I really didn’t expect to be going back to Las Vegas anytime soon. The last trip was fun, but Vegas didn’t exactly rate among my favorite spots in the U.S. Enter one spiky-haired Minnesotan named Erik. Erik is not to be confused with any previously-mentioned Minnesotans within Planet SOMA. Erik convinced me that driving 500 miles into the desert to spend a weekend with someone I’d never met was a good idea. His subtle hints (over several months) as to how we might pass a good bit of our time were pretty enticing too.
Needless to say, I left town late. I made it to Bakersfield the first night. I slept (not much else to do there as I knew from a past visit). I woke up and drove through the increasingly hot Mojave Desert. 101 in Baker. But only 97 in Vegas. Aargh…
It’s always fun looking for someone you don’t really know in a crowded hotel lobby. Fortunately, Erik recognized me. We went to the room. There were naps. We ate. We made out. We hit a few bars. Repeat with a few variations for three days and you have the jist (jism?) of the trip. Don’t think for a moment, mind you, that this is a bad thing…
Of course, we didn’t spend ALL out time in the room. We took the Hoover Dam hardhat tour (where you get to keep the hardhat). There were the obligatory buffet moments. We also spent quality time in taxis with cynical drivers en route to and from bars. We hit Snicks, which was sleazy and empty, but remains one of my favorites from last year. We visited Angles, which has great chairs and too many well-coiffed customers. We snuck into (and out of) the Eagle in record time. And we were cruised by a cute boy in a striped shirt at Buffalo’s, but he somehow managed to activate both our freak sensors.
And then there was the Gipsy. my only “new” bar from this trip. Jeez, it sucked. This is the “beautiful people” bar. Translation: no one even remotely intersting to be seen, overpriced drinks, and really bad techodiscohouse drivel. A quick escape was called for, and my opinion of Vegas queer bars remains pretty damned low.
After lurking in bed until about 4 on Saturday (the original plan called for 6…or was it 7?), we hit the strip in search of rubber shirts and cute pirate boys at Treasure Island. Around this time, I discovered that I have become my father, patiently waiting outside mall stores. Malls scare me. Wayne Newton in a casino designed to resemble a mall (circa 1977) sacres me even more.
Best find of the weekend (aside from the realization that I CAN have sex with someone for five days in a row and not get bored with it) was pork chops and collard greens at the Motown Cafe in New York New York (the casino casino, not the city city). Other happy finds included gas which is about 35 cents per gallon cheaper than in San Francisco, the In and Out Burger, and (joy…rapture…) a supermarket which sells Count Chocula. I stocked up…
On Sunday, it was time to leave behind the room which housed several felonies and a view of the pink-domed Circus Circus Theme Park. Time to leave the cheap buffets, the prime rib, and the incredibly surreal world of the casinos. Time to leave the boy in the striped shirt, wherever he may have ended up. Time for a restful drive home. Or maybe not…
I never really considered Barstow, California a good place to buy tires until Sunday. It’s still not my first choice, but it seemed pretty damned convenient after realizing in the middle of the desert that my current had suddenly lost a good six-inch chunk of tread. Thank God for Wal-Mart. To hell with small-town Main Streets. When I needed cheap rubber, the corporate monster was there for me.
The overnight stop in Fresno proved uneventful. Seems we stumbled upon “Emperor/Empress Weekend” (read “bad drag”). I think Fresno works better for me when I’m there alone. On the other hand, Motel 6 sex can be fun…especially when the maid interrrupts just as you’re about to…ummm…
Now it’s back home for me. Anyone have a suggestion for the next adventure?
