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  • Vegas, Britney, Cher and Chris Issak

    I only drink in Vegas. And only absinthe. God (or whoever) bless and keep the good folks at the Palms for comping me absinthe and Red Bull (Atomic Bomb) concoctions whilst I frittered away a couple of hours playing the same $20 on a Survivor slot machine.

    Nope, still ain't watched the show. Samoa? I'm pretty sure that's settled now. Although...with most of the male population of said exotic locale (that, there, is a college education talking, kids) playing in the NFL, perhaps I'm mistaken. It's happened before. It may even happen again.

     

    So I'm watching Transporter 3 whilst typing this mess. Love me the Jason Statham. I do, however, think it'd be kinda cool if in 'reality' said action star was deathly afraid of getting behind the wheel.

    You know, the way I am.

     

    I'm deeply troubled by the sexual tension between Donny and Marie Osmond.

     

    Also loving me the Californication and, oh hells yes I'll be, shall we say, liberating damn near every word out of good ol' Mulder's potty mouth. Plagiarizing's such an ugly word.

    Speaking of which, I also enjoy that Flo-Rida song.

    And is Rick Springfield fucking awesome on that show or what?

     

    Whyfore doth I disqualify otherwise perfectly attractive womenfolks based solely upon their choice of ridiculous footwear?

    And don't even get me started on the horrors of plaid.

     

    After a free concert at the Rio (if you haven't stayed, please do; the suite was bigger than my apartment, very nice, as it was my first time even in the building), I was fortuitous enough to get my T-shirt signed by the lead singer of The Ataris (Song of the Day: San Dimas High School Football Rules!). During said transaction, I queried about an anecdote he'd relayed on stage. What? I'm learning to ask better questions and he'd told a story about a tour through Canada. I merely asked as to where it had occurred.

    He couldn't remember, but said that if his iPhone were available, he could Google it. Lightbulb time. I brandished mine own shiny iPhone and attempted to convince the fellow to demonstrate for me how to better utilize the fucking thing. And all he wanted to do was finish signing merch, pick out a groupie or several and enjoy Las Vegas.

    To no avail. I'd turned off my roaming feature. Sigh. We did, however, discuss the merits of fantasy football (it's on my bookmarks list) and he mentioned liking my infinity symbol tattoo. All in all, quite an enjoyable concert. And did I mention free?

     

    Last night I went and saw Chris Isaak perform at the auditorium a mere 10 minutes walk from the Manor. He and I had some unfinished business from when I caught his San Francisco Days tour in 1993. And he delivered. THIS time, he played Blue Spanish Sky, and all was right with the world. I do wish his TV show were available on DVD, though. And that I had been ready with the previously mentioned iPhone when prime photography ops presented themselves, as I was in the 2nd row from the stage, on the right. No security. Not that kind of show.

    The opening act, Lindsay something or other, was an excellent guitarist. Could sing a little, too. Lyrics needed work. I can't decide if her tight black dress was reclaiming her sexuality (girl was F.I.N.E. fine) or merely bowing to expectation. She kept having to pull it up during her set, as her breastesses were a little small. Which stopped me from yelling Show Us Your Tits Or Get Off The Stage, Hoochie! in front of the wine and cheese theater crowd. The wine and cheese theater crowd can get kind of unruly-like. Think angry mob. Pitchforks and torches.

    And, yes, Mr. Isaak wore the mirrored suit. Damn, I Wish I'd gotten that guy to show me how to operate my iPhone.

    And, no, I have NO idea who the chick was that decided to seat squat in the empty seat to my right (I go to shows alone, I find I get much better seats that way and am free to purchase more merch for my ownself, should I be so inclined). I know she wasn't with the guy in the next seat over because she left halfway through Silvertone's 2+ hour set (if you've never seen the band live, you're totally missing out), and he had the air of someone who had dropped coin on 2 tickets and then been dumped by the girl he'd planned to take but decided to use his ticket anyway. Good for him.

    It was also good to have my boy Jay come and find me (I'm kinda hard to miss) at intermission. I didn't know he was going, as I haven't seen or spoken with him in weeks.

