12.15.05

Danced like a dang fool all over town last Saturday night with my friend Chris. Looked fabulous, too. Little, black top and a tight, black skirt with ankle-strap shoes�oh yeah, I think I broke some hearts. I got asked to dance. A lot. *beam* Though I can�t recommend a tight skirt for dancing tango�even if it did have a pretty deep slit up the back. Glad I didn�t wear the pencil skirt. But all my other skirts are too big. Something about eating less and dancing all the time, I think.

Learned the basic steps of rumba, salsa, waltz, and cha-cha. Danced some East Coast Swing with a very able lead, and then a brief flirtation with blues dancing. Of course, there was tango, tango, tango, tango at the slightest provocation. *grin* Got home late, after drinks at the acme with Chris and JR. Dropped into bed with very sore feet, and slept like a sloth on Valium. Until my alarum went off at 08:30.

*braaang!*

Oh boy, it�s off to Vegas. Whoop and whee. Shower (Why can�t the water heater be about 80 gallons bigger? Brrrrrrrr.), dressed, grabbed bag, and out the door. To the airport�la, la, la. Checked in, no fuss. Waited in line for security. Waited in line for security. Waited in line for security.

Waited in line for security.

Got through. Needed coffee and fried potatoes (ever so slightly hungover�oy). Then I waited for my flight, knitting.

Uneventful flight to Vegas on an under-filled plane. Yay! Enough room to stretch out and relax. So I did. Landed. Called my ChosenBrother� and requested vodka and beer (not necessarily in that order) and out into the maelstrom of McCarren Airport.

Ah, Vegas. The ring of slot machines. The faint whiff of desperation. The false glamour of tinsel and plastic jewels overlaying an aging succubus�yeah, Vegas, baby.

Cab. Hotel. Up to the suite. Dropped bag, bag, jacket, and gave ChosenBrother� a huge hug. Claimed the other bed in the suite by tossing my bag sort of near it. Then down to the bar for beers and conversation. Bull riding nationals on most of the screens, with cowboys hootin� and hollerin�. American football games on several screens. Beer. Talk. Beer. Talk. Then the gambling.

Now, I ain�t much of a gambler. I�ve played a few slots (to no great effect) and bet on some horse races in my time, but that�s it. My joke is that I could take a roll of quarters, walk up to the �Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas� sign, fling �em away, and have the same result as me actually gambling. ChosenBrother� showed me the rudiments of roulette�with the caveat that roulette is the stupidest game. It�s the one that favours the house the most. But it is intriguing with all the clicking chips and movement.

So I gambled. And did okay, much to my surprise.

We ate, and went to the Penn & Teller show.

It was great. And we had margaritas, to boot. Yessirree Bob, there was a bar in the lobby and drink holders on the seats. Oh my. So very civilized.

After the show, there was more gambling. I tried my hand at the video roulette, and was rapidly down�a bit. Oh well. The slots offset that, so yay.

Every few minutes a nymphette/waitron in an outfit so short that the world was her gynecologist would hop up onto a mini-stage and either dance or sing some watered-down version of some modern pop tune. I was fascinated by watching their faces go from tired waitress to grinning showgirl in a heartbeat. To vary things a bit, a boy/waitron (wearing a lot more clothing�full-length pants and a short-sleeved shirt) (no fair!) would occasionally get on stage.

Fading fast. Off to the suite, and to sleep.

Next installment, Vegas, Day Two�or Why Gambling at the Venetian is Poopy.

Go. Be fabulous.

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