Home sweet home. Sigh.

Well, I did not get arrested in Vegas. Neither did I get sunburned, drunk, or married. Really, it was one of the more sedate experiences I've had, considering the availability of alcohol and guitar players, both of which I harbor a certain weakness for. You'd think I would have made more of an effort towards misbehavior. I promise I will try harder next time around.

Here are some of the things I now know about Vegas:
1) There is no such thing as smoke free. Caesar's Palace, with its 900 foot ceilings (okay, a smidgen of exaggeration there) was scented with some obnoxious aromatherapy to disguise the fact that everyone there missed the last two and a half decades of research on the subject of second hand smoke.

2) I like burlesque dancers. A lot. I feel bad for strippers, and for Pussycat Dolls. Robin Antin gives real burlesque a bad name.

3) There is an inherent flaw in a town that charges $.99 for a margarita and $16.99 for a cup of gelato. No, you did not read that second price incorrectly.

4) When you compliment the bartender on the nature of his Manhattans, he upgrades all the drinks of your order to top shelf liquor and does not charge you. Also, he remembers you the next day, because out of the 25,000 drinks he made over the weekend, you were the only one who asked for an extra cherry. Or, um, something.

5) I only take pictures of bass players:




6) Deke Dickerson is one tall drink of water.

7) A 6' man in a snap brim hat is easy to find in a crowd.

Anyhow, the list of things I regrettably missed includes Ray Campi, Laura Lee Perkins, and Sonny West, and the Tiki Pool Party, which was at our hotel, but which was foregone in lieu of a couple of really great shows I was happy to have seen. Also missed: Spamalot, Fab Four Mania, and all of the free shows. I mean, the pirate ship at Treasure Island only had two shows a day, the volcano at the Mirage was down for repair, the Atlantis exhibit at Caesar's was down for repairs, we never made it to the end of the Strip to see the circus acts at Circus Circus... We were lame. What can I say? Last, but without a doubt not least: I did not eat dessert all. Fucking. Weekend.

The end. Next time I'm just going back to New Orleans.

You're so money and you don't even know it.

I constantly surprise myself by liking something I thought I was going to hate. Whiskey. Disneyland. Death metal. And then there are times when my taste is reaffirmed so strongly, so unequivocally, that I amaze myself with my own flawless stylings: Casablanca. Antique jewelry. Louise Brooks haircuts. I have been doing a little thinking, and I have more or less decided that my personal taste is based mostly on the notion of authenticity, Disneyland notwithstanding. I was willing to give Vegas a try, much like my first sip of Jameson's, in the hopes that the burning sensation I associated with it would resolve into a pleasant and irresistible haze of pleasure. Maybe there was hidden depth.

NO. Even the building facades are plastic here. You can knock on the stucco; it sounds like Tupperware. Everything is bigger, cleaner, more American. It is horrifying. Thank the baby Jesus for rock and fucking roll.

I admit, here at Viva Las Vegas, I am the poseur. These people live this lifestyle all the time. They set their hair every night, and machine their own car parts, and genuinely love the music that grew out of Sam Phillips' airless box of a storefront studio in Memphis. There is a real connection to history and culture, and a respect for the doers of the world. And that, my friends, makes me a very happy girl indeed.

I will have pictures and more stories later, but I will say this: I have never had so many helpful hands down sets of stairs, nor so many admiring glances from women who appreciate the hours (yes, hours) of work it takes to accomplish this particular type of glamour, nor so many weak beers. As I said, Vegas is not perfect.

PIn Me Up

All of everyone who's anyone at this point in my life probably has heard the news a time or two or a thousand that I am headed to Viva Las Vegas in a month or so. I am very excited about it, because if there is one thing I love, it's rockabilly music, and if there is something else I love, it is bourbon, which will hopefully be in plentiful supply at VLV. I also love: vintage clothing, swing dancing, high heels, eyeliner, and being admired. And all of those things are certain to be present when I go. All except one, I fear. There will be thousands and thousands of girls there, and I am guessing that hundreds and hundreds of them will be much, much lovelier than I.

Now, I know that there is a whisper of protest rising from certain quarters. Before I have to sit through the choruses of my loyal fans telling me exactly how pretty I am (not that I normally mind in the least!), let me just point out that that doesn't bother me that much. These girls do this on a daily basis, something that I am constrained by circumstance from doing, and practice makes perfect. Have you seen pictures of these girls? They make the Lindsay/Britney/Paris school of glamour look crude to the point of prehistoric. They are works of art. I am - well. Rather artless. I can't even begin to contemplate the amount of work required daily to shape me from random-landscape-over-a-motel-bed to up-and-coming-young-artist-with-a-bright-future-in-abstract-modernism. I feel like it puts me at a disadvantage when viewed next to the lovelies who has religiously been following vintage diets as well as vintage fashion trends. (An aside: my mother was obsessed with the grapefruit diet when I was a child. This is significant mostly because my mother was a perfect size 8 until she got out of the Army. I do not have any strange aversions to grapefruit, although it would be understandable if I did.)


So then the question: do I spend $65 on a marvelous reproduction vintage swimsuit that I might chicken out and not wear in the indescribable heat of Sin City, or do admit that some of us are built to wear cap sleeves, pareos and gigantic sunhats? Resign myself to eating tomato aspic, grapefruit juice, and iceberg lettuce for four weeks, or buy some highly elasticated shapewear? Try to sell my nonrefundable ticket for half price and stay home feeling sorry for myself and eating as much cookie dough ice cream as I can afford with my savings that were intended for souvenirs and buckets of nickels for the cheap slots? Decisions, decisions.