One Hundred Degrees of Dry Heat

Ugh, not another trip to Las Vegas. Doesn’t he go anywhere else?

I’m sure it seems that way.

Consider yourself fortunate that I don’t have good friends in Duluth. (Which I am sure is lovely at this time of year...)

Yes, I abandoned Happy Valley and its 20+ inches of rain since the first of June for Las Vegas, to see my friends Tracy and The Other Rick, and enjoy a few days of sunshine and 100 degrees of dry heat. Sometimes you just need to be reassured that the sun really does exist and that you still know how to lose money in a video poker machine. This was one of those times.

Getting anywhere from State College is a two flight business for the flush and a drive to the big city and a direct flight for the thrifty traveler. I wasn’t feeling that flush, and so drove to Pittsburgh where I left my car—with the driver’s window (accidentally) all the way down—in section 17A of Extended Parking. I was fortunate my car wasn’t filled with water on my return!

As a thrifty but demanding traveler, I sprung for Early Bird Boarding on Southwest Airlines.  My $15 got me position B29, which sounded only slightly better than Boarding Group Z. After I tagged Southwest in a grumble tweet about my purchase, I was contacted by a very nice customer service representative who asked me to wait until the return leg of my trip and to let the company know how things worked out. If I wasn’t satisfied he offered a full refund. Yay Southwest!

I snagged an aisle seat next to a leathery couple--leathery as as in too much sun on the golf course rather than regulars at the San Francisco Eagle--who could not even offer up a hello. Not even one word. Perhaps I should to pay to upgrade my deodorant rather than my boarding position! 

Shortly after landing and changing out of my traveling clothes (i.e. compression socks), Tracy and I headed to the Las Vegas Premium Outlet Mall. It’s the site of one of my best Las Vegas experiences ever, buying green Ralph Lauren trousers embroidered with martini glasses and shakers for $9.95.

Like a heroin addict chasing a high, I return to the outlet mall every year looking for the perfect pair of party trousers. This year, I settled for garden variety khakis at the smaller-than-it-used-to-be Brooks Brothers. There’s nothing festive about them and they weren’t even close to $9.95. Oh well, maybe next time. 

Over at the Ralph Lauren store, party trousers were likewise nowhere to be found. However, Ralph was selling camo jeans with a matching fatigue jacket for well north of $200. Presumably they were someone’s idea of BDUs for Operation Checkbook Emptying.

Shoppers looking for a slim fit Polo shirt in size XXL were in luck—there were tons of those. I think the outlet stocked up expecting a Marfan Syndrome convention. Who else would want a slim fit shirt in a 2XL? Tracy found some things, and in a shopping first, a coupon Ralph texted me (it could have been Ricky, they're old, they might share a phone) saved Tracy actual money.

After our shopping adventure it was time for a little R&R around Tracy and The Other Rick's pool. The pool guy, an earnest fellow named Grant, came by to do whatever pool guys do—adjust the chemicals, skim out the crud, and so on. I asked if he’d ever fallen into a pool in the line of duty and he said no, but his phone had landed in the drink once. He mentioned the difficulty of finding a professional looking swimsuit with a pocket for one’s phone. (Ralph, if you're listening...can you whip up something...maybe in camo?) Grant had the good sense not to hear me when I pointed out that in porn, pool guys wear Speedos.

Saturday evening, Tracy, The Other Rick and I went to THE Steak House at Circus Circus. Yes, the THE is in caps. The (lower case) Steak House must be someplace else.

Circus Circus is a funny location for a nice restaurant because it’s a pretty darned low end place. In addition to its circus-themed casino (which smelled as if they pipe in extra cigarette smoke), there are midway games like skee-ball, throwing darts at balloons, and perhaps even a pick-a-duck stand. Except for the missing farm smells, it’s like an indoor version of the Centre County Grange Fair.

The place has its share of tacky tchotchke shops, selling every kind of Vegas branded trinket imaginable, including Las Vegas Raiders yoga pants where the logo gives gives new meaning to the term "red zone".

THE Steak House is like stepping into the wayback machine for a bit of “Old Vegas” fine dining. Don’t go there looking for any sort of nouveau nouvelle sous-vide free range non-GMO heirloom gluten-free ancient grains nonsense. It’s the sort of place where you expect to see Don Draper at the next table enjoying a Canadian Club and a Lucky Strike or three before dinner.

Our waiter introduced himself as Richard. The Other Rick and I introduced ourselves as Richards as well. So, a three Dick night. Yes, I chuckled.

