Under my clothes, I’m naked

I’ve just returned from buying clothes, a chore I liken to having my back waxed: It hurts like hell and I can’t see that it’s made any difference.

The worst part about buying clothes, other than forking out money better spent on Starbucks coffee and nearly anything else you’d care to name, is the fitting room. I’m standing there, stuffed inside a new pair of hiking shorts, various sharp tags poking into various tender bits, and my first thought is: “Why on earth would someone put a funhouse mirror in a fitting room?”

Because that person staring back at me is no one I know. I am toned and sleek and rugged, while this other someone looks so, well, squishy. So, oh I don’t know, spherical. Kinda blobby, and I don’t mean that in a good way.

What my mother calls “big-boned” and my father calls “husky” and my brother calls “you fat bastard.”

There is a reason why the inhabitants of Planet Man ban full-length mirrors from their abodes and it’s so we never have to face the entire scope of ourselves. Having to deal with the big picture tends to send us screaming back to our beds, under the covers, lights off, don’t bother me until Survivor: Gabon starts. Just slip the lattes under the door.

It’s my belief humans are not meant to see all of themselves at the same time. The mind is just too limited to digest that amount of information. Bits and pieces? Fine. Here’s my face. Oh, look, a foot. This is my head — and we’ll just skip past that thin spot on the crown, shall we.

But your entire body? In one view? It’s what’s known on Planet Man as sensory overload. Although, in reality, it’s basically just overload.

I have an indifferent relationship with clothes — I don’t much care for them. It’s not that I want to suddenly become a naturist or anything. Even in New Zealand — where you can say “bugger” in TV ads, and print ads feature a fellow dressed as a super hero clutching himself — public nudity is discouraged.

It’s more like I don’t care to deal with clothes. There’s an old joke about how men decide what to wear: They grab whatever smells the least offensive from the pile on the floor. I’m not that bad — I may live on Planet Man but I do know how to operate a clothes hanger — but I still tend to don whatever is at hand.

Which pretty much explains how I ended up wearing that orange T-shirt under a red sweater. On the bright side — quite literally — they were clean.

I have never been a dedicated follower of fashion (although I do still have fond memories of what I like to call The Mullet Years), and have no idea which colors or styles are in or out or hot or cold. For me, if it’s got a big hole in the crotch, it’s out. If it catches on fire while I’m operating the barbecue, it’s hot.

Which is why I insist Viking Woman accompany me on those rare occasions when I am finally persuaded to abandon the magazine aisle in favor of the menswear section. And I’m very adamant about her standing right outside the fitting room so she’s immediately available to tell me, a) I look wonderful, or, b) hoisting the waistline of your pants to your nipples is so last-season.

Unfortunately, Viking Woman is easily distracted by small things, primarily small things that fit on her feet. She tends to wander off, following some kind of womanly radar-instinct-thingee, so that, when I open the door to the fitting room and step out into the store’s harsh light, wearing nothing but the hiking shorts, I am by myself.

And by that I mean surrounded by other shoppers, absolute and utter strangers who glance over and avert their eyes and quickly turn their children’s heads away. I know exactly what they’re thinking and it’s not “What a hunk!” Or even, “Hey, I’ve been looking for shorts just like those ones.”

I witness this reaction and it suddenly occurs to me there isn’t a funhouse mirror in that fitting room after all. I realize the squishy, spherical blob staring into my eyes looks so familiar because it’s me.

Which is why I’ve now decided to grow out my body hair, slick it down across the bare parts, and never buy clothes again. I’m calling it The Full Body Combover.

I know what you’re thinking: Holy crap, this guy is frickin’ brilliant!

Yup, you don’t need to be a genius to live on Planet Man, but it sure helps.

I’m not fat, I’m just going to Tahiti

Tahiti is calling out to me.

It’s saying, “Hey, handsome, debonair, older dude, come play with me. Come roll on my beaches. Swim in my lagoons. Get my sand in your orifices. Caress my coconuts. Laugh and play and dance like a white man in the moonlight, surrounded by lithe island maidens who will fall in love with you and want to have your babies. Or, at the very least, the contents of your wallet.”

Although, because they speak French in Tahiti, the message could actually be, “Hey, Fat Boy! Give me all your American greenbacks and stop bitching about the exchange rate, you cheap bastard. And, oh yeah, put your shirt back on. You’re scaring the turtles.”

I really should have paid more attention in French class.

Yup, I’m off to Tahiti on Monday. Bora Bora. For a week. Just me and an island filled with topless women.

