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Is Las Vegas… Is Not Las Vegas

All right — let’s get this over with, so I can get back to my post-nasal drip. I’ve got a double-shot of NyQuil and twelve hours of sleep waiting for me.

So, obviously I can’t tell you anything that actually happened in Vegas. I mean, come on — it was a bachelor party. Hello-ooo. There’s a wedding at stake, plus some of our fingerprints aren’t in the system yet. So I can’t divulge any of those sorts of details.

(Not right now, anyway. Maybe later, when I feel like drinking again. Just pour me a brew and ask nicely — that’ll get you something. A twenty under the table wouldn’t hurt, either.)

Meanwhile, I can tell you a few things that I learned on the way to and from Las Vegas. So let’s give that a whirl, shall we?

1. Vegas 911: So, we all know about the lovable, irrepressible public safety officers of Reno 911.

(Okay, okay, so probably most of us don’t. It’s not a spectacular show, I’ll admit. But the cast includes a few of the folks from the old show The State, so I check in from time to time. If you don’t, just nod and smile a little while longer; the rest of this item doesn’t really depend on the show at all.

Jeez, what a train wreck that was. Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother with segues.)

Judging by the oversized posters in the Vegas airport, however, that’s the Nevada city where being a cop is where it’s at. Or maybe where it’s not at — in any case, there were at least three posters devoted to convincing visitors what a good idea becoming a Vegas policeman or policewoman would be.

(I say at least three, because many of the other posters were for boobie bars. I may have been just a tit bit… er, I mean, just a tad bit distracted. If you see what I mean.)

2. Cirque du Sin City: The other thing I noticed about the airport signs — besides cops and hooters — was the amazing volume and variety of Cirque du Soleil shows apparently ongoing in Vegas these days.

Now, look, folks. I enjoy Cirque du Soleil just as much as the next heterosexual American male — well, okay, given that I’d actually consider going to a show, I suppose I enjoy it much more than the next heterosexual American male. And the one after that, too. And probably the one after that. The guy after that is in the closet — I mean, did you see that ‘salmon’ shirt and all the ‘product’ in his hair? — but that’s not the point.

No, the point is this: just exactly how many limber French Canadians does one city fricking need? One show full of ’em, I can see. Maybe two. But there are, like, nineteen Cirques running in that damned town. Don’t get me wrong — I enjoy watching a woman who can rest her head on her own ass as much as the next heterosexual American male… and suddenly, that is the point. Yeah, never mind that other stuff; I’ve got a mental image working now. Niiiice.

3. Never Do NASCAR in Vegas: First of all, I really don’t think I need to add the ‘in Vegas’, for most of us. Honestly, watching a few dozen good old boys spend three hours turning left has never come up on my ‘Things to Do Before I Die’ list. But a couple of the guys I was with are into it, and so we went to a Saturday race.

And it counts as ‘not in Vegas’, because the Speedway there is waaaaay outside the city. As in, close to an hour drive, and — if you take the city bus — just on the other side of a big scary military base.

(It was actually sort of fun going through there — just before entering the base, the driver said, ‘Now, if anything happens to the bus, do not get out, unless we get clearance.‘ Sound advice, apparently. And reinforced when we stopped at the guard station, and a portly, white-haired Army gentleman came onto the bus and said:

‘Now, your driver has briefed you. What happens if the bus stops?‘

And, like good cowed little civvies, we answered: ‘We don’t leave the bus, sir.‘

Interesting stuff. We knew we wouldn’t be in Kansas any more when we decided to watch a NASCAR race… but we were thinking ‘gun racks and cheap beer’, not ‘Army jeeps and service revolvers’. Yow.)

Anyway, the race itself wasn’t bad. Loud, but pretty interesting — for the first hour or so, anyway. After that, I’d have given my exhaust pipe to see one right turn — just fricking one — but no worries. Now I can say I’ve been, should anyone ever ask for some bizarre reason.

The problem, though, was getting back to the city. They lined several thousands of people up into five lines, and threw a bus in front of each line. Then, the arithmetic kicked in — each bus held about fifty people, and there were maybe twenty or twenty-five buses in total. And, if you were paying attention above, the round-trip for a bus would be in the two-hour neighborhood. So, three hours after the race, we finally hopped a bus back into Vegas. The wait was literally longer than the race. It would’ve taken less time to walk back to the damned city, except for those pesky soldiers with the guns and tanks and things.

So if you’re ever in Vegas and decide you might want to see a race, take my advice — catch it on TV instead. If you watch it at a betting shop and lay a couple of bucks down, they might even bring you free drinks. And it won’t take you nearly four hours to get back to your one-eyed bandits. Just a thought.

4. The Wrong Way to Come Home: Just for the record, this is not the conversation you want to have with your wife when she picks you up at the airport after a bachelor party in Las Vegas:

Her: Hi, honey! So, how was your —

Me: Hey, hey, babe — what happened in Vegas stays in Vegas, remember?

Her: Um, well, sure, okay. But did you guys do —

Me: Baby? Happened in Vegas? Stays in Vegas. We talked about this.

Her: Look, I’m just being nice. How about the race, or —

Me: Haaaaaaappened… stays.

Her: Fine. How was your flight, then, if that’s not —

Me: Hap-hap-happened. St-st-staaaaaays.

Her: You’re a douchebag, you know that, right?

Me: Yeah. I know.

So that’s it, folks. I’m off to get a few hours of heavily-medicated phlegmy sleep. And don’t ask anything else about Vegas, now, okay? You’ve already seen what that’s gonna get you. Nighty-night!