The food lived up to its billing. The wedge salad was the perfect old school accompaniment to a big honkin’ steak. When Richard brought my steak, I was reminded of the scene from the credits of the Flintstones where Fred Flintstone orders ribs at the drive-in restaurant and they’re so big that they tip over his car. My steak wasn’t just huge, but it was also cooked to perfection…over a wood fire, no less.

THE Steak House isn’t for the faint of wallet, but the food was fantastic.

Sunday was time for more R and R, lounging and loitering by the pool and whatnot, enjoying the 100 degrees of dry heat.

Late in the afternoon, we morphed into looky loos and visited the model homes on the other side of the wash/gulch/draw/arroyo or whatever that vacant depression of desert behind The Other Rick and Tracy's house is called.

From the backyard the site looks completely inhospitable and an utterly crappy place to build houses, but then again, from the point of view of an Easterner, the same can be said for about 99.9% of Nevada. 

We put on our moderately good bib and tucker and arrived there shortly before the end of business hours.

According to the builder’s website:

… Blackrock, is an elegant, gated community featuring Pulte Homes’ most popular collection of one- and two-story homes in the valley. Featuring a contemporary architectural style that has become native to the neighborhood, homeowners will enjoy the privacy of the rugged natural setting, next door to Green Valley’s entertainment and retail district.

I didn’t see any evidence that the development’s “contemporary architectural style” had become native to the neighborhood, and I have an actual college degree in architectural history.

We stopped at the builder’s HQ, picked up the brochure and walked next door—a distance of perhaps four feet—to see our first model home. La Vista, Tivoli, Cesena, and the Vittoria awaited our inspection. Obviously these homes were named by the Italian cousins of people who name colors for J Crew.

The model homes didn’t look a thing like my house, or even a thing like any house in State College. They looked like a Pottery Barn catalog. Or at least what a Pottery Barn catalog looked like when I used to get a Pottery Barn catalog.

Each home was decorated in in blacks, browns, and grays. Perhaps they are expecting an influx of Amish? What little color there I saw was relegated to the occasional children’s room.

The builder thoughtfully placed what museum professionals would call “didactic materials” (i.e. labels) on certain features of the houses so that you would know how special they were.

The plain, ordinary closet was Storage: Out of sight, conveniently close, immediately differentiating it from a storage unit across town.

The extra special closet was called the Life Tested--Registered Trade Mark--Dream Closet. This dream closet was not someplace where you hide your sexual orientation, that stack of romance novels featuring Fabio on their covers, or the fact that all of your relatives voted for Donald Trump.  No, the Life Tested Dream Closet is a Walk-in closet with ample shelving.

Frankly, my Life Tested--Registered Trade Mark--Dream Closet had better include a lot more than ample shelving. I’m thinking shirts with collars that never fray arranged in perfect Roy G Biv order, 32” waist trousers that still fit, and a sock drawer arranger who will come on schedule, like Grant the pool guy, to ensure that my dress socks, argyles, Smart Wools, no-shows, and miscellaneous socks stay arranged by color, length, expiration date, and so on.

Most of the houses had bathrooms as big as my bedroom and kitchens made for something other than cooking. I guess they’re designed for meetings since the kitchen island was now the Executive Kitchen Island:  Larger, for more room around the natural gathering spot.

There was the occasional agricultural-industrial complex Barn Door, which offered to Keep Your Style on Track with this Eye-Caching Space Saver, presumably saving all that space wasted by the Executive Kitchen Island.

If you have Frenchified nether regions, move elsewhere. Blackrock is not a bidet friendly development! If your daily ablutions include a Euro-wash “down there” while you watch Jerry Lewis clips on your iPhone, you are flat out of luck.

Prices at Blackrock start at $485,880 for the 2,100 stripper square foot Stella model. That means no white wall tires, no factory air, no am/fm 8-track tape deck and no Life Tested--Registered Trade Mark--Dream Closet. Your building lot, of course, is not included. Blackrock’s pricing brings to mind Captain Kangaroo’s disclaimer about Schwinn bicycles: Prices slightly higher in the west and the south.

OK, maybe I would like to live at Blackrock. But I’d need to have some work done—lipo, some Botox, dye job. And then I’d need new clothes (black, browns, and grays), new furniture, (black, browns, and grays) and new whatnot (guess what colors?), not to mention a new car. Nothing but a Lincoln Compensator, as big and as costly as an aircraft carrier will do. Alas, there's another Vegas dream with little chance of coming true!

After a post-tour dinner, we once again braved the 100 degrees of dry heat and went to The Neon Museum for its show Brilliant. If you have not been to The Neon Museum, the next time you’re in Vegas, go! It’s great.

