Return to Vegas, Part V: Conclusions

The Travelin' Thornberries at the "rear" of their trip.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010—Same S**t, Different Plane

Alas, all good things do come to an end, and our second Vegas trip was no exception.

The Guacamole Glop From Hell

By the time we checked out and got to the airport, it had been 90 minutes since we'd eaten breakfast, and Jennifer was hungry for lunch. So we stopped at a small airport restaurant. Again, I was on a different eating schedule from her, and I decided a small appetizer like the bait I had the previous night would be perfect right before a plane flight. So I settled on a small plate of nachos with jalapeno peppers and cheese. I figured Jennifer could help me polish it off and there would be no waste.

They brought me an entire roasted hog, sizzling on a spit over an open fire. THUNK! Right there on the table in front of me.

Okay, maybe not. But I *do* recall a vast plane of undulating cheesy chips. It was a field of food so huge that Jennifer was only a distant floating head on the other side, like a setting sun. More, they must have had Jabba-the-Hutt lick the contents of the plate before they brought it out, because it had a huge glob of slimy green guacamole hocked up all over the top of the chips. Both of us had to tiptoe around the "glopamole" as Jennifer later called it, and only extract the chips clear of its pathogenic border. The worst part about it was that the cheese fossilized as we ate it, cleaving the chips to themselves and tasting more and more like mouse butt. At last, we gave up trying to pick at it, each of us sorry we had to waste so much food. We pushed away from the table and headed for our gate.

The Angry Announcer

Any other hassles we encountered this round were pretty typical for any flight. However, we did notice that an undercurrent of resentment seem to afflict the staff in the Las Vegas airport. While we were waiting to board, an Angry Announcer came on over the intercom, making sure to tell us rather snidely, "you're going to have to know your alphabet and your numbers now." He went on to explain the boarding procedure, which is based on the letter and number on the tickets we have in hand. But he did so in a very patronizing manner. We suspected him of having dealt repeatedly with the hassles of "cows" and louts, the former being those who can't figure out the boarding process, and the latter, those who disregard the rules and do whatever they want, no matter who they hurt.

Shut up, You Cripple!

That line I found so funny from the movie three days ago returned to haunt me as we boarded the plane. As usual, it was a free-for-all dive to find seats together, and as we moved further back in the plane, it was looking less and less like we were going to be successful. So when Jennifer spotted one on the right-side aisle, I immediately zeroed in on one on my left that was only a row removed. Unfortunately, that required I step into the seat area with my right foot, then pivot on my left to fall into the seat. As I did, I heard a sound like industrial-sized metal objects being bent, followed by a loud pneumatic explosion. No, wait, that was my knee joint! Severe pain reverberated throughout my left leg, and I believed I was going to retch up fossilized nachos. But I didn't get long to nurse my newfound pain. At that time, Jennifer spotted two seats together, and I had to jump up quickly to follow her. After that, I just sat and throbbed, not in a good way.

The Sarcastic Stewardess

While I suffered, we listened as our last significant character,the Sarcastic Stewardess, did all the usual announcements. Of course, we know the FCC requirements must be even more boring for the flight attendants than they are for the passengers. How many times can it be fun to show us how to use the seat belts, the oxygen masks, the life preservers and emergency exits? Not only are these provisions government-issued common sense, but most passengers probably don't listen that closely to it anyway. I usually at least try to make eye contact with them and give some sense that what they're saying matters. But most passengers don't. Usually, the attendants handle this with finesse and a resigned, mechanical delivery. This one, however, seemed rather churlish. She would make comments like, "If we could pretend to have your attention for a moment, you might just notice in the seat pocket in front of you...oh, look, a safety brochure!" When the plane landed in Chicago Midway airport, three hours later, she got on the intercom and stated, "Alright, get out." At first, I thought she might be suffering burnout, but after awhile, I started to suspect she just had a sarcastic style of humor and thought she was being legitimately funny; I'm not so sure the other passengers would agree. She made us feel like we were freight and not people.

Conclusions:

The rest of the story is uneventful. We spent a couple of hours in Chicago, eating McDonald's hamburgers while sitting at a kid's table. I learned how my knee would bend and how it would not, but only by trial and error that left me limping clumsily by the time we returned to our home airport. It had been an eleven-hour ordeal that saw us walk in the door to greet our kitties at nearly 1:00 a.m. Nevertheless, such experiences are what make us glad to see our fat little fuzzy four-foots, and our encounters with the world give us grist for these stories we tell.

