old chap,” and “Jolly good.” There’s a song about French lingerie, accompanied by a fashion show (no, I have no idea, either). Then there’s a boiler room gangbang, and after that the ship sinks. And the really funny thing is, it sinks in exactly the same way as the temple fell down vis-a-vis Samson: breaking into pieces, falling slowly into a pit. You know, cataclysm. In the program, the note reads, ‘Nearer my God to Thee.’ Um. What?

Act 6 is Stoyan and Dmitri hanging onto sheets and flying around overhead. It’s not great, since they obviously once had hopes of making the Olympic team on the rings. They failed.

Act 7: The Finale. What can I say? It’s exactly what you would expect. Huge, feathered hats that make up 95% of the total outfit. Lots of boobs. A topless wedding ceremony. Some of the girls appear to have become trapped in chandeliers. There’s even an especially-painful standards revue sandwich: montages of pieces by Cole Porter, then Jerome Kern, then George Gershwin. The montages don’t work very well, because they do two or three lines of every song before moving to the next: it’s Broadway for the short-attention-span crowd. Or more accurately, to satisfy the audience’s belief that they came to see real entertainment, and not just to see a bunch of nipples. So, yeah. The show was over, and we clapped. I applauded the few apparently non-surgically-altered breasts onstage. You can tell by the jiggle, and their unashamed less-than-perfection.

I left Bally’s and headed back toward the Stardust. I cut through the Barbary Coast and Venetian. There were way, way more people in my way at that time of night. I couldn’t believe the number of people out, and the huge variety. It would’ve been excellent people-watching, but I wasn’t in the mood. Also, I quickly became irritated at the amount of drunk ogling. Everyone was drunk. Creepy guys making too much eye contact. I wanted to push my way through just to get away. It seemed to have cooled down a bit outside, maybe even under 100. All the lights were on on the strip, but I wasn’t noticing most of it. I just wanted food and sleep. I wandered through Treasure Island and found nothing, so I went back to the Stardust. It was nearly deserted, totally unlike the casinos farther down the strip. It was actually a relief until I encountered the crowd exiting the Wayne Newton show; they were probably the slowest people I’d encountered yet.

At the Stardust, I found a restaurant with food I could eat. So, of course, they had just closed for cleaning as I got there at 11pm. So I went to Tony Roma’s (Your Place For Ribs). Yeah, I know. It was sheer desperation, and I was determined to find something. That ended up being a side caesar salad and an order of mozzarella sticks. I was sure they would make me sick, but I didn’t care. I was in Vegas, the city where people do really stupid things. After dinner, I dragged my tired ass up to my room, wrote for a very short while, and went to bed, determined to sleep in the next day.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

california drivers hate letting people switch lanes. they speed up. assholes.

on mira mesa boulevard, a booth that has everything you could ever want: coffee, smoothies, cigarettes, and lotto tickets.

on the interstate, i saw a dumptruck with the message: happiness is a good dump.

road sign along I-15:
las vegas 76
salt lake city 526

holy crap! i ran out my glacier gateway motel pen! i want to die! moving on to the la hilton pen. ha.

at this point, i’m surprised i’m able to stop walking. it’s all i do lately.

people here walk so fucking slow!! aaargh!

why do i notice the heat on my eyes the most? is it the contacts? it’s bizarre.

the waitress just came up and said, ‘gosh, you write fast!’ ha.

being by yourself in vegas during the day isn’t weird at all. at night, it sucks. it’s the crowds and the drunkenness. you feel like meat. i don’t regret not being out wandering around the strip right now. i’d probably end up throwing punches.

– – – – –

I tried to sleep in, really. I woke at 6 and forced myself to go back to sleep, but I was up again by 7am. I got coffee and went to my car, which, surprisingly, had not melted into a pool of metal and rubber after sitting in the heat all day. I got on the freeway and headed towards the Hoover Dam. Apparently, Boulder City has some kind of scam going with the state highway department, in which all the tourist traffic is routed right through the center of town.