The museum presents Brilliant in its North Gallery, a collection of unrestored signs that’s across the street from the main body of the museum. Though none of these 40 signs actually light up, using a technique called projection mapping, light is projected onto them so that they look as if they’re lit. It’s way cool.

The signs do their thing to a soundtrack of Vegas icons Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Liberace, and so on. And it’s great.  Except for one thing. The next to the last song is Elvis Presley’s Viva Las Vegas! followed by some more modern, endless, instrumental crap. Perhaps if I were younger I'd know the tune. But I'm old and I didn't have a clue. Hey Neon Museum, end the show with Viva Las Vegas! Always leave them wanting more!

After the show, as audience members mill about looking for that special Instagram moment, the museum projects a short slide show about the history of Las Vegas and some of its more interesting cultural milestones. Definitely stick around for that.

The next day I rented a car and drove out of town to see some stacks of painted rocks in the desert. Yes, I paid an obscene amount of money to rent a car at the hotel so that I could go out into the desert to look at painted rocks. Guess how hot it was?

However….these weren’t just any painted rocks. This is a public art project called Seven Magic Mountains, which translates into plain English as Seven Day Glow Phallic Symbols Out in the Middle of Nowhere.  The work was created by a Swiss artist named Ugo Rondinone. The phallic symbols, I mean magic mountains, are stacks of “locally sourced” rocks painted in presumably non locally sourced dayglow paint. The stacks of rocks are roughly 30 feet tall; they’re scheduled to be on display for two years starting in 2016, so run, do not walk, to see them.

The work was funded by the Nevada Museum of Art and the Art Production Fund, though if you drill down on the website, you see that its sponsors also include Aria, a Vegas hotel/casino; Banana Republic, the clothing store in better malls everywhere; Warhol Superstar, Jane Holzer, and Nevada’s top highway builder, Las Vegas Paving Corporation. Strange bedfellows indeed.

According to the work’s website, the artist, Ugo Rondinone, was born 1964 in Switzerland but now lives in New York. (I’d like to see him get those big rocks in a New York apartment!)  He has “long embraced a fluid range of forms and media” which “creates the conditions for an expansive emotional range”.  Presumably if I were to be more fluid in my embrace I would have more than a limited emotional range. Yet another thing to work on in therapy!

The website goes on to say that Rondinone’s work is “recognized for its ability to channel both psychological expressiveness and profound insight in the human condition and the relationship between human being and nature. Referring concurrently to the natural world, romanticism and existentialism, his works encapsulate a 'mental trinity' that has underpinned his art for more than twenty years.”

That’s pretty much what I thought too.

So in my rented RAV4, a car which I’ve never liked since I didn’t know if it's pronounced RAVE 4 or RAV 4, I headed south on Las Vegas Boulevard, past Caesar’s Palace, Bellagio, Mandalay Bay and even the Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas sign. I drove past an outlet mall, some locals casinos, plenty of discount liquor stops.

But I didn’t go as far as Exit 12, the home to the World’s Largest Chevron Station.

Before too long I could see some fluorescent dots in the distance. As they grew larger I could see that this was the place. There was no mistaking stacked locally sourced boulders painted in non locally sourced colors.

I pulled off into the parking area. There were about 20 cars there. There was no ticket booth or gift shop, but it was obvious where everyone was going.  What few signs there were seemed to be directed at gophers; they were smaller than license plates and at ground level. There was a dirt path that led from the parking lot to the rocks, which were about 100 yards away.

Even on a Monday morning at 11:00 am, in 100 degrees of dry heat, there were about 40 people there. They were mostly photographing each other or taking selfies. I didn’t see anything that looked like a human or animal sacrifice and if anyone was praying or taking celestial observations, I missed it.

 

I saw people jumping up and down for the camera, a few serious poses, and others trying to look alluring. I didn’t see any guys whip it out and try to add an eighth magic mountain to the tableau. Perhaps I just picked an off day. Who knows?

One of the funders called the work “a modern-day Stonehenge” and pointed out that it “has its own sense of purpose and spirituality”

OK, a modern day Carhenge, maybe. I’m not sure I’d go as far as Stonehenge, even the faux Stonehenge in Odessa, TX. And what’s with the “sense of purpose”? Since when do inanimate objects have any senses at all?

I enjoyed the Magic Mountains, but my enjoyment came from watching the other folks take pictures, point and yammer, and try to make sense of a bunch of locally sourced boulders painted in non locally sourced day glow colors on a you know how hot day in the desert outside of Vegas.

 

One of my favorite bits was the Seven Magic Mountains' mini me of locally sourced pebbles--in their natural hues!--that someone had created at some distance from the rock totems. 