At least that’s how I remember it from watching The Bounty. I think Mel Gibson was in that movie and, yeah, that scary guy from Silence of the Lambs. I’m almost certain the plot had something to do with a ship and — I’m just guessing here — a disagreement of some kind. AND AN ISLAND FILLED WITH TOPLESS WOMEN!! Now that part I do remember.

I’m sorry, but some things just leave an impression on me. 

(“I’ll leave an impression on you,” says Viking Woman. “An impression of a frying pan on the back of your skull.”)

Wives, eh? No sense of humour. None whatsoever.

Actually, Tahiti is a work assignment. No, really. I can prove it: Here’s my TMAC card and my assignment sheet  from the Calgary Herald and my notebook and my tape recorder and my camera. And, um, my telephoto lens. You know, just in case . . .

I’d like to think Tahiti Tourisme is pampering me because I’m multi-talented, because my travel stories are punchy and informative and entertaining. That my blog is so well-read that thousands of my readers are even now booking their flights to Moorea.

Truth is, all I did was ask. Politely, of course. I am, after all, Canadian. Although it helped that I have experience as a travel writer/editor, and ties to the Canwest market, and a pair of New Zealand publications already lined up to print my deathless prose.

So, fresh home from Las Vegas, I’m packing again. Nestled amidst the Hawaiian shirts and walking shorts and bug spray and sunscreen are two boxes of granola bars. That’s because not all my meals are included in the package. And my research has revealed meals are not cheap, especially in those resorts located on isolated lagoons where food choices are limited to the restaurant menu or eating raw whatever you catch with your hands.

On certain days, I will be forced to munch on granola bars and count my American pennies. Which would explain why I’m gorging myself now. I’m simply planning ahead and eating with an eye on the future. 

I should probably keep the other eye on the scale, but I can’t see my feet.

Can you believe the sacrifices a truly professional travel writer has to endure? Merde!

Hey, what do you know? I can speak French after all.

There is no Internet in Hell. There are, however, buses.

* I’m passing through downtown Tawa and — damn! — I blinked and missed it. Fifteen minutes north of Wellington. If nearby Porirua is a bedroom community, then Tawa is a Murphy bed. 

* Two cafes in town. Both close at 3:30. You want coffee after that, you’d better have your own plantation, roaster and espresso machine. Unless you’re content to drink instant coffee. In which case, you pretty much deserve Tawa. And don’t ever speak to me again.

* A room in the Bucket Tree Motor Lodge. Smells musty. Redolent of mildew. Open a window every 10 years, people. No soap or shampoo. I used to run a B&B. I know those little packages are cheap as chips. $125 a night and you have to bring your own basic toiletries? In a civilized country, that would be known as highway robbery.

No Internet. Can’t blog. Can’t check NHL scores. Can’t write home. If I’ve suddenly been transported back in time, why don’t I have more hair?

Place gets its name from the humungous tree out front. And, yes, if you stand on your head, it does look just like a bucket. At least until the blood floods your brain and you pass out.

Built on some sort of historical site. I’m going to assume the train tracks passing within feet of the building came later.

* Said train is of the commuter variety, linking these dinky backwaters with the Big Smoke that is Wellington, capital of New Zealand, home to political sorts and other undesirables. I’ve never ridden a commuter train. Sounds like fun. Oh, except it’s closed this weekend for maintenance. Instead, I have to take a bus to Wellington. I’ve ridden buses before. There is no fun factor involved.

By the time the bus pulls into Tawa, it’s full. I’m standing for 20 minutes, pretty much swinging from the suppot rail by one hand every time the bus leans into corners. Trying not to drop either my camera or my laptop on some granny’s blue-tinged head.

* Wellington in the spring = sun/clouds/sun/clouds/sun. Sunglasses on, off, on, off. I’m freezing. I’m wearing too many clothes. Hey, you build a city surrounded by water (hello, San Francisco), Mother Nature is going to take you up the ass for being such a cheeky bastard.

* Conversation in Starbucks with Asian girl behind the counter:

Me: A tall Anniversary blend, please.

Her: Are you Irish?

Me: No, I’m Canadian.

Translation of conversation in Starbucks:

Me: A tall Anniversary blend, please.

Her: We’ve switched over to Estima.

Me: No, I’m Canadian.

They say your hearing is the first to go. Well, after your hair, that is. And about the same time as your waistline.