Thanks for being with us on this one, Our Darlings! :)

Ye Ende

Return to Vegas: Part IV (Jennifer's Turn)

Let's just take another good look at that picture!

Wait a minute! Hold on here! That previous entry was obviously the man's point of view of Thunder From Down Under. Vital details have been left out! The men! The muscles! The sheer Aussie hotness! Let me tell you this story as only a woman can!

Flash back now to that evening when we arrived at the show room....

...As I walked into the show venue, I first noticed the closeness of the stage. Unlike Crazy Horse the night before, this stage was low and close to the tables. Indeed, when the seven Aussie hotties came out on stage to do their first routine, a Motown-themed dance in which they wore maroon tuxedos, I noticed how easily I could see their eyes, full lips, and other bodily features. As they moved their perfectly sculpted muscles and teased us ladies by slowly taking off their tuxedos, they made constant eye contact with the audience. This was an intimate show. The host even made sure we knew that there would be no one to tell us, "You can't touch there!"

My opportunity to touch came when Leigh came down off the stage -- now sans tuxedo jacket and vest, white shirt opened to reveal his perfect pecs and washboard abs -- to sit in my lap. I blushed. I grinned like a 21-year-old. He asked me, "How are you doing?" I somehow had the wits to blather, "Better now!" Oh yeah, baby, I was having a good time! Thomas was laughing at me and my lap full of an Aussie hottie.

One of the most memorable dancers, the one that made us ladies scream the most, was Donovan. Marcus dubbed him "the wild child" of the show, and I can see why. Shoulder-length dark hair. Nipple ring. Constant smile. "Come hither" gestures. Lip-syncing to the music. Mmmm... He did a pirate-themed routine -- appropriate since he looks a lot like Jack Sparrow -- in which he started off in a long, colorful pirate-style coat and black pants and ended up in nothing but his g-string. O-o-o-o! A-a-a-ah! At one point, he came to our side of the stage and stood, waiting for a response. When we didn't scream loud enough, he spread his arms and gestured. When our screams grew deafening, he mouthed, "F--k yeah, I thought so!" He was obviously enjoying showing off what he had for us ladies, and he wanted our appreciation for it. I was glad to give it, because he certainly had it!

All of the routines had something to offer, but the most prominent thing, of course, was the man-flesh. We were at a male revue show, after all. Man-flesh came with the territory. In addition to the rock-hard pecs and six-pack abs, the Aussies also had perfectly sculpted backsides. Yes, I'm talking man-butt, the kind that a woman longs to get her hands on and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze!! I quickly noticed that one reason for the low stage and the closeness of the tables was so the men could easily leap onto the tables and stand in the center, lowering the backs of their g-strings to give us ladies a full, unbroken view of their derrieres. They stood and preened while the ladies reached up and groped and squeezed. My only regret was that I was never close enough to touch, although Thomas did grab my hand and try to help me reach up to grab one luscious butt. (What a great hubby he is!) One dancer in particular demonstrated his ass-ets by having Marcus act as a human beat-box, rapping out a beat while the dancer clenched and unclenched his cheeks. I think the temperature in the theater went from hot to sizzling. Or maybe that was just me.

All of the dancers pulled one or two ladies out of the audience up on the stage. The Aussie hottie would sit the blushing girl down in a chair and straddle her, touch her, and especially encourage her to touch him. Several lucky ladies had their hands run all the way from an Aussie's well-sculpted chest, down the ripped abs, to the bare hip ... and even under the g-string! Whoa! I'm surprised none of them fainted from the thrill of it! I don't know what I would have done if I had been pulled up on stage, although I wouldn't have minded the opportunity to see. Wouldn't that have been a fun story to tell!

During a break between routines, Marcus asked for three ladies to volunteer to come up on stage, and he specified that they "absolutely could not be shy." I kept my hand well out of sight, wondering what they had planned. Turns out it was a fake orgasm contest. Yes, the ladies were to give their best fake orgasm, with the audience voting by cheering, and the winner got a free photo with all seven of the Aussies. So a bride-to-be in a pink wig, a blonde girl in a blue dress, and a girl designated "big boobies" by Marcus took the stage. Marcus encouraged them to use him as a prop, telling them they could touch "anything but ..." -- his hand traveling down his torso, pointing quickly to his man-parts and traveling back up -- "my hair." All three courageous ladies gave it their best shot, but the bride-to-be won.