I got to the dam at 8:45, and it was already 95 degrees. I had to wait in line outside the visitors’ center, which didn’t open until 9, thinking, this is not what i want to be doing. Finally, they let us in, passed us through a metal detector, and sold us tickets. I wanted to go right to the observation deck, but they made me go down and sit through the presentation first. I was cranky. All I wanted was to take some dam pictures and be on my way. I didn’t want to take the dam tour. I sat there, squirming, surrounded by tourist families, thinking, this is not what i want to be doing, either. I did learn a couple fun facts from the presentation, however: first of all, there’s no way a body could be buried in the dam, because of how they poured the concrete (although I choose to adhere to the theory that the mob can do anything it wants, and if it wants a body in the dam, it gets a body in the dam); second, Las Vegas gets none of its power from the Hoover Dam. So there. Some learnin’.

After they herded us cattle out of the presentation corral, I busted out of line and ran up the stairs to the observation deck. Some security guards peered at me suspiciously, but didn’t seem to have the ambition to taser me, so I got to take my photos in peace. After that, I made my way to the gift shop, the most important part of any stupid tourist attraction. I got my dam souvenirs* and was back on my way.

*I’m sorry, dam jokes make my mom laugh every single time I tell them, so I feel obligated.

Also, you may wonder at my bitterness over the Hoover Dam. I don’t know, I guess I’m not that much for public works. I didn’t like having to spend so much time and money to see something that’s basically a punchline.

I got in my car and drove across the dam into Arizona, because I wasn’t positive that I’d be driving through there on the way back, and I’d be mightily pissed if I missed a western state on my road trip. I was there long enough to make a u-turn and go back. I liked that there were clocks on either side of the dam telling us what time it was in the respective states, since Arizona has some sort of conscientious objection to daylight savings. Troublemakers.

I pointed Chico back towards Vegas and marveled at the double layer of haze over the city. There was the normal, white haziness from the heat, and below that, a thick layer of brown smog. Nice. I drove around to the north end of town and exited at Las Vegas Boulevard, so I could drive through downtown. It was all tattoo parlors, bail bonds, and wedding chapels (‘Your wedding broadcast live over the internet FREE!’). The crappy little motels had the best signs I’d ever seen, way better than anything the strip had to offer. I parked at the Stratosphere, and went in and bought a ticket for the tower. I wanted to see Las Vegas from above.

The view was impressive – not as hazy as the pictures seem – but it was painfully hot. I could only stand it for ten minutes, then went inside and down a level to the indoor observation deck. I sat and wrote for a while, then went back downstairs to the casino. The girl running the elevator told me how much it sucked to be a teenager in Las Vegas, because of the strictly-enforced 9pm curfew. She only had 2 months to go to 18, though. Then she could get to topless dancing or waitressing or prostituting or whatever it is that 18-year-old girls do for work in Vegas. I wouldn’t know, but I wished her the best anyway.

I walked from one end of the casino to the other twice. I stopped at the deli and asked about the veggie sandwich. It was cheese with whatever vegetables I wanted, as long as my selection was limited to lettuce, tomato, or onion. I couldn’t get a salad without meat because they were all pre-made. As I pondered the anemic-looking fruit salad, the woman behind the counter pointed out the veggie sandwich again and said, “Well, that’s how we do it when they want it vegetarian!” She seemed angry. I left and headed back to Roxy’s Diner, the 50s-style restaurant, because they at least had grilled cheese. I was so frustrated I wanted to cry (the combination of impatience and low blood sugar is such a bad state for me). I explained my issue to the server, and she said, “Awww, honey. Let me hook you up!” She went back to the kitchen and had them construct a very impressive grilled vegetable sandwich for me. And I loved her for it.

After lunch, I went back to my car and drove down the Strip. I saw a couple drops of water on my windshield and thought it was from a sprayer at a casino. Then I realized it was raining. 110 degrees in the middle of the desert, and it was raining. Also, it was the first time I’d really encountered any adverse weather on my entire trip. I’m lucky that way.

I found my destination about a mile from the strip on Tropicana, near the airport. As I got out of my car, I realized that the rain was doing nothing to affect the heat, it was just making it humid. The drops were drying as quickly as they hit the ground; I was surprised they weren’t hissing. The backs of my pants legs were soaked again, and I got instant chills the second I walked into the Liberace Museum.

The enthusiastic old lady in the black-sequined vest gave me a long speech about my tour options. I decided to forego the audio tour, even though it was a mere $3 extra to hear Liberace speak to me. You see, I’m the high-impact tourist. I try to see as much as possible in as little time. Tours slow me down, informational signs are a distraction. I could be halfway to Salt Lake City and Liberace would still be talking to me. So no audio tour.