* The library. Thank you, Jesus. I have a Telecom New Zealand wireless account. Telecom has dotted the country with hotspots. The library has to contain one of them. But, oh dear, my computer can’t “see” any of them. However, should I care to enter my credit card number, I have two sites to choose from. Uh, no. The NHL scores will still be there when I return to Napier.

* The trains are supposed to be operating again by the time I arrive at the station at 2. They’re not. Back on the bus. The lady ahead of me in line is 4-foot-11 and 300 pounds. The steps into the bus are high and steep. She manages to heave one massive leg onto the first step. She stops. She’s stuck. She doesn’t have the strength to pull herself any higher.

“Help me,” she bleats.

The bus driver grabs one of the woman’s arms and begins to pull. The woman shifts maybe three inches. I glance at the teenage girl behind me. I raise an eyebrow as if to say, “Should we be helping here?” She flashes me one of those “Whatever” expressions and looks away. I’m on my own with this one.

From what I understand of physics and gravity, the ideal location for me to put my hands to achieve optimum heft would be under the woman’s butt. However, painful experience has taught me that — and you might want to write this one down — some women do not appreciate having strange men touching their posteriors.

In the end, as it were, I let the driver do most of the heavy lifting and simply put one ineffectual hand in the woman’s arm pit and push gingerly. If this were one of those Good Samaritan tests to see who is worthy enough to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, I failed miserably.

It’s pretty much straight to Hell for me. Well, either there or Tawa.

You’re so vein. And skin. And bones. And sinews.

There is a photo of me at Saturday’s 2008 New Zealand National Bodybuilding Championships in Wellington. I’m pointing at a 25-year-old male competitor who is lifting his shirt to reveal his six-pack. I’m smiling. Don’t ask me why. Granted, the camera puts on 10 pounds. And that is an awfully bulky coat I’m wearing. But still, come on — this guy is half my age and a million times more in shape. I suddenly feel very old and very fat and somehow less than a man.

Yes, reality does bite. Right in my glutes, apparently.

Notes from the event:

* Normally, I don’t attend such freak shows. If you’re going to show me every single tendon in your body, you’d better be naked and bringing me a Starbucks coffee. But the company I work for is one of the sponsors, so here I am in Row 3. These are VIP seats, reserved for sponsors. It took an hour for someone to sort out that we should be seated here. Apparently, only one organizer knew this fact. And, not only did no one know where this person was, they also didn’t know what he looked like. Good start, guys.

* The venue is Wellington’s venerable Opera House. We’ve gone from Verdi to V-taper. From La Boheme to lat spread. I weep.

* I’m in the lobby, waiting to be seated. Gazing at the meat on display with all the dull curiosity of a cow watching a passing train. See one fellow with biceps larger than my thighs. Imagine he could take me between his thumb and forefinger and snap my spine before breakfast. Wearing a T-shirt so tight it appears he is wearing football pads underneath. Wonder not how he achieved such a build, but how the heck he lies on his side in bed.

* Discover that low body fat equals zero boobies. Personally, I like my women with a bit more meat on their bones. Also without the clear and present danger of having my head cracked open like a walnut between her thigh muscles.

* Came expecting acres of orange spray-on tan and gallons of baby oil. Instead, it appears someone held the competitors by their hair and dunked them in some dark-brown, mud-like goo. It may make for better definition under the lights but, away from the stage, they look ready to join John Rambo for a night-time assault on Kabul.

* They lift weights and build up cardio and eat little more than cardboard three times a day. But, as I found out, the entrants also stop ingesting fluids before they compete. That’s so the skin, lacking hydration, will suck in to sit flat against the bones and muscles and cartilage and various organs. And this is healthy how?

* Spotted in the lobby, Part II: a bodybuilder, finished with the competition for another year, snarfing back great, messy handsful of chocolate cake to restore blood sugar levels. And this is healthy how?

* You can either flex your muscles or you can smile. Not both. Not at the same time.

* Bodybuilders have no sense of timing. Several of them walked off the stage while their music was still playing. Others simply continued to pose long after their ditty was finished, accompanied only by the announcer clearing his throat in obvious embarrassment.

* How exciting is the competition? One guy achieves partial wood in his Speedo while posing. Needless to say, he doesn’t win.

* The two competitors we sponsored are 49 and 54 years old, respectively. They make me look bad. They make me feel bad, about myself and my body and my lifestyle and my lack of any real exercise.

I’ll tell you exactly how bad I feel right after I finish eating this doughnut.

Lisa doesn’t live here anymore. Film at 11.