The dancers closed the show by all coming out on stage for a cowboy-themed routine in which they stripped down to their jeans. At that point, they brought the lucky bride-to-be who had won the orgasm contest back up for her photo and invited any lady who wanted to come up on stage and get her picture taken with the Aussies to do so. They would stay there as long as it took. As much as I had enjoyed myself, I decided that pictures with the Aussies were the province of the 21-year-olds. I had had enough hotness for one evening, and I was ready to go. So I had mercy on my husband and took him out of the estrogen-filled theater back to the hotel room, where we had a couple of drinks and relaxed before bed.


Click for Part V

Return to Vegas: Part IV

For purposes of brevity, this section of our blog has been significantly truncated. For those who wish to see it in its uncircumcised form, we defer you to our webpage: [coming soon]

Monday, March 8, 2010—Las Vegas By Day, Then By Night

Our intent during the daytime was to see what we missed the first time in Las Vegas: the other end of the Strip, particularly a close view of the Stratosphere Casino. It hosts one of the more unique structures on the Strip, a free-standing tower that is the second highest one in the entire Western Hemisphere of the planet. At the top, it includes a restaurant called Top of the World, as well as several types of amusement park rides. A picture of that structure would round out our previous tour nicely. Fortunately, we grabbed a couple of good ones:

With our earlier experience to guide us, we were soon aboard the overpriced monorail transport, which ferried us from the MGM Grand all the way northward to the Sahara casino. It took a bit of a hike, during which we encountered more dead escalators we had to slog up (and it was always up).

Overall, however, we had to conclude the north side of the Strip wasn't as impressive as the middle and southern portions we'd seen last time. Other than the Stratosphere itself bulking against the horizon, it was otherwise something of a rundown slum. I felt a little vulnerable walking around the streets, as we kept passing scraggly-looking old men with long gray beards, who watched us as we moved past them. Urban Jed Clampetts. At one point, we passed between two gangs snapping their fingers, obviously preparing to rumble. Luckily for us, they then started ballet dancing and singing as though on camera, and we slipped past them before they noticed anything amiss.

Of note, we saw a few of the "McChapels" for which Las Vegas is known, those little drive-thru places where you can get married for a cheap price. They're even yoked to cheap motels, presumably so newlyweds can have the wedding and the wedding night in close succession. *Chuckle*

Sometimes You Get the "Cow," Sometimes the "Cow" Gets You

Once we'd had our fill of the Stratosphere, Jennifer thought we might enjoy a quick jaunt southward on the Strip, to see what kinds of city sites yet awaited us. Alas, it ended up being a hard walk, behind multitudes of "cows" who could have only walked slower if they backed into us. Jennifer just knocked them aside.

Images of the north side of the Strip

The Fashion Show Mall

The Strip did finally start to change from a slum to something more resembling what we saw in the south end, and we eventually reached one of our goals: The Fashion Show Mall. We had high hopes of finding some new clothes like the ones we found last time, something that would spruce up our wardrobes in general, and maybe give us something for our second show that night. The place was multi-storied, elaborate, labyrinthine and filled with various forms of enchanting, if money-sucking, establishments. It was enough the delight the eye and warm the heart.

Eh.

Unfortunately for us, it only verified what we've discovered on other trips to large shopping malls. They just aren't for us. We covered this mall in about an a hour, and were somewhat disappointed that for all its seeming diversity, it offered nothing we really wanted. We sighed and prepared our tired and hurting feet for the long walk to the nearest monorail stop.

There's little else to tell of the return trip, other than it was long and often frustrating. More dead escalators, a few actually going down this time. More slobbering "cows." So let's fast-forward to the highlights of the evening....

Bait for Dinner

At check-in the day before, they'd given us a couple of tickets for free drinks at one of the restaurants inside the casino. Jennifer suggested we use them with dinner on this evening, and she thought their little Irish restaurant, Nine Fine Irishmen, would be a good place. She ordered a deep-fried whale fillet, while I searched over the appetizer menu, looking for something reasonable for one person, that might save us a few bucks besides. I settled on some cold cooked fish on some kind of bread rolls, with goat cheese.

