Vegas Vacation – Part 1

I mentioned that I was going to Las Vegas on a pre-holiday vacation, and several of my readers requested that I chronicle my adventures in Sin City.  As the hotel charged the GDP of a third world country for 24 hours of internet, I decided to put this all together upon my return.  I love you guys, but mamma needed a new pair of shoes!  It was my intention to call this blog entry, Seven Deadly Sins, and to expound on each as it was accomplished during my four day foray into decadence.  Well, as I managed to work my way through all of them the first day and night, I decided to call this, Vegas Vacation, and break it up into parts.

My partner, my dear friend, and I arrived to an unseasonably warm 60 degree December afternoon.  My partner was a Vegas virgin, and it’s always interesting to see the reaction of a newbie.  You grow up with this fantasy idea embedded by prime time television dramas that Vegas is this glamorous oasis of high rollers and beautiful people.  In reality, it’s more like peopleofwalmart.com.  From the tourists sucking on the travel yard of alcoholic Slurpee to the gauntlet of card flickers you have to run at every intersection, Las Vegas is Spanish for tacky in every sense of the word.  For those of you who live in Vegas, I don’t mean to offend, but you know damn well what I am talking about.  If you know where to look, the rich and famous are around, but for the most part the strip is Donny and Marie, Paris Hilton wanna-be’s, and more formed plastic than Dixie’s Tupperware Party.

Speaking of plastic, we were seated third row center of Cher’s headline show at Caesar’s Palace, and if I could turn back time, I’d do it all over again.  Cher was on the final days of her third farewell tour before the Divine Ms. M returned to close out the year.  Other than the ten minutes of apparently Bruce Vilanch influenced, bad Vegas stand-up following her spectacular fly-in number, the show was amazing.  Bob Mackie’s designs are scene stealing, and other than some well placed support netting, Cher’s taste in costumes have not changed over the years.  At almost 65, Cher is incredible and her voice is as strong and as inspiring as ever.  I do miss her talent on the big screen, though, from Silkwood to Mask to Moonstruck.  Sitting there I had the stark realization that Cher will never act again; the ability to show emotion is an absolute must.  It’s a little sad, actually, that in society’s youth obsession, “half-breed” now means half cylon or something.

Fans of Top Chef (and Padma Lakshmi) will turn split pea green with envy when I tell you I had dinner at Tom Colicchio’s craftsteak.  That piece of meat was the SECOND best sexual experience I had on my vacation.  I love all my vegan friends, but holy cow, it was sacrilege to force those competing chefs to prepare vegetarian in this kitchen.  Damn you, Natalie Portman!

Ok, we have to talk about those damn card flickers.   Is it just me, or have they become more aggressive as the economy has dumped?  For those who haven’t had the pleasure of being accosted by lines of men (and women) wielding the full frontal girlie cards of escort services, let me enlighten you.  At every major intersection a gauntlet is set up.  From the middle of the block you can hear the clicking as the cards are flicked together before they are shoved toward any warm body.  The later the hour, the closer they get to your body.  Click. Click. Click. “Girls, girls, girls.”  Click. Click. Click.  “Girls, girls, girls.  You have fun.”  Click. Click. Click. “Hey, I’ve got one for you…”  Ok, my partner and are are walking fast, hand in hand, running late to meet up with friends, and we have only 10 minutes to make the Titanic fountain choreography at the Bellagio…because what is Vegas without a little Celine Dion.  In the words inspired by Grover:  “near, far, wherever you are, the heart does go on”.   Then it happened, my progress was impeded by a line of red “girls, girls girls’ t-shirted flicker guys and one emboldened head click that asked me if I wanted a girl.  Ok, enough.  I stopped, pointed to the woman on my arm, and said, “Can’t you see I brought my own?!”  Silence.  No click, no flick…just blink.  And then from one, “Beautiful…you did good.”  Yes, I did.  The red sea parted and we moseyed on.

The Mexican restaurant at Planet Hollywood serves a wonderful pomegranate mojito.  I had three before going into see Peepshow, and I should have finished a fourth one.  You know a strip show is bad when the lesbians consider the boy acts the best and most memorable.  Peepshow, the burlesque review that debuted with DWTS Kelly Monaco and Mel B (Scary Spice) has a new lead cast that is just plain scary with very little spice.  Holly Madison, not to be confused with the founding mother, is a former Playboy playmate whose talents are better served within the two dimensional confines of a centerfold.  Retooled for a star who DOESN’T sing and DOESN’T dance, Peepshow leaves little more for the boob to do than a really bad pompom routine.  I’m sure she is a very sweet girl wondering what the hell her agent got her into, but with burlesque, a little cheese is good, but bad cheese just stinks. All I can say is if the audience goes down in the drink (and I highly recommend it), there is flotation device to go around.

To be continued…