After the way Vegas had been built up as a “weird place,” I’d half-way expected to be greeted in the airport by a midget Freddy Mercury impersonator juggling several quail. When all I saw were a handful of cowboys, I was slightly disappointed.
EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, AUNT BECKY, I said to myself as I hobbled to meet my friends. So WHAT if you haven’t seen a two-headed woman? So WHAT if the TSA ignored you even though you tried to dress like a hooker in the vain attempt at trying to get some action before you went to Vegas? SO WHAT?
At least, I cried, you have your KITTY SHITTER picture!
(Sky Mall, you never, ever disappoint. Let’s get married and have really bizarre babies.)
Indeed, that is what comforted me as I checked into my hotel only to find perfectly ordinary desk clerks. No one busted into an impassioned Elvis song. No one tried to barter with me for my room. No hookers tried to accompany me TO my room (except, of course, the hookers I was staying with – Mandi and Jana.) It was all very…normal.
Jana even brought me this all the way from Georgia (I’ve often bemoaned that I have never eaten one):
I might have wept. A lot.
It was time, then, to meet for lunch in the hotel. Which meant we had a bazillion options; all of them good. Apparently Vegas is an eatin’ town. I was hoping feverishly that this might be the time to see something weird. Tiny go-go dancers? A guy in a sequined bikini?
Just the rodeo.
I was also straight-up exhausted. It turns out that having major abdominal surgery 5 weeks before a Vegas trip is pretty EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER. But I tried to muster up some enthusiasm. Plenty of sleep when I was passed out from reenacting Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (or dead). RIGHT?
It didn’t work. I have a slew of pictures where I look like I’m about to weep. I look like someone just kicked my dead dog’s grave.
No one did. Even AngiePangie.
It was time to start drinking. Before I did the lamest thing that anyone ever did in Vegas, well, EVER.
While the rest of my group went to a male strip club with the express purpose of having testicles placed on their face, I went out by myself. On a Friday night. To a concert.
A Leonard COHEN concert.
Don’t know who Leonard Cohen is? He’s a hippie singer/songwriter/poet who is probably best known for singing Hallelujah. But since my parents are depressing old hippies, I’ve been listening to his music since I was in utero. I’ve been anxious to see him perform for years. Even if it made me suicidal.
When I saw he was in Vegas, I realized that it was now or motherfucking never.
It was now.
*cue guitar solo*
When he sang “Anthem,” it was exactly what I needed to hear.
Even if there were no dancing bears.