They brought me some fisherman's bait.

No, wait, that was my dinner, all four morsels of it. I had envisioned an appetizer on par with cheese sticks or spinach and artichoke dip; something large enough that it could be a meal if necessary. Instead, I got food from the aquatic gumball machine. I'm surprised it didn't come in a plastic Easter egg. To the credit of the establishment, it was delicious. I attempted to offer Jennifer a bite, but she said she felt guilty about taking 25% of my meal! I guess you get what you pay for. In the end, I made it work for me, and Jennifer helped by letting me smuggle a few fries from her plate of fish and chips.

A Stranger in a Strange Land

At this point, we had seen three shows in Las Vegas that showed the female form. Now it was Jennifer's turn to savor of a bit of what the city had to offer. Only *ahem* "bare" weeks ago, she had cheerfully reserved tickets for the show Thunder From Down Under, a live performance at the Excalibur casino. This is an Australian version of the better-known Chippendales, a male dance routine. Our original hope had been to have another couple eventually join us in Vegas, and perhaps allow Jennifer to go to it with another woman. Unfortunately, in our socially sped-up culture, with time at a premium, the chance of that with any of our friends seems increasingly bleak. So I found myself in the dubious position of joining my wife at a show designed for women of all ages...and men of none. Still, I discovered I was looking forward to it, if only because it would put me in the unique position of being a minority, a stranger in a strange land of "women being bad." Plus, I reasoned that any event that brought attractive women together couldn't be completely off-putting. *Snicker*

Dressed in our nice outfits, we hotfooted our way over to the Excalibur, got in line and started inside the showroom. I noticed right off that I had been right in my expectations. The line was composed mostly of 20-something women wearing "night on the town" dresses, with glitter and bling. Hair heavily teased, slit skirts, high heels and in some cases, diadems with the number "21" on them. Coming-of-age gals, no doubt. Ahead, I heard them talking to a world-weary usher, who fielded their questions with mechanical, fluid practice. One of the girls, probably one less-than-sober, asked him if the dancers ever took their bottoms off and went completely bare. He responded, "Yes they do, every time they get in the shower." When we got up next to him, I told him I suspected he'd heard everything, to which he gave a tired affirmative. He told me the most common question he gets is "Are the dancers gay?" To which he answered that they most assuredly are not.

Once we found our seats, another couple soon walked by us. The were a little older, and the man--one of the only other ones I would see--told us this was his second time to see the show. He advised me to look around, "just don't enjoy it!" I bantered with him several times, eventually realizing he was stone-drunk. Maybe that's what it takes for a man to get through a male dance tease twice. Poor bastard.

The lights dimmed, the music started and the dancers hit the stage. I looked around the room, watching the girls' responses. Our stage host, a guy named Marcus, was rousing the crowd at one point, asking first how many married women were in the crowd. *Mild Cheering* Then he asked how many women had boyfriends, but before anyone could answer, he interrupted himself and said, "Oh, who cares, where are the SINGLE girls!?" *Mad Cheering* He topped off this particular bit by asking, "Let's just be honest, ladies...which of you are easy!?" *More Mad Cheering* One of the things I noticed was that some of the girls looked uncomfortable or downright unhappy and resentful. One particular new-minted 21-year-old (she had the birthday diadem on her head), pointedly put her hands on her lap and looked down, when Marcus asked the "easy" question. I was kind of left wondering what that type of woman expected when she came to a Las Vegas male show. A church collection plate? By and large, though, such ladies were the exception. I saw more staggering youngsters, most likely those who didn't know how to pace themselves, and got so drunk before the show that they'd probably be too hungover and sick to remember much of it the next day. But there were middle-aged ladies in the crowd too. And one much older. Everyone was delighted when Marcus took one of the front audience members, Grandma Margaret up front for special attention. Margaret was there with her daughter and granddaughter, and she was celebrating her 90th birthday! Marcus was gentle with her, but made sure she got from the show what women were there to get, including a full-on kiss to the mouth! They played George Thoroughgood's Bad to the Bone during this sequence, stopping it at the line, "I make an old woman blush." I think everyone appreciated how Marcus gave attention to the little old lady, including Margaret herself.