I wondered if the form of the thing mattered at all. Would any bit of giant photogenic stuff dusted with some art history hokum drawn a crowd?  I think so.

Was it a religious experience for me? No.

Sure, I loved it, but had a driven a few miles longer, I would have loved the World’s Largest Chevron Station. I'm fickle like that.

But I'm glad I went. I needed a new selfie anyway. 

I skipped the chance to go on to the World’s Largest Chevron Station, so after my world was rocked, I headed back to the hotel pool.
 

When I went to the john instead of peeing in the pool, I learned about Russ von Hoeslcher’s Independent Crypto Currency Group. Someone thoughtfully left his already even highlighted card at each of the urinals.

When I think of the word Crypto, its surname is Commie. That’s right, I’m a child of the Cold War.  Duck and cover, y’all.  Somehow, I found the intestinal fortitude to pass on the crypto currency even though it could be so big that a modest investment might allow me to move into Blackrock, rich enough that I could demand that they install an Executive CEO King of the World Bidet.

That evening Tracy and I went to Caesar’s Palace to see Absinthe, a comedy/variety show in the Spiegeltent on the Roman Plaza.

Wiki tells me that a spiegeltent is a wooden and canvas tent, decorated with mirrors and stained glass that is used as an entertainment venue. So, it’s a little different from the less tent-ish mirrored wretched excess that makes Las Vegas fun.

According to its website the show was recently named “the #1 greatest show in Las Vegas history”. Leave no superlative unturned, it goes on to claim that the “ridiculously talented and sexy performers from across the globe mix outrageous comedy with jaw-dropping feats of virtuosity and danger.” 

This I had to see.

The Other Rick scored us VIP tickets with a complimentary bottle of bubbly. Even though I have sworn off champagne since my experiences at the Beaux Arts Balls of 1977, 1978, and 1979 (call me a slow learner!), I filled my flute right up. Repeatedly. As my mother used to say, "When in Rome shoot Roman candles!"

Absinthe is a variety show, with an emcee, his sidekick, and a bunch of brief acts by jugglers, trapeze artists and so on.

The emcee, known as the Gazillionaire, and the sidekick, aka The Green Fairy (a nickname for absinthe), have a hilarious comedy act that includes teasing every possible cultural group in the audience not to mention plenty of references to every kind of bodily function nice people don't talk about at the dinner table, not to mention, yes, circumcision. If there’s a less PC show in Las Vegas, I can’t imagine what it would be.

I laughed until my stomach hurt and then made a note that if we ever have a family reunion in Las Vegas, I’m getting everyone tickets. It’s a very Bryant kind of an evening, kind of like Cards Against Humanity with a side order of The Ed Sullivan Show, only more so.

It’s not just the comedy that’s great, but the variety acts are topnotch too. They perform on a tiny stage—it’s 10 feet in diameter—and right in front of you too—no one is more than 11 rows from the action.

There is a wacky juggling act called Life on Mars, a group of buff Slavic tumblers, and a pair of gymnasts dressed as English bankers who perform to a soundtrack of Handel. There are twins who tap dance--yes, tap dance!--unlike anyone you've ever seen.

 

Then there’s David O’mer, dressed only in a pair of jeans, whose props are a footed bathtub filled with water and rope hanging from the ceiling of the tent. He actually is all that and a bag of chips.

OK, the copywriter was correct about the ridiculously talented and sexy performers. Run, do not walk. to see Absinthe.  
 

I was still chuckling two days later when I flew back to Happy Valley, thinking about my next trip to Vegas. I don't have any plans, but Miss Diana Ross beckoned to me from a poster in the hotel elevator. She'll be performing in Vegas in a few months. She's 74...she can't possibly look like that...or can she?

If I take the plunge and book a ticket, you'll be the the first to know.

Touring Vegas Hot Spots

I went to Las Vegas last week for my friend Tracy’s birthday party. Yes, I was just there in August. However, this birthday party celebrated one of those milestone years, and you don’t miss those events if you can help it. My friends Bruce, Martha, and Rebecca have all known the birthday girl forever and signed on to go as well. R hadn’t been to Las Vegas in almost 30 years and M & B hadn’t been in a decade. Since I was the old Vegas hand, with an annual trip to Sin City under my belt, I was the unofficial tour guide.

We all met at the Philadelphia airport. Thanks to TSA Precheck we were through security faster than you can say “You have been randomly selected for a body cavity search”. That gave us time to enjoy a bite to eat before our flight and avoid the 3-day old Soylent Green that passes for airline food these days.

R said “What about this place?” as we came upon a food joint near our gate. It was called Local Tavern.  