I really should have known better. After all, I’m not exactly a rookie when it comes to the game of Life. I’ve lived on Planet Man for a handful of decades now. I’ve got a lot of miles under my belt and, sad to say, more than a few over my belt as well.

I know all about expectations and disappointments. How the things you look forward to so hard it hurts often fall this side of spectacular: the onset of puberty, graduating from high school, finally moving out of the family home, working for a living, sex, growing your hair, winning large in Vegas, sex, your first lap dance, er, I mean stag party (Hi, honey! Love you!).

So much breathless anticipation. So much merciless reality. 

All those years. All those lessons learned. All those hopes burned and dreams dashed and promises broken. All those lies believed and deceptions accepted. 

And yet, there I was, cursor hovering over the Confirm tab. I was in my Facebook account. I was looking at Lisa Shaver’s Friend Request. And I was holding my breath, sad fool that I am.

You will recall Lisa from an earlier blog. You will also recall my confusion at a youthful, comely lass requesting to be my friend. A youthful, comely lass whom I have never heard of, nor met nor, it appears, share any friends with.

I hesitated for months to allow Lisa to run rampant through my Facebook site — that whole Stranger Danger thing, you understand — and then finally thought, oh what the heck, if someone really wants to run rampant over some aspect of my life, it might as well be a youthful, comely lass.

So I clicked Confirm and sat back to wait for our first communication. Our first communion. Our first contact.

I knew she’d write me because I’d also sent her a heartfelt message, something along the lines of, “Hey, I’ve already blogged you, we might as well be friends now.”

Soon after, I noticed the announcement: “Lisa is now friends with John Wesley Ireland.” Good start. Here we go.

Any day now she will write to me. How about now? OK, now?

That was a week ago. Something — call it, oh I don’t know, a gut feeling — tells me this isn’t working out the way I’d planned. That I’ve once again fallen between the cracks of Life’s floorboards and now reside with the crumbs and the dust and that quarter you dropped and never could find after it rolled away into the darkness. 

Lisa has 270 friends and I’m stuck on Page 3, right between someone named Slash Hudson and some guy named Peter Jazi.

There was supposed to be a party on Planet Man, a celebration of a new friend made, a new connection established, of future Notes exchanged, laughter and tears and photos to be shared. That’s how it works with Facebook, right?

But the champagne has gone flat, the balloons have all sagged, the mice have nibbled on the sandwiches.

There is no happiness on Planet Man. Apparently, Lisa Shaver no longer lives here.

Man vs purse. Purse wins.

I am thisclose to escaping. I can see the light and I welcome it. OK, it’s actually several lights. In truth, it’s probably billions of lights, seeing as how we’re talking about the Las Vegas Strip at night.

But that’s the not the point. The point is that I am within 10 feet of exiting the Miracle Mile at the Planet Hollywood Hotel when I hear these fateful words of apocalyptic doom: “Oh look, PURSES!.”

A kiosk. A lousy, bloody kiosk. Not even a real store. The final kiosk in a long line of kiosks designed to lure the unwary consumer into parting with whatever leftover currency not already been fed into the slavering maws of ravenous slot machines.

I gaze longingly at the light ahead of me. So close I can smell the electricity. The margaritas. The exhaust. And then I close my eyes. Swallow hard. And turn.

I step away from the light.

I won’t bore you with details about the purses. They belong in that category of Women Things that those of us who reside on Planet Man have no desire to know about, no need to understand or comprehend. Gooey, yucky things like douches and tampons and breast pumps and yeast infections. Cooking. Vacuuming. Raising children. Figure skating. American Idol.

Mysteries of the universe — every single one of them.

A company called Miche flogs the purses and — here is that wonderful POINT OF DIFFERENCE ad men sell their own mothers to find — it’s actually several purses in one. That’s right — take a plain black shell, sew magnets inside, sew corresponding magnets inside what I can only describe as skins (each with its own distinctive colour and texture), put skin over shell until abovementioned magnets bond and — o the unbelievable joy of it all! — you have a “NEW” purse. Or at least a “different” purse.

Innovative as hell, apparently, this whole coverup trick. Although I can see no purpose on Planet Man for such an invention. Unless . . . Unless it’s in a Mission: Impossible kind of way. You know — if you could attach someone else’s sleek skin over your tired, bald, fat shell and become a “NEW” person.

I’d pick Brad Pitt. “Let’s play the Adoption Game, Angelina. I’ll be the naughty orphan . . . “

While Viking Woman assures me this is ALL she wants to take home from Las Vegas (in the heat of purse passion she has somehow forgotten the three pairs of shoes purchased at the outlet mall), I glance over at Brother Number 2 for some Planet Man empathy.