Overall, it was a pleasant show, with good crowd-rousing music of various genres. These guys weren't expert dancers, but they had stamina and did some impressive acrobatics, including break-dancing. The ladies screamed and screamed and screamed until Jennifer got hit in the back of the head by my bleeding earlobes that some girl behind me had blown completely off my skull. The stage lights were dazzling and well-coordinated. The chairs were a little uncomfortable and cramped, but all in all, it was a memorable experience. By the end, I was tired and ready to leave. And I had to wonder later, how do those guys do this show every night, next that pulse-pounding music, and not suffer damage to their hearing? And is this a question only a man in an audience of women would care to ask?

Anyhow, the night was very late, at least for our three-hour, temporally disynchronous selves. That meant a couple of drinks and bedtime.


NEXT TIME: Jennifer feels she has a bit more to say about this night....


Click for a Different Perspective of Part IV

Return to Vegas: Part III

In this section, we'll chronicle how the Travelin' Thornberries' attempt to find and attend their first bit of entertainment in Las Vegas.

La Femme, aka Crazy Horse Las Vegas

We took some time to nap, freshen up, and dress in the fancy clothing we'd purchased on our previous excursion through Sin City. Excited, we set a course through our hotel, our intent to get across the street to the MGM Grand Casino. That's where our show was scheduled at 8:00 p.m (which is 11:00 p.m, home time!). Unfortunately, our previous familiarity with the layout of the New York-New York didn't help us very much, and we still became hopelessly turned around trying to find the umbilicus that yokes the casinos together over top of the 10 lanes of traffic below. Frustrated, we at last laid in a course for the front door, figuring once we had our bearings, we could just take the long way around. Both of us held on to our excitement and went outside into the dry air of the Nevada desert.

And it was raining.

RAINING.

In Las Vegas, the seat of one of the most renowned deserts in the continental United States!

We would talk to some locals later, who would tell us this has been thus far the rainiest year in recent memory. Lucky us. We got to bear witness to this dubious "miracle," when we were already cold and in our nice clothing. Neither of us had thought to pack an umbrella. Jennifer's well-teased hair immediately and audibly went flat, and I was sure my jacket would be ruined. Both of us set as fast a pace as we could for the one-block walk from the New York-New York to the MGM Grand, climbing over the line of diverse animals that were trekking across the street in ominous-looking pairs. Once inside, we found the chamber where our show would be held, and then spent some time drying off.

Things got better after that. From the entrance to the show, an usher escorted us into a sultry red theatre, surprisingly smaller and cozier than we expected. In fact, passion-red was the dominating theme. The lighting was ruddy, the curtains deep wine colored. The ushers and waitresses likewise wore scarlet tuxedos, with the latter having appropriately short skirts. All navigated the room using unobtrusive red diodes when the main lighting dimmed. To each side of the stage were eight-foot tall nude female statues of faux marble, looking like Greek-influenced Muses or goddesses.

The usher led Jennifer and me to a front seat at the right of the stage, where a small drink table awaited us. Our spot was behind another couple who introduced themselves and told us they were from Pennsylvania. They were delighted to hear we were unofficially celebrating our fifth anniversary, telling us this was their own quarter-century mark of matrimonial bliss. When the long-legged waitress, of apparent Indian descent, approached and asked if we'd like a drink, I nonchalantly ordered a double-shot of Scotch on the rocks. Jennifer ordered water. Said waitress returned a little later with a couple of bars of gold bullion crammed into large glasses, and laid out the bill for these huge masses of precious metals. Drinking the gold was hard, and I found it almost as difficult to pack down my esophagus as the cost...okay, I'm exaggerating a bit. Suffice it to say, each shot of that Scotch cost as much as a 2-liter bottle of brandy back home, and that usually lasts us five or six weeks! Jennifer whispered, "Better enjoy that Scotch!" Hell, even the water she ordered--an eight-ounce bladder of Evian--cost enough to purchase four bottles twice that size at Kroger. Ah well, we eventually reasoned that this was a special occasion and we were there to get a show unlike anything we could get back home.

About the show.