     

    There's not much sadder than a Vegas buffet at closing time. watching all that food get thrown out. Especially when one is running low on functioning teeth.

     

    It's about time George Lopez got his own talk show. And I'll likely give Wayne Brady's new Let's Make A Deal it's day in court as well.

     

    I should likely be more troubled than I really am by the fact that every day I come home from work with my pants full of blood and pus and, oh, let's go with ick. Let's just say I'm still reacting adversely to my decision to experiment with over the counter steroids. The creatine seems to be working, however, thanks for asking.

     

    The Jonas Brothers are now immortalized in wax. Because they, you know, changed the face of contemporary music and shit.

    To be fair, their show doesn't totally suck dead dogs.

     

    You can buy an iPhone from a vending machine at the MGM Grand. I can remember when those things used to sell gum and trinkets.

     

    I want products from a peanut LADEN facility.

     

    All hail and kneel before Mike Blowers.

     

    I'm troubled by the Six Million Dollar Man reduced to pimping hearing aids. Surely THAT can't just be me.

    And Mariah Carey covering Foreigner.

     

    Why do flapper chicks do it for me? You know who'd make a good flapper chick? Shalom Harlow, that's who would make a good flapper chick.

     

    I kinda want to bitch slap and, yes, karate chop that Slap/Chop hawker on the TV.

     

    Thanks to a semi-cute social butterfly-type blonde with braces, Ashley, I realized that I was wrong during my awkward adolescence: I wasn't unattractive, I merely looked uptight. Uncomfortable. Like. Ish.

    Her exhibitionist stripper-looking friend was at least a 9, though.

     

    Heard Hole on the Muzak in a food court. Died a little bit inside.

     

    I love the name Poppy Harlow.

     

    I NEED to recruit me a solid Vegas wingman.

     

    There should be tests that people have to pass in order to be allowed to continue to live.

     

    The moving sidewalk is, again, not a ride.

     

    The only person (other than me) that I fear is the one with ink on his face. His pain threshold is obviously off the charts.

     

    Who is this Jordin Sparks person and what has she done with the Pussycat Dolls I paid to see open for Britney? Let the Music Play was a cool tune when Shannon did it in, what, 1980?

    Kristinia DeBarge? I don't care if you're El's kid; until one of your songs outsells Rhythm of the Night or even Who's Johnny?, it's Kristian. Quit fronting.

    Britney (wouldn't see her here, but in Las Vegas, you have to do things like that) should've played Freebird. Her version of Sweet Dreams is pretty cool, though.

    10000+ people with cellphones and not ONE nearby to show me how to make my iPhone go. Sigh. Someday I'll learn how to zoom for photography.

     

    Free Polanski. The victim wants it to be over, let it be over.

     

    Janet, you're famous enough, you don't need to capitalize on Michael's death.

     

    My radar is WAY off. I can't even tell rentals from civilians with any degree of certainty anymore. Although there was this one blonde in the casino on my last night.

     

    I was asked if I'd played college football. By a black guy. Rugby by a second. And then, the ubiquitous basketball query by both.

     

    How do I love Amber Valletta? Let me count the ways: like Prince said, I know 23.

     

    Cher in the house that Celine Dion built. Got lucky, the nice lady assigning my seat has a son in Calgary and gave me 8th row floor for the 2nd tier $ I shelled.

    I wish Cher had sung Heart of Stone and One By One. I didn't pay $120+ to hear her sing U2. Quite enjoyed the old Sonny and features of the production show, however.

    And the random topless dancer was a nice touch.

     

    It's sad how much joy ensued when I found applesauce and pineapple yogurt at a buffet.

     

    Las Vegans. Who knew?

     

    Is it weird to aspire to having the decor of the Manor look like a Fridays?

     

    Stafon Johnson: Reason #147 why I don't work out.

     

    Is Haleigh Cummings' babysitter attractive? Built? Posing in Playboy anytime soon? Then, why, prithee, wouldst I care?

     

    Will be back soonish with a review of my recent trip to FINALLY see Kelly Clarkson perform live.