He’s dialing his cellphone.

“Who you calling?”

“My wife.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to buy her one of these purses.”

“But you have no idea which of these ’skins’ she’d like. Colour. Texture. Short strap. Long strap.”

“That’s why I’m phoning her.”

“But why would you — an inhabitant of Planet Man — buy a purse for a woman?”

“Because I’d like to have sex again before I die.”

“Good point.”

I turn to Viking Woman. “Take your time, honey. I’ll be over here applying CPR to my credit card.”

In summation, this is what I learned today: new purse + happy wife = sex.

Apparently there is room on Planet Man for Women Things after all.

Who knew?

Ashes to ashes: Scott’s final visit to Las Vegas

Someone (I believe it was Woody Allen) once said, “Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you — just the last.”

It’s a great line, but it exudes a dark undertone that scares the shit out of me.

I don’t want to think about death or dying or funerals or wills or coffins or glum-faced undertakers or pallbearers or eulogies or favourite psalms or organ music or graves or cemeteries or crematoriums or headstones. Not now. Not ever.

But, of course, I will have to think about those things and, at my age, probably sooner than later. People I love will die. I will die. Shit happens. It says so in the Bible.

My thoughts turned to death and its aftermath last week in — of all places — Las Vegas. That’s because Viking Woman fulfilled a made-long-ago promise and left Scott W. there. More accurately, she left some of his ashes. (I won’t say where, exactly, because I’m sure we broke 6,000 American laws in the process, bad Canadians that we are.)

Scott was a fellow Sagittarian and, as such, we shared an intense passion for hoarding. But where I tend to be the quiet, introverted, bugger-off-I’m-busy sort of Sag, he was the other side of that zodiacal coin: outgoing, loquacious, everybody’s best friend. Big laugh, loud Hawaiian shirts. An actor, a director. Could recite entire Monty Python routines verbatim. Granted, that’s not my favourite trait in a person, but one mustn’t speak ill of the dead, must one?

Scott had his private side as well and, frankly, that’s what killed him. He kept his health problems to himself, didn’t seek medical help until it was too late, and died in the night, alone, in a blood-soaked bed.

Along with being December babies, Scott and I had one other thing in common: Viking Woman. He was husband Number 3. I’m Number 4.  And yes, she has been rather a busy young lady, hasn’t she?

Scott and I got along as well as could be expected, considering I’d replaced him in Viking Woman’s heart. I guess he knew it wasn’t exactly my fault, that she was the one who had conducted the pursuit, flushing me from my personal cave where I was perfectly content to review movies and watch hockey for pretty much eternity.

Scott faded out of our lives somewhat as we began our Damn the Pension World Tour (that has now reached seven years and four countries) but news of his sudden passing still rocked us to the core. He was much too young to die. We’re all much too young to die.

It took some time, but Viking Woman finally granted one of Scott’s final wishes, to have some of his cremains scattered in Las Vegas. Ironically, that’s one of my favourite destinations as well and, because we were forced into thinking about death and the subsequent disposal of remains, I informed her I’d like to have part of me left in that desert city as well.

Other Ziploc bags of my dust are destined for my home town of Langley, B.C., as well as Rarotonga, Cook Islands, where the tropic sun will forever bathe me in its blistering glory while laughing brown girls tread on me with bare feet.

Come visit me some day. In any of those locations. I’ll be the rather transparent fellow in the back of the cafe. Scott and I will nod to each other across the table and then shake our heads at what fools you mortals be. And wonder if you truly understand and appreciate how precious life is.

I’m doing my best to grasp that concept right now. Before it’s too late. 

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What happens in Vegas, stays in … MY BLOG, BABY!

Notes from the Great Ireland Horde Las Vegas Tour 08 (unofficially known in Nevada as “Oh, Crap, It’s Them Again”)

* It’s not enough that Las Vegas plucks money out of my wallet like a crack whore on speed, but Mandalay Bay Hotel then has the gall to charge $14 a day to access its Wi-Fi network. Blog or eat, blog or eat? 

* Eight people traveling together equals eight people eating together equals an automatic 18 per cent gratuity. They can feed you crap on a stick, you’re still paying 18 per cent. Oh, and don’t even think about asking for separate checks.