First of all, it was imported to Las Vegas from the Crazy Horse Theatre in France, where it has been performed for more than half a century. It originally opened here in the U.S. under the name La Femme to distinguish it from another show already running with a similar name. Once that other show closed, however, they changed the name to "Crazy Horse," in honor of its French origins. And it truly is a nod to a Continental heritage. The theatre itself is an exact replica of the one in France. So concerned are the producers to maintain this authenticity, that the music performed is pre-recorded, many of the numbers in original French. The performers lip-synch. Presumably, this is so as not to massacre the language pronunciation or introduce an inauthentic American accent to it. However, the MGM Grand's entry on Wikipedia says that all thirteen dancers were part of the original Paris troupe; I don't know if that means they're French, or just trained there. In any case, the lip-synching is apparently unusual for a Las Vegas show, where most performers do their own singing; but understandable, if they want to guarantee authenticity.

The theme of the show is female beauty, taken in the abstract. Woman with a capital "W." The thirteen performers--all women--are selected for uniformity of their physical features, anatomy, height and facial bone structure. The idea is to standardize beauty, to emphasize it as a single variable, with all other extraneous variables controlled. The dancers are remote, even coldly impersonal. They do not speak, do not engage the audience, and as noted previously, they do not sing in their own voices. They are at all times, cloaked in wigs, heavy eye shadow and a plethora of projected lights on their bodies, further creating a mirage of surreal beauty. But that's pretty much all they wear.

You see, the performers are nude.

Yes, Crazy Horse celebrates the beauty of the entirety of the female form, something that cannot be captured through the distractions of fashion or the constraints of modesty and prudishness. This is an adult show, but "adult" in the sense that it appeals to sensibilities that children--or the overly young-at-heart--are unable to appreciate. Las Vegas is very good at finding some of the best, most tasteful performers in the world. Each performer in the Crazy Horse show was trained in ballet, and each has made a cut from an incalculable number of applicants for one of only thirteen spots. On stage, the ladies move like living nude sculptures from a museum, all deserving of the same reverence as any other piece of art.

Each act was introduced with a title projected in white light onto the curtains. I found most of them illegible, for one reason or another: either the curtain was too wobbly a medium, the font of the letters was difficult to decipher, or the title was in French. But it didn't matter, the acts were generally well-done just the same.

The first act, one of my favorites, involved all the beauties dressed in 18th century French military garb, with fuzzy helmets, and a strip of buttons down their otherwise bare torsos. It was a lock-step bit, where they used high-heeled combat-esque boots to make loud, synchronized percussive rhythms. They also did well-choreographed saluting. You can see someone's recording of the act and a general summary of the show performed in the Dailymotion window below. Be warned, however, that this is not "prude friendly." If you are easily embarrassed or offended by nude art, scroll on past it and continue the story:

Jennifer really enjoyed the second act, which involved two performers enacting synchronized and graceful movements within a large metal ring. Here's a safe version of it, which is "prude friendly:"

I took the time throughout the performance to memorize the order of the acts as best I could, but it would be rather futile to try to capture all their majesty here, with only words. Suffice it to say, it was an awesome show, one I'd gladly see again. Women are beautiful, and it is a sad commentary that, unlike our European kin, there are so few Americans who can look beyond the stigma to see that. [Getting off soapbox now.]

By the end, we were quite pleased with our choice of show. It made the rain and cold more than worthwhile. Unfortunately, it could not sustain us through the jetlag and the fact of a four-hour flight. We returned to our room, where we talked of the show some more, before going to bed.


NEXT TIME: The Travelin' Thornberries take the monorail to the previously unexplored part of the Strip; and by day's end, they see another form of "strip" entirely. Tune in!

Click for Part IV

Return to Vegas: Part II

Sunday, March 7, 2009—Hitting the Ground Sitting

The thing about returning to a travel destination where we've been before is that there really isn't much story in the trip itself. We took advantage of Jennifer's parents' generosity the night before our plane left, and spent the evening with them socializing and eating homemade enchiladas. It ended with our viewing a classic movie called Zulu (1964), a tale about the soldiers of the British Empire standing against the marauding Zulu tribe in Africa, 1879. My favorite line from the movie? "Shut up, you cripple!" Say it a few dozen times like I did, and it starts to sound really funny. At least until your partner pummels you. *Hee*

Anyway, we rose the next morning, partook of a delicious breakfast, courtesy of Jennifer's mother, and then got on the road to the airport.