According to its website,

A warm toned and natural design with plenty of wooden elements gives Local Tavern its distinguished look. Each cushioned stool is equipped with its own iPad where customers can charge up at any of the numerous outlets or USB interfaces.

I didn’t particularly notice the distinguished look, but it was hard to miss the iPad on a stick waiting to be interfaced with at each place at the counter. And just to get technical about it, it the counter was equipped with iPads, the stools were not. They were, however, equipped with bolts that attached them to the floor as in at pre-digital lunch counter.

Neither R nor I could figure out how to order breakfast on the iPad, so a waitress had to help us. This, as far as we were concerned, defeated the notion of ordering via an iPad. We had to take special care to sign out after we paid via iPad so that the next person who sat in on the bolted-to-the-floor stool wouldn’t charge their order to our credit cards.

A few taps and swipes later, I was the proud owner of a not particularly tasty breakfast sandwich and an equally dismal cup of coffee, all for the price of $17 and change.

As my father used to say, you don’t go on vacation to save money.

The flight from Philadelphia to Las Vegas was uneventful.  I remembered to wear my Old Geezer^TM brand compression socks. I used to be concerned about picking up a social disease while on vacation. Now I’m concerned about deep vein thrombosis. Getting old is so much fun.

The first stop in Las Vegas was the living hell known as the Rental Car Center. Even though I had a reservation, I waited in line for thirty minutes to see an agent at Budget Rent-A-Car. I’m not good at waiting in line. Actually I’m really not good at waiting in line.

When we finally got to the counter, I learned that our rental agent had received her customer service training in the former Soviet Union. However, she dressed as a capitalist and had long sparkly fingernails and fall plopped on the back of her head. When is the last time you saw a Soviet functionary in long sparkly fingernails and a fall? When is the last time you saw anyone wearing a fall? Even people who are losing their hair due to chemotherapy skip wearing falls.

I’m sure Ms. Fall’s previous job was in Moscow selling Kirby Vacuum cleaners or quite possibly stabbing people with the Rosa Klebb Autograph Model Knife from Cutco Knives. Ms. Fall was not going to fork over the keys to my car until I bought some insurance coverage from her.

As someone who was an insurance agent AND who once wrecked a rental car, I would much rather spend $50 for the chance to say to the rental agency “Hey, it’s your problem” than spend the rest of my deep vein thrombosis free vacation talking to angry rental agency about the coverage that came with my First National Bank of East Jesus Master Card. I bought the insurance when I reserved the car. Therefore, I didn’t need to buy it again.

I explained that I’d chosen the collision damage waiver on Budget website and had paid for it there. She acted as if I’d said I learned to drive on Mars. Ms. Fall was not having any of that.

She wanted me to pull up the email on my phone to prove I’d purchased the Loss Damage Waiver and wanted a copy of my insurance card and this and that and the other thing. I wouldn’t have been shocked had she said that I had to undergo the required body cavity search. I dropped an F bomb at the counter. No, it didn’t make me feel better.

She finally produced more documents than appear at the average house closing and turned over the keys to a KIA Optima POS. I was as hot under the collar a Vegas sidewalk in August. You can mark my words, I’m never renting from Budget again.

It was too early in the day to check into our hotel, so we loaded up the car and headed to everyone’s first stop on a trip to Las Vegas: Hoover Dam.

After a tasty lunch in Boulder City, we continued on to the dam and bought tickets for the $30 version of the 3:30 pm tour. This gave us time to watch the orientation movie, which was very reminiscent of Industry on Parade, the short documentaries on manufacturing that I remember from my childhood. Fiscally prudent taxpayers will be glad to know that the nice folks at the Bureau of Land Management did not waste money on fancy gizmos like a projector that focused.

After the movie, we still had time to kill before our tour, so we moseyed through the exhibit hall.

The exhibits and text panels, which are getting on in years, cover the history and building of the dam, and some basics of electricity.

 

Given the Tom of Finland imagery in some of the exhibits, I got the impression that the exhibit designer was Friend of Dorothy.

Why have a hunky construction worker hide his light under a bushel basket, or his heaving pecs under a shirt?

We tried to take a selfie as we waited but we only managed to prove that we weren't millennials by taking a bad photo. 

Right on time we met our guides John and Eric. John was a large-ish guy with a booming voice and overly waxed eyebrows. Eric was slight of stature, seemed a little Asperger-y, and had a voice that was someplace between problematic diction and a speech impediment.

We took an elevator from the top of the dam down to the room that holds the generating turbines. John explained how they worked and also pointed out the artistic touches, such as the inlaid terrazzo floors. There are more decorative touches than you might imagine. Interestingly enough, the dam was built well before the era when the Feds were required to incorporate art into public buildings.

