"Holy crap, Wayne Newton's hitting on Mom!"

Now that the hangover has subsided, the blistering heat has been replaced with pleasantly warm, and I'm no longer stuffed into Spanx and a little black dress, it is finally time to recap my adventures in Vegasland. While it was a fabulous three-day weekend filled with all kinds of amusing debauchery, the highlight definitely was my pilgrimage to what should be every straight girl and gay guy's Mecca, CHIPPENDALES. But I'm going to save that for its own blog. Because it was that good. For real...

Obligatory Vegas Sign

I'm sorry, where was I? Oh yes. Vegas. Which, like all trips I end up not regretting one bit, I started off dreading like nobody's business. Mostly because, despite the fact that I am gainfully employed and have been for six whole months now (practically a record!), I am still crazy broke. Also, because traveling even just to the next state over, is incredibly stressful. There are flights to book, taxis to reserve, and itineraries to plan. Not to mention strict budgeting that I will inevitably completely ignore while actually on vacation. Then there was the added stress of attempting to pull off a short Youtube video in approximately 24 hours (a topic for another blog altogether. Suffice to say, there will be Running Man). Basically, I had to work overtime like mad just to take one day off.

But by Friday night, I was in Vegas, reunited with my UC Irvine/University of Bordeaux girls, some of which for the first time in the two years since graduation. There were seven former Anteaters in total, and Vegas was stoked for us. We landed at the Carriage House sometime after midnight, then hit up Walgreen's for supplies. Meaning booze and junk food to stock our hotel room that was bigger than my whole apartment, including full fridge and dishwasher. It was a little alarming seeing Vegas for the first time since I was 15 and with my family. Probably because Vegas at 3 in the morning is a little alarming no matter how old you are. Crazies and drunks everywhere. It was fabulous.

The next day, we slept in, then headed out to the Strip. We made it as far as the Paris before deciding to partake in the grand Vegas tradition of comically large souvenir cocktails. My Eiffel Tower-sized margarita was delightful, as was the prospect of getting fairly drunk before one in the afternoon. It was even better knowing that I would have been at work, probably stressing about dog poop or parking snafus, had I not been traipsing down the corridors of various gambling establishments. The only downside was that it was hot as balls in Vegas. Everyday was at least 105 degrees, maybe 90 at night. So hot that if I even tried to sweat, it would evaporate before it could cool me down.

Me, Stefan (The Eiffel Tower Cocktail), and Tiffany

We only hit a few hotels before giving up to the heat, exhaustion, and extreme tipsiness. We came back to our own decidedly less impressive hotel to get ready for the evening's festivities. The lady Anteaters had decided early on in the planning stage to purchase slutty dresses to really get into the spirit of the place. We quickly discovered that California slutty is nowhere near as intense as Vegas slutty. We felt positively Puritanical with our skirts that extended longer than an inch past our cooters and heels less than seven inches tall. I don't know how those girls did it. My feet were screaming after walking a few blocks in my relatively conservative peeptoe wedges.

Mutinous Feet

Saturday night was Cirque du Soleil's Mystere. The primary reasoning behind our selection was that it was the show that Seth Rogen watches in "Knocked Up" where he freaks out whilst on shrooms. I am telling you now, you don't need shrooms to be freaked out by that show. I'm pretty sure it was the closest thing to an acid trip I will ever take. Especially that fat baby with the big orange ball. I fucking hate that baby. He is the stuff of your most obnoxious nightmares. There was also this ventriloquist in hot pink that just spoke jibberish and held a creeppy Dr. Seuss-looking dummy. Boo. But the actual acts were amazing. Especially the two half-naked guys who lifted each other with impressive strength. And I won't lie, despite the intense homoeroticism, it was kind of working for me. Then there was this big snail thing that was just bizarre. But I'm glad we went, because it's not Vegas without a big snail thing.