The Liberace Museum was kind of great. No, really great. The first building housed his pianos and cars. The cars were incredible. Now, I was lucky enough to have experienced the platinum tour of Graceland, and I can say with absolute authority that The King’s cars had nothing on Liberace’s. They were all either covered à la mirror ball, or decked out in rhinestones. One was red, white, and blue. They were fabulous, and they must have had some kind of souped-up suspension to handle the weight of all that glitz.

[This space reserved for the photos I’d have taken if they’d have let me. You’ll just have to visit, I guess.]

The geriatric crew and I meandered through the museum, then exited and followed the Liberace Walk of Fame through the Liberace Strip Mall (gay bar, produce market, Asian grocery, and spaces for rent), to the other end of the Liberace Complex and the rest of the museum. I wasn’t sure why the place was divided in half, but maybe they just didn’t realize how much Liberace they had to show off. I went into the second museum without even having to show my Liberace Hand Stamp, which cleverly concealed my Mt. Rainier bruise. This part of the museum was a roomful of his famous outfits. Yet again, Liberace put Elvis to shame. They were so great. My favorite was the patriotic hotpants ensemble. Also, I saw the world’s largest, purest rhinestone, donated by Swarovski (it’s the store that glows blue at the Mall of America, FYI) especially for the Liberace Museum. It did them proud.

The Liberace Gift Shop didn’t disappoint, either. I bought myself an awesome book about 50s Vegas, and talked to the lady at the counter for almost 20 minutes about the museum and its similarities to Graceland. She hadn’t been, but she wished that the Elvis folks would be as philanthropic as the Liberace Trust, which donates some millions of dollars a year to charity. (Sorry, Heather, I know you love Fat Elvis, but Liberace had a fat stage, too. Give him a chance.)

I called Heather on my way back towards the strip and complained about my food situation. She looked up the address of a vegetarian restaurant that turned out to be a grocery, but that was fine. I was happy. I bought some snacks for the car and protein bars, and chatted with the guy behind the register about the crappy casino dining options. He agreed that it was bad, and asked where I was from. He said that the woman who owns the French Meadow Bakery in Minneapolis (one of my current favorite restaurants) stops in every time she’s in Vegas. Awesome.

I got back to my room at 2:30 and passed out on the bed. I was awakened at 3:30 by a phone call about a job. I looked at my AAA guides for Utah and Colorado, and couldn’t get excited about anything. I wrote in my journal: i think i’m done.

The storm was in full swing at that point, so I sat in the window in tshirt and underwear and watched, waiting for it to let up enough for me to go out again. The wind had picked up, and it was a full-fledged dust storm for about fifteen minutes. I watched dirt-and-trash tornadoes spiraling around the parking lot. It started raining hard. I saw a big metal garbage can (minus the contortionist, thankfully) blow over and slam against a beater car. My car was so far unscathed, but I was keeping an eye on it. I was happy that the humidity dust was getting washed off.

After it stopped raining, I got dressed and headed to Circus Circus. I went up and watched some of the performance. It was kind of a cool setup, and I liked that they put on the show for free, considering some of the crap that people paid to see in that town. I walked around the shops and checked the restaurants, as usual. The one place that looked promising was closed; I was mistaken in my assumption that everything in Vegas was open 24 hours a day. I walked back to the Stardust, and found a long line outside the one cafe I had chosen the night before. Sigh. I waited anyway, and it only took about 10 minutes. They got me in fast because I was willing to sit in the smoking section. I mean, the entire city is like one big smoking section. So why not?

The people behind me in line were from West Virginia. I knew this not because we were chatting, but because they were those kind of people. Questions/statements I overheard, many of them repeated multiple times:

– It’s 7 here, right? Or is that the time in West Virginia?
– Is this the place with the steak and lobster? I don’t want the steak and lobster.
– Is this place open?
– Is this the buffet?
– I don’t want steak and lobster. I would eat it, though.
– That girl is all lit up! Look at that! (Referring to the girl in the lobby selling flashing stuff with LED lights, à la vintage cigarette girl)
– That girl couldn’t go to school like that, though! They’d send her home for distracting other kids. (The ‘girl’ looks to be about 40. Yes, the flashing lights are distracting. Not to mention the mini-tux and fishnets.)
– If I have to eat that steak, it better be done.