The Usual Plethora of Airport Hassles

Spend any time with one of our travel narratives, and you'll find this category is in about every one of them. No trip is without suffering of some kind, alas.

Most of the hassles these days fail to surprise us, so ubiquitous are they. This time, however, we were struck by the fact that the escalators weren't working. I was dragging a weighty check bag behind me as we entered the airport building, and did not particularly enjoy having to heave it up forty or more inert metal steps. More, the retractable handle on the bag kept jamming, and I had to pound it down with my hand in order to manhandle the damn thing. Apparently, I bruised a nerve in my thumb at some point, because it developed an unpleasant "shocky" sensation when I flexed the digit. Luckily, Jennifer gave me a small hand massage that made it go away. Such are the occasions one has to be thankful for having a supportive life partner. :) As a bit of foreshadowing, I'll point out that dead escalators were a pattern this trip; we would find them at the airport in Las Vegas, as well as at almost all of the casinos and street crossings. What the hell? Was there a nationwide strike among rebellious escalators? I could almost picture the scenario: Tired of being walked on, feeling like they were running in place in their careers, and resenting that they have no upward mobility, proletariat escalators fall into lock-step unity, lift off their shackles and stop bearing the weight of the world. Instead, they just sit and stair. [Sigh].

For all that, the baggage and security checks weren't too difficult this time, and we got through with minimal hassle. By this point, a couple of hours had elapsed since our hearty breakfast, and Jennifer was hungry for a hearty lunch. We stopped at a Quizno's, where we encountered our first character listed in the dramatis personae above: the Byzantine. He didn't appear all that unusual at first, but when he spoke, it was with an old Byzantine accent so thick he sounded like he was trying to talk while gnawing on a mouthful of car seat. Still, his English was passable, and the exchange would have been fine, but for the fact that he didn't seem to understand us. All Jennifer wanted was a sandwich with the tomato left off. But our Byzantine seemed to think she didn't want any vegetables on the sandwich. We both tried several different ways to tell him, "just take off the tomato." Finally, Jennifer gave up, told him to leave it as-is, and planned to qualify the order to the line worker actually making the sandwich. Well, they must have had some little elves back there working surreptitiously, because we got to the end of the line where she could talk to the employee, and the sandwich was somehow already made...made wrong. Tomato intact, and with melted cheese to cement it firmly to the bread. [Sigh]. Luckily, the girl was a good egg, and conjured a new sandwich without complaint. Jennifer patted the girl's pasty white shell, and we bid her "valeat." That's Latin for, "May she be well."

We'd timed our arrival well this time, and were able to board our plane only a few minutes after finding our gate. The trip, other than being a long four hours of unbroken sitting in a plane seat, was uneventful. We'd hoped to find an aisle seat, having learned last time that if we sat against the window, we'd probably get corked into our spots by a fat guy sitting on the outside. That makes it hard to get up and go to the plane's restroom. Unfortunately, passengers seem to have this need to sit in their seats, then hunker forward in them like they're preparing for one of those nuclear holocaust drills elementary school kids used to have to do back in the 1950s and 1960s. So every time Jennifer thought she spotted two aisle seats together, she'd then find one of them occupied by a huncher. What the hell, are they trying to hide their looking at porn on their little Blackberries? Jennifer gave up and settled for two adjacent window seats. Minutes later, we were corked in by a fat guy. More, he fell into a catatonic slumber throughout most of the trip, in which he emitted noises like he was snorkeling in gelatin. Ew!

Here's a bit of video showing the view from outside our window:



Four hours and a couple of full bladders later, the flight attendant announced, "We're coming in for a landing in Las Vegas; au-huh!" That last part was her comical little Elvis Presley addition, likely an homage to the King's legendary presence in the Sin Capital of the world. When we stood, our distended bladders sloshed, our legs creaked audibly and our spines made sounds like ratchets. I was just glad my knees were in optimal working condition and would bear my weight without protest after sitting that long.

As we moved toward the baggage claim area, we encountered the Chickadees. These were a trio of giggling young college girls from our flight, probably sorority members, who were clearly in Las Vegas to party, perhaps warm their ankles with their knickers, and have a good time. Their energy was infectious, and we found ourselves behind them throughout the airport. Luckily, they set a fast pace much like ours, which means they weren't "cows." It was funny to watch them avoid looking out the airport windows and seeing the city before they left the building; they were obviously cultivating suspense, and we appreciated the chance to fondly recall what it was like being young. Or at very least, to have our Vegas cherry unpopped.

