What happens in Vegas … usually happens to me.

 

 

Overheard on the flight to Las Vegas:

He: “My favourite musical is Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”

She: “That’s all Jesus-y and God-y, and I’m not into that.”

Overheard outside the M hotel/casino: “He’s betting $44,000 at a time.”

He was not — I repeat — NOT talking about me.

Overheard outside Caesar’s Palace:

Gorgeous blonde to regular guy: “Do you work out?”

You’re shitting me, right? People actually say that to each other? And then get laid? I weep.

Oh, hello Part 1: Nine trips to Las Vegas in 10 years and we finally get a white taxi driver. Who speaks English. Whose name we can pronounce. Who woulda thunk?

Oh, hello Part 2: There are two of us in a hotel elevator. The other guy is wearing a Columbus Blue Jackets replica jersey.

Me: “Columbus, eh? I’m a Detroit Red Wings fan myself.”

Him: “I hate you.”

Me: “Doesn’t this elevator move any faster?”

Oh, hello Part 3: A taxi driver tells us prostitution is illegal in Las Vegas. He tells us ladies can come to your room but all they are allowed to do is dance. And help you choose which restaurant you are taking them to.

And then the taxi driver tells us he once picked up one of those ladies whose ass was so sore she couldn’t sit down.

That’s my kind of dancing.

What you don’t want to see inside your hotel: The water slowly gurgling down the drain after your shower leaves behind a layer of dirt that you know didn’t come off you.

What you don’t want to see outside your hotel: Workmen standing around a hole containing a large hose that leads back to a truck marked “24 Hr. Hazmat Spill Response.”

I may just skip brushing my teeth this morning. If that’s OK with you.

Not sure how this works Part 1: Security men check for room cards at the entrances to the elevator banks during the evening hours. They are nowhere in sight during the day. What changes after the sun goes down? And do I really want to know?

Not sure how this works Part 2: I’m pretty darn sure I was told to meet my sisters at the pool at 9. They’re pretty darn sure they said 10. So I wander amidst the bikini-clad denizens for an hour. Peering intently. With a camera around my neck. Sporting a telephoto lens. Because there is nothing suspicious about that at all.

Playing on the speaker in the washrooms of The Paris: The French translation for “Apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?” There was no followup translation for: “Oh shit, she just kicked me in the balls.”

What I’d forgotten about Las Vegas in the year since I was last here Part 1: How many people smoke. And how these same people are kind enough to ensure that, by the end of the day, I too smell like a West Virginia tobacco plantation.

What I’d forgotten about Las Vegas in the year since I was last here Part 2: How many beautiful women you can cram into one city. And how they all want to rub up against me. OK, I may have made that last part up. I said “may.”

The recession is hurting the US in more ways than one. For instance, it appears that women can barely afford material for dresses. I’m just sayin’.

If you’re going to charge items from the hotel gift store to your room, the least you can do is remember your room number. Especially when I’m standing behind you trying to buy one lousy bottle of water. You know, for next time.

Restaurants who centre their menu items should come with a warning. That way a certain blogger wouldn’t try to order American Swiss cheese on his burger. Because that’s just silly.

Note to self: Never eat vegetables from a buffet. Not unless you enjoy the feeling of digesting broken glass. For two hours. On an airplane.

The M hotel/casino is located nine miles south of Mandalay Bay. It’s been open for six months. It is still clean. So clean, in fact, that my mother walked straight into a glass panel because she didn’t see it. I laughed until I cried. And, yes, as a matter of fact, I am going straight to Hell.

Best reason to visit America: Cherry Coke. Best. Drink. Ever.

Worst reason to visit America: Border guards: Nazi pricks. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.

A business story in USA Today tells how tall, boxy cars — the likes of Nissan Cube and Kia Soul — have recently become very popular with the American car-buying public. Hmmm. Let’s see: we bought our tall, boxy Honda Capa 18 months ago, and it was built in 1999.

Americans, eh? So far behind they think they’re ahead.

The maple leaf in my soul is bleeding red. And white.

I’m so over traveling.

I know what you’re thinking: “But, John, don’t you fancy yourself some kind of freelance travel writer? Isn’t the world your own personal ATM, where you punch in the words and various publications spit out cash?”

OK, let me rephrase: I enjoy the destination. What I’m so over is the actual getting tò the destination.

I’ve grown weary of packing, although I will admit to being rather adept at telling if my suitcase is overweight by the simple act of hefting it. A one-hand lift = good. Two hands and a grunt needed to lift = I’ve got a problem.

Are there any toiletries in my carry-on? How about water? Did I remember to remove the special Swiss Army knife my sister bought me when she was stationed in Europe?

What should I wear on my feet? The hiking boots that weigh 600 pounds and so are too heavy to be in my suitcase? But also have 600 hundred feet of laces and take three days to undo should they need to be taken off and placed on the X-ray scanner belt at the airport.

And please tell me how, at the other end of that belt, I am supposed to juggle the laptop I had to pull from its case, the belt I had to take off before it caused the metal detector to screech, the boots I had to remove and my two carry-on bags?

There is no need for terrorists to actually blow up my plane  — they have already made my life hell and I am still in the terminal.

And then there’s that whole panic-inducing fear that I will be the last one seated in my section, well after fellow passengers from many rows away have already wandered over specifically to fill the overhead bin above my seat, meaning there is now no room for my stuff.

Even when that nightmare scenario does not play out, something else manages to bite me in the ass.  On a recent Air New Zealand flight to Canada, I noticed a small overhead compartment directly above me. Concerned that maybe this was the one I was supposed to use, I reached up, while still securely buckled in my seat, and opened the door.