After John was finished in the turbine room, our groups split up and we $30 folks went down a hallway into the bowels of the dam. The hoi polloi on the lower priced tour went to the gift shop, I think.

Both John and Eric threw out lots of incomprehensible statistics such as “The dam contains enough concrete to construct three Guggenheim Museums in each of the states whose names end in a vowel.” Or, “The dam generates enough electricity to take care of the needs of the Amish community forever. And that’s a long time.” The wacky statistic-oids flowed out of them like Niagara. All the water in Lake Mead would cover the entire state of Pennsylvania to the depth of one foot. Or was it l the concrete in the dam would cover Connecticut to the depth of one foot? In either event it’s lots of water and lots of concrete and both Pennsylvania and Connecticut will be in a world of hurts.

Eric did point out that no one is entombed in the concrete of the dam as the result of a industrial accident. Plenty of people died helping to build the dam, but none of them were covered up by concrete. I’d heard that before, but it seemed to bear repeating.

Eric told lots of dam jokes too. As in, are there any more dam questions? You only had to hear that one to want to put a gun to your head.

While there wasn’t a dress code on the tour, I couldn’t help but notice the woman with the sparkly phone case, sparkly handled selfie stick, sparkly sandals, and giant sparkly wrist watch. My guess is that she drinks only sparkling water. She might have been vajazzled too. I wasn’t going to ask.

About 15 minutes after I started to get claustrophobic in the depths of the dam—too many dam people asked too many dam questions--the tour ended. We took the elevator up to the top of the dam where we could bask once more in the bright sunshine and 1000 degree heat.

The tour is cool and I highly recommend it even if you can’t visualize using all that concrete to cover the state of Connecticut.

When the tour was over, we drove back to Las Vegas and checked into the quite nice if not super fabulous Westin Hotel. It’s near The Strip but not on The Strip. In other words, it’s close enough that we always had a view of the inappropriately dressed folks who make Las Vegas such a fun place to visit.

Friday’s dinner was at Lindo Michoacan, LV’s best Mexican restaurant. Our Uber driver was kind of terrible. Actually, kind of a lot terrible. However, a ride with him beat driving the rental car after having a couple of beers with dinner, having an accident, and dealing with Budget Rent-A-Car again.

The next day we were up bright and early for breakfast in a hipster joint in downtown Vegas, MTO Cafe. I don’t know if the restaurant was inspired by Sheetzes (home of the MTO) or the owners just thought it was a clever name. The place was stylish—the rest rooms were labeled Eggs and Sausages and the food was great. Our waitress, Rachel, made us feel right at home. Her recommendation of the hot Granny Smith donuts was right on the money.

We lingered over breakfast and so were just a wee bit late for our first stop of the day, the 9:20 am tour of the Boneyard at The Neon Museum.

As The Neon Museum’s website explains,

Founded in 1996, The Neon Museum is a non-profit 501 (c) 3 organization dedicated to collecting, preserving, studying and exhibiting iconic Las Vegas signs for educational, historic, arts and cultural enrichment. 

The Neon Museum preserved the lobby of the now demolished La Concha Motel (designed by Paul Williams) as its lobby, gift shop, and indoor exhibition space.

 

The lobby looks like a giant clamshell (concha is Spanish for “shell”) and is quite the bit of Googie architecture.

Most of the museum’s collection is displayed in the “Neon Boneyard”, an outdoor area behind the lobby. Lots and lots of old signs in various states of disrepair are arranged so that they create a path through the Boneyard. Some of the signs are for casinos, and hotels, but others are for stores and even a dry cleaner.

Our guide, Wyatt--five Yelp stars for knowledge, enthusiasm, elocution, and charm--did a bang-up job of telling the story of the signs and of Vegas itself.

There were some folks on our tour who did not listen to the Museum’s recommendation to wear closed toe shoes and museum appropriate attire. While we were not treated to an industrial accident, one young woman in sandals and a off white, semi-diaphanous romper seemed to be more interested in taking selfies with the collection than listening to anything Wyatt had to say. Where do you even buy a off white semi-diaphanous romper anyway?

The Neon Museum does have an additional space that’s available for weddings, special events, photo shoots and whatnot. So, if you want to have a bris in Las Vegas, call the museum and make a reservation today.

Like the Hoover Dam, the Neon Museum is rates a Run Don’t Walk To This Attraction when you are in Las Vegas.

After the Neon Museum, it was time to head to another Vegas Landmark, the National Atomic Testing Museum.

The National Atomic Testing Museum—which is affiliated with the Smithsonian Institution—tells the story of America’s nuclear weapons testing program at the Nevada Test Site.