I hated them.

The menu was huge. Sandwiches, entrees, a page of Chinese food, appetizers, all-day breakfast. About four viable options for me, none of them great. I decided on nachos and fruit. I rule.

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random notes from my travel journal:

casinos at 7am are only slightly less depressing than casinos that are empty at 11pm.

i have suspicions about the bureau of land management. is their only job to sneak onto indian reservations in the middle of the night and steal the land back bit by bit?

i know i’ve said it before, but being vegetarian in las vegas is a fucking nightmare. i was better off in montana.

i got sammich juice all over my face and hands. i am classy to the end.

this is the kind of place where the servers walk around singing 50s tunes. don’t make eye contact. also, it seems to be the seat of some casino rockabilly scene. jay would hate it here.

seeing this weather here is kind of great. i know it’s a pretty rare thing.

even ‘home’ is a disorienting concept at this point. it’ll be weird to not be alone all the time. i wonder if that will feel funny. more disorientation. cool.

i’m starting to suspect that meat is some kind of religion out here.

on the way home, i’ll stop and see some sights if i feel like it, but right now, i don’t feel like it. the grand canyon doesn’t seem like such a big deal at the moment. i’ve had an overdose of natural beauty. and too many crazy cities and crazier people. so awesome, but enough to last me for a while. i kind of want to get back to my routine. it’s funny when you start craving doing dishes and laundry, right?

i feel like i’m calling home too often just for human contact. like i told heather today, i have to remind myself that there are people somewhere who care about me. also, heather is the siegfried to my roy. ha.

i think these nachos have velveeta on them. for christ’s sake.

i hurt all over. the hips aren’t great. my feet are shot, i think. they have blisters and sore spots all over them. i’m surprised it took this long, actually. i’m going to blame the insane heat for that.

i hate when i get cheese on my notebook. how am i going to live without this thing? it’s comforting to me. plus it’s my dining companion. i’ll have the fruit salad, my journal will have the nachos. extra velveeta, please.

you can play keno at the tables here. why, god, why don’t i know how to play keno?

i have to stop hunching my shoulders. i need a massage. i really just want to be in bed with someone. anyone. ha.

– – – – –

I left Vegas at 7am, iced coffee in hand. As I drove out, I noticed that the trip odometer was at exactly 5000 miles. It was in the 80s and the change was a huge relief. By the time I reached Mesquite, I had to pee. I drove by a billboard with the magic symbol on it: Starbucks. So, yes, I stopped at the Casablanca Casino to use the bathroom and get coffee. You do what you have to do.

The landscape the whole way was incredible. It was all desert scrub and mountains with red and white rock, studies in plate tectonics (see, I learned something in school). The Virgin River Gorge was beautiful, so I didn’t even mind more steep, winding grade and the 55mph speed limit. I crossed into Arizona and cursed losing an hour. I hit I-70 and was excited by the sign reading ‘Richfield’; I wanted that to mean Richfield, Minnesota, where I live. I stopped a few times to go to the bathroom. Then I stopped in Richfield to try and find coffee, but couldn’t. I was zoning out again, eating sunflower seeds to stay awake, and taking off my sunglasses so the glare would keep me alert. When I saw a sign telling me there was going to be a big stretch of nothing for 110 miles, I took that as my cue to stop.

The town I pulled off at had a couple trucker bars and a Denny’s. Beyond caring, I chose Denny’s. I got out of the car, shaking, with the cold sweats. I staggered in, got a table, and almost cried with relief when I saw that they had a gardenburger. I ordered coffee and sat and wrote. I sat there for a long time after I finished eating, too, because I was afraid I’d stand up again and realize that I was still in bad shape, and wouldn’t be able to drive. But, no, when I got up, I was fine, and I had confirmed that my problem was definitely low blood sugar. I vowed to be more careful about that in the future.

I got back on the road and make the 110-mile drive through the middle of nowhere easily. Utah is beautiful, and the landscape is really diverse. Anywhere else, it would all be national park, but there’s just so much of it, they probably couldn’t do that to the entire state. Although maybe the Mormons could get in on some of that action and convert all the visitors. It’s a win-win, really.

