Las Vegas is my husband’s least favorite city to travel on business. Last week, I joined him for a couple nights to make it suck less. (His words.) You can watch the off-the-strip recruiters look you, and then purposefully not offer the advertisements they offer to men who aren’t with their wives.
The thing about a writer is–she’s always working, even if she isn’t writing much. And even though writing has been slow, I am plotting.
I spent several hours the first day recording impressions and describing people walking down the strip while I drank the worst cup of drip coffee I’ve ever had.
From oxygen bars to extravagant jewelry–there is plenty to view in Vegas. I wore more make up than normal, ate a few fabulous meals, and did a little window shopping.
(On the downside a heavily accented man told me I’d be beautiful if I removed the bags under my eyes with his stem-cell cream…on the upside we got to see an early Gutenberg Bible edition.)
Vegas is weird because there is an intense and hurried atmosphere of indulgence. Even at the hotel swimming pool it feels more like pandemonium than pleasure. My son promises me this will mellow out when they legalize pot.
But what turned it into a vacation was seeing the Blue Man Group. It wasn’t a busy night and we ended up in the front row.
I don’t think we’ve attempted to see a show since we arrived at a nearly empty 10,000 Manics performance to find out Natalie Merchant was no longer the lead singer.
Here we are, right in front of the stage:
Contrary to this picture, we do actually like to touch each other. I don’t think we were ready…unless wearing heels was destroying my ability to stand upright.