* Las Vegas is a Pepsi town. In the restaurants. In the hotels. In the casinos. You want Coke, go find a souvenir stand or a pharmacy. Or start hiking to the Everything Coca-Cola store. When I whine about this lack of the Good Stuff to our server while sitting at Nine Fine Irishmen’s outdoor patio, she promptly opens the gate and tells me to get out. After I leave the 18 per cent gratuity, of course.

* Hand-written note on a paper hat worn by a comely lass in Dick’s Last Resort restaurant in The Excalibur: “The blonde is fake, but the slut is real.”

* Spotted for sale at the Las Vegas Outlet Centre: electronic cigarettes. Great, now even suicide has gone hi-tech. 

* Speaking of outlet malls, it’s while sitting patiently in one of those monuments to consumerism that I realize the definition of the perfect husband: mouth closed, wallet open. Yup, folks, it’s that simple. 

* Bad idea: positioning a TV in a hotel room bathroom so it can be seen from the tub. Good idea: positioning a TV in a hotel room bathroom so it can be seen from the toilet. Of course, that would severely cut into my reading time . . .

* Nothing personal, young lady, but if you’re going to wear your skirt so short I can see your birth canal, then I’m going to stare. Sorry, but that’s just how this whole being-a-man thing works. 

* A friendly cashier at The Luxor informs us Las Vegas has returned to its Sin City roots, that it is once again catering to the 21-35 age group. So, people, why are you still insisting on bringing your children here? What, did Disneyland close and I missed the memo? And while we’re on the topic of children and their rightful places, get the hell out of Starbucks and go to McDonald’s! That’s why Ronnie Mac’s has a play area, you idiot sticks!

* What I’m nearly positive they serve in Heaven: Krispy Kreme doughnuts from The Excalibur. And pecan pie from Bally’s. Eaten at midnight. With ice cream. I can feel my angel wings twitching just thinking about it.

* Seen at the second viewing area in Red Rock Canyon: a warning about rattlesnakes. Why isn’t this posted at the first viewing area, people? Otherwise known as the viewing area where various Ireland menfolk scampered child-like across the boulders and basically played silly buggers pretty much on top of assorted nasty reptiles just waiting to inject their deadly poisons. Oh, by the way, that warning at the second viewing area? It’s actually posted on the back of the information sign. So you can only see it when you return to your car after your crazed scamperings. So, yeah, Red Rock Canyon is pretty much a kill zone. Our own damn fault, really, for being stupid enough to ever leave The Strip. Gamble or die, folks, gamble or die.

* Loved that the Everything Coca-Cola store still maintains one tradition from the glory days of the World of Coca-Cola Las Vegas (sadly shut down in 2000, despite much pleading by this particular Coke fiend): the taste test. Viking Woman, K-Man and Brother #2 pay the grand total of $7 to sip at 16 different Coke products from around the world. We rate them from “Yup, we’d buy that” to “I’m glad Brother #2 paid for this” to “Who pissed in my kerosene?” Only one product falls into the latter category, something called Beverly that is, thankfully, only available in Italy.

* The Ireland Horde walks into the casino at the Greek Isles Hotel and instantly doubles the number of patrons. (Actually, there might have been more customers at one point but, judging by the size of the cashier, he ate them.) After looking at this place on the tourist map for years, we finally decide to check it out. It’s dark and it’s dingy and the fact that everyone has turned to observe our entrance is a bit weird and creepy. But then we realize the slot machines use actual coins. Even better, they pay out in actual coins. None of that paper-slip shit here, baby. K-man feeds in a fiver just to cash it out and hear that sweet, sweet music. This is what Heaven sounds like. While you’re eating pecan pie. At midnight.

* Only in Vegas Part 1: Viking Woman is moved to such ecstasy by a shoe on display in the window of the Manalo Blahnik store that she actually licks it before rubbing it on her chest. Much to the amusement of passers-by. One of my sisters captures the entire episode on camera. The person seen slinking out of frame, red-faced, head down, eyes averted, would be me.

* Only in Vegas Part 2: Brother #2 brushes up against a million-dollar Lamborghini and his first thought is this: “Sure hope I didn’t scratch my watch.”

* Gotta love the whole post-9/11 security measure situation at airports. One false blink and your orifices belong to the nice officer with the probe and the flashlight. So imagine my bemusement on our flight home when, after several head counts and a frenzied huddling of flight attendants, an announcement is made asking if anyone on the plane is NOT going to Bellingham. Gee, maybe the employee who called us by our first names after perusing our boarding passes should have taken an extra second to note the destination also printed on those passes. Just a thought.