Weird big snail thing at Mystere

After the show we went to Botero Steak House for a fully vegan meal at the Wynn. Yes I can appreciate the irony of going to a steak house for vegetables. But Miss A.K. Brown as she was known by her assassin name had an in with the chef who created the menu. The same chef who also catered Ellen's wedding (be impressed, dammit!). So her family offered to pay for the meal as long as we all ordered vegan. I never thought I'd be so stuffed just by eating veggies and tofu. But five slow courses and gallons of water made eating just painful after a while. The food was fantastic, especially the mini-churros. And our waiter looked exactly like Chuck, so bonus. We had planned on going clubbing after dinner, but one look at the slutty and/or douchey mob outside XS (with one exception being the adorable guy in full formal Scottish regalia), we were over it.

Pretty fabulous

Sunday mornings were made for brunch buffets in my opinion. And Planet Hollywood had an amazing one. After brunch, we did some more Strip-ping. I made the mistake of wearing super thin flip flops so my feet were still not happy. But I consoled myself with another souvenir margarita cup, not quite as spectacular as the tower I named Stefan, but nearly as effective. Then came the Jello shots. And the vodka cranberries back at the hotel. Basically I was drinking from 3pm to 1am. Since it was over a long period of time, I never got crazy drunk, but I maintained a nice buzz. Vegas should be experienced no other way.

INSERT CHIPPENDALES SEGMENT HERE!!

Monday I woke up feeling slightly ill. But I considered it a seminal right of passage having vomited in a Vegas hotel toilet. But after a handful of dry Cheerios, I was right as rain. We checked out of the hotel and wandered around the City Center, this time at a much more leisurely pace. After killing some time at the Luxor, Mandalay Bay, and Excalibur, we dragged our tired, hot, aching butts to the airport. We were no longer drunk, unlike many people at McCarren who extended their walks of shame to the plane ride home. But I was done. Vegas is good for 2.5 days tops. After that, it is just too much stimulation. Plus there's nowhere to sit.

It was blissful coming back to Burbank where it was a perfect 72 degrees. It was weird to no longer be surrounded by intoxicated bachelorette parties and belligerent frat guys desperate to reenact the Hangover at any cost. But I appreciated the peace.

So now I think I'm all set for Vegas for the next several years. Though I'd be happy to fly in every other week to meet up with my Chippendale's husband...

At First I was Afraid...Then I was Tipsy

Karaoke night was, in an over-used but perfectly descriptive word, EPIC! It didn't start off that way, of course. As I mentioned, work was crazy, but we did take a mini-break long enough for my boss to give me a card and a bag of Didy Riese cookies. If you've never had said cookies, than you've never seen God. So that was sweet. I decided not to try to go downtown to pick up my Amazon package (tee hee), after all. It can wait. Karaoke cannot.

The bar was called Gabe's, on the corner of National and Sepulveda. It's not too far from my house. Unless you take the wrong exit (National, not Overland) and end up on the boulevard version of LA's biggest joke. National is ridiculous. Most streets, you just drive straight. National has to be a jackass and make you turn right or left, just to stay on the same street. Confused? Exactly. Long story short, I drove around for 45 minutes/12 miles, and burst out laughing when I ran out of gas. And filled the tank at my normal gas station, two blocks from my apartment. Yup. After all that driving, I ended up right back where I started. Round two, I got off on the right exit (I swear, one of these days I will learn how to navigate this beast of a town), and got to the bar in about 10 minutes.

Gabe's doesn't look like much from the outside. It doesn't look like much from the inside (other than the sweet Halloween decorations). But it might be my new favorite place in the world. My signature cocktail, a vodka tonic, was only $4.50, insanely cheap, so if nothing else, I'll be returning. And parking was free and abundant. Heaven on Sepulveda. I swear, I finally found my people. For one thing, it was so nice to finally bond with some of the girls from my a cappella singing group. We meet once a week, but don't really know each other. Which was such a shame because we are a whole mess of awesome. The party got started with a stellar white girl rendition of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme song, involving the entire bar, which established a running theme of rappers who have no business rapping.