The Nevada Test Site is about 65 miles from Las Vegas. It’s where the United States tested our nuclear weapons from the early 1950s through 2012. Though most tests were conducted underground, some were above ground. The mushroom clouds from those explosions were visible for miles around. These were treated as tourist attractions and Las Vegas hotels set up bleachers to that their guests could get a good look at the results of the weapons tests intended to keep the godless hordes from Mother Russia away from the craps tables and Vegas showgirls.

The museum has lots of interesting artifacts from models of bombs to the sheet music to the classic Tom Lehrer tune, The Wild West Is Where I Want To Be.

Mid the sagebrush and the cactus
I'll watch the fellows practice
Droppin' bombs through the clean desert breeze
A-ha!
I'll have on my sombrero
And of course I'll wear a pair o'
Levis over my lead B.V.D.'s

The Nevada Test Site was so important  to our Cold War defenses that it rated a visit from President Kennedy, presumably on his way to or from hanging out with his Rat Pack buddies (and Marilyn Monroe) in Vegas. 

Interestingly enough, while there was a docent, he did not tell us that if we’d dropped a 3-kiloton bomb on the Chips Ahoy factory that it would cover the entire state of Connecticut to the depth of one foot in radioactive crumbs as the Eric and Joe at Hoover Dam would have done. Instead, in the manner of Sargent Joe Friday, he just stuck to the facts. There were no selfie-taking visitors in a semi diaphanous rompers or Tom of Finland worthy mannequins toting big sacks of uranium. So, if those are what it takes to make your own personal Geiger Counter register on Fun, you should go elsewhere. 

If you are interested in visiting the actual Nevada test site, you’d better sign up now. Tours are already booked through July 2018. No sandals, shorts, cell phones, or semi-diaphanous rompers are permitted.

And how could we top a visit to the Atomic Testing Museum you might ask?  How else but with a trip to the Reef Dispensary!

Nevada legalized the recreational use of marijuana a short while ago. Just as the big billboards for Medical Marijuana (“Get Legal. Call 555-1212 Now” with a marijuana leaf standing in for the “O” in Now) are coming down, billboards for recreational pot “dispensaries” are popping up.

I wish that I could say that going to the Reef Dispensary were entirely my idea. But it wasn’t really. I was inspired by my hero, the sportswriter for The Wall Street Journal, Jason Gay. He wrote in the Journal about stopping by some “product” before going to the Floyd Mayweather Jr. vs. Conor McGregor fight in August. Thank you for the great idea, Jason!

We visited the Reef location on Western Avenue, practically in the shadow of the not-quite-on-the-strip Trump Hotel. Reef is in a large metal warehouse which just might be where they store the contents of the now defunct Liberace Museum. There’s a food truck parked near the door of the dispensary, in case shoppers get the munchies. I don’t think it’s Liberace’s food truck: it’s not covered in rhinestones.

According to its website, Reef makes it easier than ever to ‘enhance your Vegas experience” and notes that delivery is coming soon.

I’m of the age that thinks that legal-ish pot is crazy enough, but home delivery of legal-ish pot?  That’s really, really crazy.

We were met at the door by a guard who looked as if his diet contained nothing but lifting, tanning, and steroids. He had a white ‘stache and goatee that recalled the what-is-he thinking style of Hulk Hogan. He checked our IDs and let us into the lobby

The lobby was a small room, about 20 feet by 20 feet and filled with stanchions that guided the line as if we were at the post office or the bank. Directly ahead of us were two ticket windows where people bought medical marijuana. The folks ahead of us in line were unremarkable except for the crazy patron who was singing to no one in particular as if he were on something or being visited by the Holy Spirit. We waited in line briefly before showing our IDs again and being guided through a different door to the recreational department.

This room was also quite small. Perhaps the rest of building really is filled with Liberace’s costumes?!

We waited in a line of perhaps 10 people: with the exception of one guy, we were the oldest people there. An L-shaped counter ran along two sides of the room and a price list hung on the wall behind it. Seven clerks were behind the counter, stationed at iPads on a stick, the modern version of the cash register. Everyone was busy. Someone thought airbrushed paintings of busty comic book ish women smoking bongs counted as art. They would have been just the thing for the exterior of a van tricked out with a great stereo, shag carpeting, and beanbag chairs.

We weren’t in line long before it was our turn to talk to Briana, our personal Reef sales associate. She was an attractive 20-something African-American woman with a smile as big as the Stardust casino sign at the Neon Museum. She wore gold earrings that were larger than coasters. You could not miss those things! They were in a modified Greek key design; my guess is that a pot smoking architectural historian had given them to her.