I crossed the Colorado border and the scenery continued. It was somewhere close to a million degrees outside, and I was dying. My pants were soaking wet again, so I devised a method in which to dry them: I cranked up the air and aimed all the blowers down towards my seat. I braced my knees against the dashboard and pushed back against the seat, to lift my ass up and allow for air circulation underneath it. Thanks to my thighs of steel, I could hold that position for miles, and it worked.

I stopped in Grand Junction to get coffee. Heather told me that both Safeway and Albertson’s had Starbucks, so I was on the lookout. I got gas, and asked the woman at the next pump where I could find one of those stores. She was really nice, gave me directions, and said her mom was born in Minnesota. I found Albertson’s, walked in, and asked the odd-looking bagboy where the restrooms were. I bought pop and fruit. At the checkout, the bagboy (who was one of a matched set, prompting the mental debate: twins or clones? Clones.) asked if I had found the bathroom OK. Ha! I went over to the Starbucks counter, and the kid there was super-nice, too, if painfully dumb. It took him three minutes to enter my order in the computer, and he kept apologizing over and over. I asked him if he knew how to get back to I-70 from there. He said no, he had just moved there recently, and he honestly didn’t even know what I-70 was. I laughed and said, “It’s the huge highway that goes to Denver!” Another guy showed up, and I asked him. He gave me really elaborate, detailed directions, even though the answer was essentially, “Drive down this road and you’ll run into it.” I was a little weirded out when I realized that everyone I had encountered in that town was really, really nice. I had to get out quick.

Before reaching the Rockies, I crossed the Colorado River. There’s this area where the interstate runs through a gigantic gorge alongside the river, and I was almost positive it was running uphill most of the way. Anyway, this section of road is a marvel of modern engineering, and I’m not even joking about that. It actually looks like it belongs there, rather than having been carved out with a lot of destruction. There are two lanes going either direction, and they’re often at different levels, one above the other. There are perfect, smooth curves, so you can set the cruise and go. There are walking and bike paths down along the river. There are cool tunnels. And the scenery is great. Also, these were the very important things I thought about while driving insane distances alone.

I saw Vail and all those big ski areas I’m sure someone cares about. I was surprised to see hardly any snow in the Rockies, considering there were elevations over 10,000 feet, whereas I had hiked in snow in Glacier at only 7000 feet. As I got into the mountains, it started raining a little, and the temperature dropped from 105 to 60. I finally got to turn off the air conditioning. I went through the Eisenhower Tunnel, although I didn’t realize it at the time. Going down the east side of the Rockies, there are a million signs for truckers, warning them about the grade, and they get funnier as you go: “Truckers, don’t be fooled! Steep downward grades ahead! Check brakes!” and “Truckers, you’re not down yet! Are your brakes cool?”

I got into Denver around 8:30. 5,700 miles. I wanted to stop for dinner, but the switch to I-76 skirted town, which was actually kind of nice. I decided to keep going to whatever exit had something promising. That ended up being around 9pm, when I saw a sign that listed a few chain restaurants and Starbucks. I pulled into Starbucks, afraid it would be closed after dinner. I went to the bathroom, and as I went up to the counter, the guy had the cash drawers out, and the woman was washing dishes. I asked him, “Are you closed?” He looked at me like I was stupid, said, “We close at 10,” and walked away. I stood there, stunned. Was it 10pm? Was I in mountain or central time? I had no idea. I asked the woman, “Are you closed? I don’t even know what time zone this is.” I must have seemed really flustered, because she looked concerned. She said no, they were open. I told her what the guy had said. I was exhausted and confused, and she probably thought I was really pissed. She very slowly and deliberately made me coffee, then put it on the counter next to my Starbucks card. I slid the card towards her, and she just looked at me and said, “Have a good night.” I told her she was very nice, and thanked her for the coffee.

I had dinner at Applebee’s, the only sit-down place in town. The food sucked, but it was food. The server sat at my table for a long time and talked about being vegetarian. She was great. In fact, everyone in Colorado was really friendly. I couldn’t figure out whether that should scare me or not.

I got back on the road, hoping to get a couple more hours of driving in. The farther I could make it, the fewer miles I’d have to drive to reach home the next day. Since I was once again in the middle of nowhere with no cell signal, I stopped at a gas station to call Heather on the payphone. While I was standing there talking, bugs were swarming around me. I had to keep stamping my feet to knock off the beetles that were climbing on my shoes.