After our first round of drinks, we were approached by an older gentleman named Ray, who looked like he walked off of the set of the Sopranos. In my mind, I kept calling him Sally Tomato. Ray was quite the charmer and bought drinks for all of us, but only if we promised to sing for him. We agreed privately that if he had been 20 years younger, this gesture might have been creepy and unwelcome, but coming from Sally Tomato, it was just adorable. (Even cuter was Ray's impression of Sonny Bono with "I Got You Babe") Plus, free drinks! One of my friends brought down the house with "Total Eclipse of the Heart," inserting the word 'fucking' wherever possible, thereby making an amazing song priceless. Another carried out the grand tradition of bar singalongs with Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" (pretty much the greatest song ever.)

As for my karaoke debut, I selected one of my favorite Elvis songs, "Burning Love." I was 2 1/2 drinks in by this point and feeling good. I was a bit warm so I put my hair up with a bobby pin. That pin started to come loose in the middle of the song, so I went with it and shook my hair out, porno-secretary style. The crowd just ate it up. And I OWNED that effing song. The very definition of 'working the room.' I can't say that I sang particularly well, but if you shimmy enough, no one really cares. Later that night, after I'd pretty much sobered up, I went for an encore of Kansas's "Carry on my wayward son" (which I want played at my funeral, by the way). Kickass rocking out song, not so good for karaoke it turns out. It's a long song, but very few lyrics. Most of the time I just busted out some sweet air guitar solos.

Later that evening, it came out that it was my birthday the next day. Random people started hugging me and wishing me happy birthday, which was really sweet (even though I normally shun all human contact if I can possibly help it). Then one of my new friends, Tony, brought out the Birthday Blowjob shots. If you're not familiar with the tradition, you have to down a shot of Baileys (?) with whipped cream, without using your hands. I literally have a small mouth, so this was an anatomical impossibility. I spilled the whole thing all over the table. So Tony, a fabulous gay boy obsessed with my boobs and incredulous that I live in South Central, offered to show me how it was done. I got schooled, basically.

The night was winding down when two gentlemen started owning the microphones with their version of Usher's "You Got it Bad." Phenomenal. Better than Usher himself, I'd dare say. One of them even came up to me in the middle of the song, asked my name, and serenaded me. Score! They offered to buy us drinks afterwards, but by that point we were all drinking water (damn LA and their lack of public transportation. Though I guess it's good that it prevents us from drinking to excess). We did the obligatory girl talk, while Air Force One played on the TVs in the background. We kept quoting Harrison Ford's legendary "GET OFF MY PLANE!"

So even though it got off to a rocky start, I couldn't have asked for a better birthday eve. I'm determined that 23 will kick 22's ass. It won't be hard, seeing as 22 was one of the hardest years of my life. Maybe your birthday is like New Year's. However you spend it, determines the course of the following year. And October 16, 2009, while not without its charms, definitely pales in comparison to 2010.

I woke up this morning, opened up my giant package (tee hee), and discovered not the Roku I was expecting, but a friggin' Wii!!! I'm not a big video game person, but Wiis are awesome. I should get paid for such product placement. Anyway, tonight is the Cheesecake Factory with some of my dear friends, and tomorrow I'm going to see the Social Network with my Eric. So Happy Birthday Weekend Trifecta to me!! (And thanks for all the well wishes so far :D )

I couldn't help but wonder...

As I was watching the Sex and the City movie, I started thinking about Carrie Bradshaw's sex column. I have a lot of issues with SATC, which I'll probably go into more detail at another time. Basically, my main problem is that it's about supposedly smart, sophisticated and independent women but the only thing they find to talk about is men and shoes. It's so superficial, one-dimentional, and poorly written. I'm a fan of the occasional pun, but when that's the extent of your humor and writing prowess, maybe you shouldn't be a writer. It's also one long advertisement for Louis Vitton, Manolo Blahnik, and Mercedes Benz. Despite all this I still watch it frequently and find it immensely satisfying on a very shallow level.

