The problem with Vegas is...

... what happens there stays there.  I have nothing to write.

blurry but beautiful

I went there with a 40-year old Vegas virgin.  It's always fun to see everything through the eyes of a newbie.

When I was twenty-two, my German great auntie, Anni, came to visit my parents.  She had superhuman energy and wore my parents ragged.  They begged me to step in and DO SOMETHING with Tante Anni.  OK, so on my days off, I took Tante Anni to Knott's Berry Farm and to Disneyland.

OMG-- that wiry little Kraut had more energy than a barrel of meth addicts.  She joined me on every roller coaster, flume ride, rocket ship and teacup ride.  I was ready to puke, and she was ready to do it all again.  It was almost like that this past week, when I was the dowager chaperone to my lovely friend, Katie.

again, blurry but beautiful
     

First off, never go anywhere with someone eleven years younger, six inches taller and forty pounds lighter than yourself, especially if she has a sparkling, white-toothed smile, green-blue eyes and gorgeous red hair. If you want to feel invisible, Katie's your gal.

Katie made me do things outside of myself.  She wanted to eat at the Hard Rock Cafe and Burgr and schlepp all four floors of the M&m shop.  She knew all about Hell's Kitchen and Gordon Ramsay.  She knew all about which chef won which series of shows and which chef now ruled over Steak, Gordon Ramsay's high-end restaurant in Paris, Paris.

the only guy who got near me all week and that's cause I got near him     

That's okay.  I knew all about dancing waters, the Andy Warhol exhibit in the tiny Bellagio gallery, French pastries at La Belle Madeleine and where to find the cushiest chairs at the best Starbucks (in the Planet Hollywood casino, next to the Heart Bar, in case you want to eat an internal organ as your protein energy snack).

Together we discovered the many post-modernist, ultra hip and cool pleasures of Aria.  That's where the hootchie mamas and young studs go to play.  From the top of the escalators, the basement level looks like a rat hole of Band-Aid clad, stiletto-heeled whores and muscle-bound young felons.

We were too shy to sweat to industrial techno at Chateau on Wednesday night, but we did hazard a photo with Thor and the boys on the corner of Harmon and Las Vegas Boulevard.

I demand ass cheeks like this in my next life

All's 
well 
that 
ends 
well.  

See?  --->






We spent the last night with Nine Fine Irishmen and, as a fun capper, I pitched my cell phone into the toilet.  If you thought I was kinda goofy and  meshuga before, you should see me without my Blackberry.  Totally insane.