By 11:30, I couldn’t drive anymore. About 20 minutes outside of Sterling, I saw a mouse run across the highway, and had a bizarre flashback: the last time we were driving through that area about 3 in the morning, while I was dozing in the passenger seat, Heather told me she was seeing mice running across the highway. Then she saw mice flying across the highway. Then we blew a tire. I decided to stop. So I exited and pulled into the first motel I saw, which happened to be the Travelodge. I parked in front of my room, went in, and did the first thing I usually do, strip the bed. I flipped over the pillow, and there was a big black beetle sitting happily underneath. I froze. Now, I have bug paranoia, so that wasn’t great. Our first apartment had roaches, and I will never, ever get over the emotional scars. I was pretty sure this wasn’t a roach, but my head wanted me to believe it was. It was probably one of the million beetle-y bugs from outside. Still, it was big, and it was just sitting there looking at me. I got some kleenex and tried to kill it, but it ran away. I chased it, yelling, “No no no no no!” It disappeared under the bed.

I unmade the other bed and checked all over for bugs. Then I went to get ready for a shower. While I was undressing, another smaller bug ran across the floor. I smashed it with my shoe. In the bathroom, I discovered another black beetle writhing around on its back behind the door. Sufficiently grossed out, I took a shower but didn’t wash my hair – I didn’t want to stick around long enough in the morning to redo it.

I brushed my teeth and re-checked the second bed. I left the bathroom light on because I was freaked, and wanted to be able to see the bugs before they got to me. I laid there for about 20 minutes, having visions of beetles crawling in my bed, in my shoes, into my bag. Also, I still wasn’t convinced they weren’t roaches. I thought about going out to sleep in my car, but then was pissed that I would have to pay for the room. So I got dressed, grabbed my stuff, threw my sleeping bag, pillow, and blankets in the back seat of the car, and went back to the office.

There was another woman at the front desk, checking in. I said, “I can’t stay here, there are bugs all over my room.” The woman signing in stopped writing and stared for a minute, thought about it, and went back to writing. The front desk woman said, “Do you want to try a room upstairs?” I said no, I was just going to go. She printed up my refund and handed it to me without a word.

I thought about trying a different motel, but my other option was the Super 8, and I didn’t hold out much hope for that, either. I already had the creeps. Plus it was 1am and I had showered and brushed my teeth, so why pay $50 for a bed? I decided to drive on to the rest area, which I knew was within 50 miles.

I got back on the interstate, set the cruise at 80, and blasted music. I passed a town every 10 miles. It was pitch black, and reminded me of driving late at night in Montana. I kept the brights on even with oncoming traffic, because I was scared of hitting something. But I did anyway – one of those huge strips of semi tire laying on its side in the middle of the road. I didn’t even see it. It slammed loudly against the bottom of my car, and I thought I was going to be sick. I was sure I would at least have a flat tire. I shut off the stereo and listened, and everything seemed fine. No bumping, no weird noises, no alarms. After ten minutes, I reassured myself that the car was OK.

20 miles later, I found the rest area, right on the Colorado-Nebraska border. There were about ten cars and campers already parked there. I settled in and was comfortable, starting to doze off right away. I closed the screen on the sunroof to block the light and the sound of the rain that was just starting. I woke up a little later, cramped and drenched in sweat. I spent the next few hours flopping around, having delirious dreams. I was in California. I was in Las Vegas. I was sleeping in the desert. I’d wake up confused, remind myself where I was, and go back to the dreams again. At 5am, I had had enough; I probably got an hour of sleep. It was getting light, and the wind was blowing really, really hard. I sat up and saw tons of lightning to the southwest, heading my direction. That decided it; I was getting out of there. I ran to the bathroom, fixed my hair, and got back on the road.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

it’s 500 miles to denver, through mountains and nothing. i want to cry.

you know you’re tired when you’re thinking picking up a hitchhiker might be a good idea, so you can share driving.

why do all old ladies have the same hairstyle?

i just heard ‘never surrender’ by corey hart. wow.

i so want to be a trucker. i really, really want to make use of the runaway truck ramp, too.

‘no name, colorado.’ joke towns. ha.

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