Email from Caro: Las Vegas

Palm Springs was just a brief stop before we entered the mecca of gambling madness. Las Vegas, baby. Home of the Liberace Museum, Elvis-a-rama museum and incredible casinos.  I nearly suffered peoplewatching burnout.  It’s a fantastic place and makes no bones about being over-the-top and gauche. In fact, the city revels in it. 

We were there for the 4th July and a funny little man at the Liberace museum assured us there would be mass fireworks at 9pm. Seemingly, he had spread this rumour to all the millions of tourists trawling the strip.  Everybody was waiting expectantly.  Scarily, all the American tourists were all wearing either white or grey Old Navy T shirts, with the stars 'n stripes flag.  What a publicity goldmine.  Promote the person who had that little brainwave. 

In a controversial move, we spotted a Pom emblazoned with a union jack, talking loudly so everyone around could here he was from "Norf London, mate. Alright, luv?!".  Shortly after 10pm, we gave up waiting and clutching our rolls of quarters, we hit the slot machines.  Two minutes later, we were back in our room watching a pay-per-view movie.

We had a great week in Vegas, checking out all the big casinos and the amazing shows they put on. Standing outside the Bellagio, watching the fountain display, with Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli singing opera being blasted overhead, we encountered a thunderstorm, complete with forked lightning and heavy rain.  It was still 110 degrees, and the rain felt wonderful.  Still, once the show finished, we realised we were 2 of about 20 people left standing after the other 500 had run off for fear of getting a tad damp. 

And although I loved the whole scene of hugely fat people in rhinestones, ugly sandals of every colour, fake boobs, shorts, cowboy hats, red raw sunburnt legs, numerous Elvis sightings, dangerous drivers of electric wheelchairs who would soon as run you over than let you sit at that particular slot machine, flashy cars vibrating to rap music, horrid twenty-somethings wearing 'pi beta whatever' convention t shirts talking shite very loudly, the gaggle of blokes on a stag weekend, the posse of women on their hen nights, the desperate chain smoking of hard-edged gamblers sitting at the blackjack tables for hours on end, millions of uncontrolled children running about, wideboys, cocktail waitresses and every conceivable tacky souvenir in the shops, I still wanted a bit of the old Vegas.

So, we took in "The Rat Pack is Back!" show. It was so cool - Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr, Joey Bishop and my hero, Dean Martin.  The actors were great and they recreated the nights the originals worked Vegas for 6 weeks when they were filming "Oceans 11", back in the day. And they kept it exact with the jokes, the songs, the routines.  It was awesome.  Except for the jokes directed at Sammy Davis Jr, somehow they didn't come across as being quite as funny anymore.  If you told those jokes today, you'd be a dead man walking.  And because the songs and the moves were all so perfectly recreated, I now know where
Michael Jackson got some of his dance moves - Sammy's tapdancing, man.  He was a cool cat, that Mr Bo Jangles. 

We did the Tropicana Museum of gambling, which had all the old photos of the old casinos like The Sands, The Flamingo and the Desert Inn and all manner of memorobilia.  I was salivating at the thought of getting to the gift shop and purchasing some genuine bits and pieces.  However, the fates were against me, as a mere ashtray from the Sands was $175, old chips were anything from $100 to thousands of dollars.  My dreams of arranging some fabulously retro ashtrays and coasters of chips and framed signed photographs of the days of old  Hollywood/Vegas glamour, were shattered instantly. 

However, we did manage to purchase some Elvis Coasters from Elvis-a-rama and a fabulous Liberace in hotpants fridge magnet...when you visit our new place, they'll be bags checks on the way out, I can assure you. 

Now, you can't go to Vegas and not see a drag show. 

Especially when the compare is pseudo Joan Rivers, featuring Cher (in her fishnet stocking and sitting astride a cannon), Celine banging her puny chest with passion as she belts out the "Titanic" theme (actually "Celine" seemed quite enamoured with my Symon), Madonna, Judy Garland, Liza Minelli, Tina Turner, Bette Midler and Patti LaBelle. You know, all your middle of the road kinda Divas.  Sadly, there was no Barbara Streisand, but no matter, it was no place for "the way we were".  The show was soooo so good and those girls rocked.  The likenesses were uncanny.  The audience was really into it and I have to say, Cher/Celine had an amazing body and a tight little bum.  And what beautiful frocks Joan was wearing. Who was the designer? And was that the same person who did Liberace's capes?

It was our final night in the city of sin and what a final curtain; a bevy of beauties strutting their stuff and us, with VIP seating.  Class. 

After the show, we took the "redeye" to Toronto, where life became alot calmer and alot cooler, even though we looked like a bag of assholes upon arrival, after the overnight flight.

Later

Caro

The Chick with the super wide-legged denim and fake blue fur jeans...they rock!

p.s. In case you're wondering, my main man, Tom Jones let me down by being in concert a week before our arrival and Kenny Rogers played the night we arrived.  I was devastated, as well you can imagine.