I could rant forever about Sex and the City, but for now I'll just focus on the topic at hand. The whole premise of the show/movie is that Carrie Bradshaw is a writer who uses herself and her friends as the subjects of social and sexual discussion in her columns. Now, I've seen every single episode and the first movie several times (I haven't bothered with the second for obvious reasons). And although the ladies have had drama among themselves (my personal favorite is when Miranda actually points out the fact that their entire lives, not to mention conversation, focus on men), they don't seem to be bothered by Carrie's candid revelations of their most intimate relationships and sexual encounters.

Carrie contemplating how she can use her friends' intimate gossip for profit

There's a joke in the movie that Samantha makes her maid of honor speech. "In our group, we never kiss and tell." It's funny because that's all they do. I have no problem with girl talk among friends. Certainly my friends and I share more details with each other than our own partners would appreciate. But Carrie delves into every instance of lady parts problems, mechanical mishap, secret fetish, and each indiscretion with all of New York as an audience. I can't help but wonder, doesn't this bother Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda? Each of them has a very public image, high power career, relationships to maintain, and in Charlotte's case, a prudish sense of sexual privacy. Are they getting a cut of Carrie's profit from their secrets? Is that why they don't mind the breach of slumber party/cocktail confidence?

The reason it irritates me that it doesn't irritate them is that as a writer myself, I often wonder where to draw the line when drawing from my own experiences and those of my acquaintances. There are some incredible stories I could tell about my friends, but there is no way I would share them with the world. That's the worst kind of gossip, the kind that could actually damage reputations and dissolve friendships. I even quibble about characters I've written that are partially inspired by real people. I'm so afraid of offending people, worse of getting sued by them. Maybe it all comes down to the fact that Carrie is so self-absorbed that she listens to her friends and instantly ponders how she can use the intel for her new book. She doesn't consider that it might hurt Miranda's career as a partner at a law firm, or Samantha's public relations gigs.

In the end I guess it doesn't matter. As much as Sex and the City drives me nuts, I still love it and will probably keep watching it over and over again while drinking cosmos with my girls. Like Twilight, it taps into that primal girl psyche, and overrides any rational realization that it's vapid and ridiculous. Also Patricia Fields' costume choices more often than not make my eyes wish they could vomit. I know she's considered a genius or whatever, but about 95% of the time, the ladies just look absurd. But I love to hate it, even though I secretly love it. Holy guilty pleasure, Batman.

Facebook Chat

Facebook chat is the most marvelous invention. People I wouldn't normally talk to are just a click away. It's weird though, seeing a list comprised of people I knew from elementary school in Sacramento, working at Blockbuster in college, studying abroad in France, the plane ride from Sydney to Los Angeles. It's like all these people with nothing in common whatsoever except for me. I don't talk to most of them on a regular basis, but it's nice knowing what they're up to. It's like I'm reconnecting with the person I used to be when I knew them. I'm proud when the girl I was in a play with once gets an audition for some big regional show. I'm happy for my former co-worker who I always liked but never got to know when she goes off on a month-long trip to Brazil. I even like knowing that the guy I couldn't stand in middle school returned safely from Iraq. I know this is horribly sappy and trite, but it's nice knowing that we're all still connected long after our paths have crossed and will probably never cross again. A lot of people think that these relationships are superficial. If we weren't close enough to make the effort to meet for coffee or chat on the phone, maybe this person should be left behind with our memories and former selves. But just because I only leave a message with someone once a year on their birthday (thanks to a Facebook reminder), it doesn't mean I've stopped caring about them. We may meet up someday in the future and we'll still have some semblance of a relationship thanks to this marvelous little website.

And now Facebook should pay me for such a nice review and free advertising.