Briana was a great ambassador for Reef, which grows and processes pot and also buys it from third parties. Briana told us that there were three basic types of pot available: flower, concentrates, and edibles; and lots of varieties of each type. She said she’d tried them all. On the counter in front her iPad there was a large array of clear jars with perforated lids so that we could sample the bouquet of any variety before buying it. The only variety name I remember was Elmer’s Glue. I didn’t think it smelled at all like Elmer’s Glue.

We asked a bunch of questions—M. is especially good at that, and Briana answered them all cheerfully. We were pleased to hear that she has lots of customers who are our age. I decided on some sour apple flavored gummy chewy things. I thought about a chocolate bar, but could see it melting all over our KIA Optima POS rental car. At no point did Briana describe any of the product as “really good shit”. Clearly Cheech and Chong do not do train the sales staff at Reef Dispensary.

I forked over the cash and Briana put my purchase in a heavy white plastic zippered envelope. She explained that Nevada law requires purchases to leave the store in opaque, smell proof bags.

This would make an excellent clutch, I said.

Briana chuckled.

As we left Reef dispensary I remarked on how pleasant the experience was there compared to Budget Rent-A-Car which is being operated by a partnership of The Spawn of Satan and Jared Kushner.

After a quick lunch at Sonic, we headed out to Red Rock Canyon, to enjoy some of the majesty of Mother Nature.

At Red Rock Canyon, which is perhaps 25 miles from Las Vegas, you can enjoy the scenic beauty from the car as you drive through the park. This is just the kind of scenic beauty I like during the time of day when a nap seems like a good idea. Red Rock Canyon would be a good place for a hike too, if the weather were OK, I’d brought the right shoes, and I actually liked hiking. It really is worth a visit. Just go to the Neon Museum first, OK?

After Red Rock Canyon we had time to freshen up before Uber-ing it over to Wynn Las Vegas for my friend Tracy’s birthday party, the reason that brought all of us to Vegas in the first place. It was a fab time. There were old friends to see and new ones to be made, a groaning board of tasty Italian food, and freely flowing red wine.
 

By the time the dessert tray came around I couldn’t have eaten one more bite had my life depended on it.

I took a break from the party to play a little video poker I managed to turn my $20 stake into $21 before hearing my father say, “Who do you think builds those casinos? Not the winners!” and then promptly cashing out.

There was plenty of time to enjoy—if that’s the right word—the fashion show that’s the Wynn’s casino. As there always are, there were lots of women who apparently don’t own mirrors. Too short, too tight, too breasty was the order of the evening. Some of those dresses weren’t fashion, they were feats of engineering worthy of Santiago Calatrava.

In the men’s department, it was the World Series of the that old game, “European or Gay?” I think European was ahead by a large margin, but you didn’t need to open Grindr on your phone to discern that some of the guys were gay. And of course, there’s the occasional two-fer, European AND gay as well. The place wasn’t exactly a hotbed of Brooks Brothers shoppers.

Our final day meant a visit to the iconic Las Vegas sign where we one again failed at the whole selfie business.

Afterward, we chowed down at a hipster breakfast joint followed by a walk through old Las Vegas and the Fremont Street Experience, the home of really bad street performers. If you are going to send your eight-year old kid out dressed up like Michael Jackson to work as a busker, you should at least make sure he can dance, right? I laughed at the panhandler whose cardboard sign said that he needed money for a penis enlargement operation. But no, I didn’t give him money.

We made a quick stop at the Carroll Shelby Museum to check out the cars before heading to Rick and Tracy’s for a pool party, and then back to the Wynn to see Le Reve, the big show there.

Le Reve (apparently French for The Dream) is about an attractive woman who has a conflict in her dream between love, played by a hot guy in a puffy shirt and black trousers, and a bad guy, played by a hot guy in red and black. It’s theatre in the round, and the stage is a pool, except one with platforms that come out of the water and then submerge, which is especially helpful when the divers take an 83’ plunge from the top of the rigging into the pool. It’s not just platforms that emerge and disappear, fountains and lights do so as well. There are 90 minutes of synchronized swimmers, divers, dancers, magicians, and aerialists, and perhaps most importantly, bulging muscles in wet spandex. There are giant fabric flowers, fog and rain, and, for good measure, the surface of the water catches fire.

Some of the male performers make underwear models look like the last person picked in gym class and the women are equally wow. The word breathtaking doesn’t begin to do it justice.  Even if I’d eaten all of the gummies at Briana’s work station and nibbled on pot-laced chocolate bar or two, my dreams would not have been this exciting.

But hey, that’s Vegas for you!