After we reclaimed our bag and exited the building, both of us were struck by how cloudy and cold it was in Nevada! Last May, the desert weather was more than 20 degrees hotter than back home, while this time, it felt cooler. On top of this chilly reception, we then met our third character . From our first trip to Las Vegas, we remembered we could get to our hotel--the New York-New York--via shuttle. Spotting the booth that sold the tickets, we hurried forth and rotted in line, while waiting for perhaps the most glacial register person in all of Nevada. When our turn came, and Jennifer asked to buy tickets (the purpose of her workspace, after all), this half-decomposed Crypt "Cow" just stared at Jennifer like she'd never seen skin on a human being before. Jennifer had to qualify that she wanted a couple of tickets for a moving vehicle that traversed the space between here, the airport, and there, the Las Vegas Strip. The woman seemed a little dazed, especially when she looked down to discover she had fingers. Learning how to operate said fingers on the fly, the crizzled Crypt "Cow" finally punched a few mysterious buttons on her console, asked the two of us how many tickets we needed and whether or not we wanted a round trip. She then puckered her cigarette-moldered face, spent a few seconds we'll never get back to learn the principles of counting in single digits, and gave us our change. Free of her at last, we caught the transport and without incident, arrived at our casino.

Once we registered at the front desk of the New York-New York Casino, we went the elevators to our room in the Century Tower, 27th floor. The view was awesome, and we rejoiced that we'd arrived safely for our second Las Vegas experience!

The view of Las Vegas through our 27th story window.

NEXT TIME: The Travelin' Thornberries do battle with climactic anomalies, in their quest to bask in the presence of the idealized female form.

Click for Part III

THE RETURN TO LAS VEGAS:

March 7 to March 9, 2010

Hello, Our Darlings!

It's time for another of those detailed Travelin' Thornberries narratives that so many of you have supported us by reading in the past! This one wasn't our annual lengthy trip, but rather, a chance to use Jennifer's Spring Break in a positive way. Life has figuratively kicked me in every vulnerable body part this past year, and so I took the time off to join her, and perhaps recover a bit of spirit. Since Las Vegas has been our favorite city to visit thus far, we decided to book another trip there and see if the "Fever" still had the power to rejuvenate us both. Did it? Well, you'll have opportunity to judge that for yourselves over the course of the next several installments. Technology is changing rapidly, and we haven't yet settled on the one we prefer as we upgrade. For now, we'll use this blog format and see how you all like it.

Since it is in blog form this time, it means we'll be revealing the story to you only in little bits. Such a strategy will help us to unsnarl any complications we come across, plus a few of you out there have reported feeling a little overwhelmed at the length these stories can reach. So we'll try being more selective on what we post. Fear not, though, if you're one of those who treasures every detail (and we appreciate you if you are!), we'll be posting a URL soon that will connect you to the following tale in the original uncut format.

Now, let's begin with:

Dramatist Personae

Just to be a bit different, we'll build in a little suspense by introducing you all first to some of the characters we encountered. If you're a little lost at the beginning, fear not, I'll put them in context as I spin out the story.

The Byzantine--an employee at Quizno's at the airport, who has as much trouble understanding the world around him as he does making himself understood by the world around him.

The Chickadees--three 20-something young women who share our non-stop flight into Las Vegas.

The Crypt "Cow"--a decrepit airport employee who almost interacts with us after we land.

The Steamy Soldiers--the beautiful cast of female performers we see in a show on our first night.

Mr. Hot Tamale--the Hispanic cashier in a restaurant in the Stratosphere Casino.

Screaming Hippy--an angry street guy in a rather run-down section of the Strip.

Marcus, Donovan and Leigh--Greek gods of male perfection who perform onstage for throngs of screaming women.

Grandma Margaret--a 90-year-old woman who gets the chance to be felt like a teenager again.

The Angry Announcer--a jaded airline employee we meet on the way home.

The Sarcastic Stewardess--a flight attendant who attempts to be funny, but comes across as resentful and mean-spirited.



NEXT TIME: Witness the Travelin' Thornberries beginning their trip by fighting their way through the Usual Plethora of Airport Hassles.


Click for Part II