Friday, November 20, 2009

Las Vegas: The World's Shortest Scrapbook

George's $55 steak made him this happy.

I'll be the first to admit an error was made. Pictorial note-taking fell to an all-time low during this year's Vegas trip (for which I am only halfway responsible, George), making this particular venture seem extremely dull. It wasn't. Perhaps a bit slower paced than other years, due to the fact that we're all aging and becoming tedious, rickety, old people. Kidding.

Part of the problem here is that I faced the dilemma of a penthouse suite this year, something I find almost as frightening as plane rides, and most of the dramatic photos taken by others were snapped from the 35th floor balcony (yes, a balcony. I hope you are appropriately horrified.). Some with Toby dangling himself over the rail. Meanwhile, I was trembling on the couch, staring dead ahead until everyone came safely into the room and shut the door, but the blinds, if not the entire window, remained open most of the trip and led to my nausea most of the time we were in the room. I made sure it wasn't much.

We had an incredible gym at the MGM Suites in Tower 1, which I had all to myself on Saturday night at 1:30 a.m. Go figure. And after that visit, I indulged in the first of many (3, total) salted pretzels from the stand in New York, New York casino, a mere half mile walk away. Wynell, Gwen and I were lucky enough to stop in at the Vosges chocolate store, an addition to Caesar's shopping center that I'm quite pleased about. The cappuccino I had there rivaled my memory of an Italian cup, and Wynell's mocha almost turned me into a mocha drinker — vanilla-scented Vosges chocolate! We watched the Cirque du Soleil production of Love (amazing!) where photography isn't allowed, ate the most delicious collection of vegetarian sides I've ever tasted at Nine steakhouse (wild mushroom saute! truffled gnocchi!), and raced to watch the fountains at the Bellagio only to catch the last few seconds of the final show from the car window. Sunday morning, most people wandered off to watch a stupid Chiefs game, but Cinnamon, Karen and I ate a memorable breakfast of heavenly grits and egg-cheese-tortilla and multiple sauce concoctions that would take a lifetime to replicate. Cooked for us by Bobby Flay himself at Mesa. Or so we are determined to believe. After wallowing in the pool and hot tub all afternoon, everyone fell asleep on comfy deck chairs. The rest of the trip included much, much more walking, as usual, and more eating, a little gambling on the horses, dancing, and minor star spotting (Frankie Munez, Steve Hytner, a.k.a Kenny Bania of Seinfeld).

When we returned home, I realized I had only 11 photos on my camera, half of them doubletakes of pictures where one person's eye fluttered closed (usually mine) to show for myself. Huh.

Karen will not be photographed, even after
Bobby Flay cooks something special for her.

He was dead asleep until I took this picture. Creepy.


We also toasted the free Caesar salads the chef sent over. Mmm.

The finger of Tobe shows you where to look.

Me and Cinn in a happy post-breakfast embrace. Dammit Peter.

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