The Last Marigold

So this is what happened: We went to Las Vegas. Well, other things happened before that, but it was mostly all leading up to this big business trip I was taking for work, and Tom was coming along for the heck of it because neither of us had ever been before, and we were very busy.

We took an early morning flight out of SeaTac, the whole day stretching ahead of us, full of being lost and overwhelmed and (just a little bit) disoriented because of the alcohol. And this is what I'll say about the lit-up city in the desert: it's fucking weird. It's like spending a week at the glitziest mall you can think of, only all the patrons are tripping over their stilettos and sucking on cigarettes while they down their sixty-dollar-a-plate designer dinners. Needless to say I won't be back for a while.

I have to hand it to those casino designers, though, because the buildings themselves are pretty impressive in their vastness and detail, down to the fake little plants in the miniature apartment window boxes in New York, New York, their plastic leaves waving gently beneath the air conditioner's breeze. And hey, everybody loves a fake exploding volcano and a massive dancing fountain, so there's that.

To be quite frank, my favorite part of the whole trip was flying in and out. That desert is awesome, and next time I'm renting a car and leaving the mess and expense of the strip behind. The last thing I'd like to do on vacation is watch ladies older than my grandmother spend their last time on those whirling 7s and pairs of cherries while they sip watered-down cocktails, but I guess everyone's got their own priorities.