“Leave it!”

Now, I’m almost certain the female flight attendant standing in the emergency exit alcove directly behind my seat didn’t mean to bark so loudly as to readjust the part in my hair. I’m almost positive what she actually meant to say was, “Excuse me, sir, but that particular compartment is reserved for cabin crew luggage. Please close the door.”

I’m also guessing, due to the dim lighting and the fact that I do look young for my age, she simply mistook me for a 10-year-old shitrat intent on whipping open her litle suitcase and scattering her knickers and lipstick in the aisle.

Facing Customs & Immigration at the Vancouver Airport is always another treat. It matters not one whit that I possess a Canadian passport or that I lived the first five decades of my life in the Great White North, paying taxes every single hour of my working life. I am now a New Zealand resident. I am now a foreigner. I am now to be treated differently.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” asks the 20-something fellow with the faux-military haircut that matches the sneering chip on his shoulder. What he’s really saying is, “One false word, fat boy, and you’ll be touching your ankles while I snap on the latex gloves.”

What is the purpose of my visit? Where do I start?

I want to eat a lemon-cranberry scone with my Starbucks coffee.

I want to eat a Tim Horton’s doughnut. Maybe even one from Krispy Kreme.

I want to hold a Hockey News and an Entertainment Weekly in my hand instead of reading them online.

I want to experience real high-speed broadband.

I want to talk to people who understand what sport I mean when I say “hockey.”

I want to taste real maple syrup.

I want to see a dogwood tree. And squirrels. Maybe even a beaver.

What is the purpose of my visit? You’re kiding me, right?

My purpose, Mr. Dipshit, is to be a Canadian.

Now stamp my f*****n passport and order me a double-double before I drop my gloves.

***

Sample or purchase Brown Girls: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1937

***

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I used to ride unicorns. Now I can’t even get the horn.

See the lady pictured with this posting? I’m not sure if her name is Zandy or Candy — her website lacked a few vital details — but I do know that I find myself strangely attracted to her, even if she does appear to be missing the top half of her head.

I’m tempted to present this winsome lass as the new Mrs. Bitemymoko but, at least until the immigration papers are signed, I’m required to refer her as, ahem, a Lindee Elite Executive Escort Travel Companion. Although I’m sure that’s just a matter of semantics, at least until my cheque clears.

As I said, I found this natural beauty during my daily perusing of the Internet. I had entered “Travel” as my key search word and  Zandy/Candy just popped up, as it were. Because nothing says travel like skimpy lingerie.

According to her site, Zandy/Candy is looking for any “discriminating gentleman who desires company with a Sexy Goddess!”

The exclamation point is hers, by the way, and, just so we’re clear here, an experienced journalist like myself would never uppercase Sexy Goddess unless, of course, that was her name. Zandy/Candy Sexy Goddess Bitemymoko. I don’t know about you, but I think it’s kinda catchy.

There may very well be other “catchy” things about my soon-to-be blushing bride but, except for that whole missing-head thing, she appears to be the very embodiment of health, all things considered. And, believe me, I have done a lot of considering. Several hours’ worth, in fact.

You can find out all about this perfect example of womanhood at her website (http://zandydee.escort-site.com) but what is particularly interesting is how Zandy/Candy is willing to meet you anywhere in the world, including the Vatican City.

Because nothing says “You’re going straight to Hell” quite like meeting a whore escort in the Holy See. Although, come to think of it, she might just fit in, what with all the people on their knees talking to God.

Truth be told, I’ve never had much to do with professional women, other than one brief encounter. That occurred when my brother and I boarded an elevator in Las Vegas with a suit-clad gentleman accompanied by a tall blond with a top cut down to there, and a skirt cut up to here.

My brother and I leaned forward so we could see each other past this woman’s ample bosoms and smiled at each other. That smile said, “They’re real.” And, “This guy is one lucky bastard.”

I have, however, heard stories. This same brother was once part of a group of friends who hosted a stag night for a buddy on the verge of tying the knot. The idea was to hire a hooker to administer a blowjob to the groom-to-be once he was good and plastered.

It was an excellent plan and might have actually worked had the guys not spent nearly all their cash on alcohol. By the time they did encounter a lady of the night, they were pretty much turning their pockets inside out in search of spare change.

With barely $50 in hand, one of them approached the woman and inquired if this was enough to provide lip service to their friend.

“For that amount,” she sneered, “the only oral sex you’re getting tonight is me telling you to f**k off.”

That probably worked out for the best because the groom-to-be had vanished anyway. He was later found, blasted out of his gourd, crouching in the bushes, whimpering, “I jut wanted to see her tits.”

Another story I overheard came from a fellow who, along with a couple of his mates, had hired an escort to come to their hotel room. This guy had been first in line and, not being terribly well-versed in this sort of activity, had naturally defaulted to assuming the missionary position. To his dismay, he then sat in the room and watched as his friends proceeded to perform feats best left to urbandictionary.com to describe.

He was gutted at his own lack of imagination and adventure. To his way of thinking, having first choice, he had gone for the pony ride, only to find out later that his friends were cavorting with unicorns.

The cold, stark reality is, even if Zandy/Candy knocked on my door right now, I’d flash her my polite Canadian smile and say “Thanks, but no thanks.”

I’m a big talker — and an even bigger dreamer — but my spark has faded. These days, I’ll take a good book over a good lay. Maybe I’ve gotten old. Maybe the constant stress over our finances has left me limp with dismay.

Maybe I don’t believe in unicorns anymore.