Dispatches from Sin City

The Daddy/Daughter Caravan took it on the road last week to Las Vegas. Sin City.

For the Fun Time, this post is a bit of a departure. I’m going to add about a dozen musings into one post. At first, it seems strange, I don’t usually do the long blog post. Normally, I keep it short. Like everything else in my life. With few complaints. (Ask my wife.)

Otherwise, if I split the posts out individually, my regulars would field a massive barrage of Fun Time e-blasts all at once. And, that is not gentlemanly.



So, I’m driving us all to Vegas, we leave around 4:30pm.

Julianna (she’s seven): Daddy! She’s looking at me!

Isabella (five): No, I’m not! I’m looking at your chair.

Both: Hahahahaha!

Three hours later…

J: Daddy! She’s looking at me!


True story.



There is, of course, a discrepancy to be had at the Check-In desk. “Blah blah blah, not available, blah.” Lynn (she’s the Mommy at Daddy/Daughter Fun Time, just so ya know. She made all of the arrangements) takes no guff. We get upgraded, no charge.

A mini-suite with a king-sized bed, and an attached two-queen-bed room. Sweet suite.

We flop into bed.

The next morning brings: Observations…


For breakfast on Monday:

A new slogan for the Las Vegas buffet:
Where Ambition Exceeds Capacity.

How do I not work in the entertainment industry?… Oh yeah.


After breakfast, we make our way to the Adventuredome, the indoor amusement park at Circus Circus.

The Adventuredome. Half Adventure. Half Dome. (half-hearted attempt at a caption.)

Isabella (she’s 5) is very self-conscious of the fact that she is too short to get on some of the rides.

Iz: But, Daddy, there’s some rides that Julianna (she’s 7) can’t get on either, right?

Me: Yes, Sweetie. You know, there are some rides even I can’t get on.

Iz: I know. It’s because you’re very short, too.

Me: No, Honey. I have a bad back.

Iz: I know.

Me: And. A bad neck.

Iz: Yes…. And because you throw up.

Me: Why does everyone keep mentioning that? You weren’t even there.


Back in the room, Mommy channels her inner-interior-designer self, converting the plain, plastic cactus decor into this:

Smilin' Cactus

You might laugh occasionally at my jokes, but Mommy is really the funniest one in the family.

Isabella: Mommy, did you put eyes on the other side, too?

Mommy: No, it doesn’t have eyes in the back of it’s head.

Iz: Why?

Mommy: Because, it is not a mother.

Iz: (blink) Ummm… Will I grow eyes in the back of my head when I have a baby?

(Little kids. So gullible.)

Mommy: No, Honey. That’s just a joke… But you might.

Iz: Really?

Mommy: Maybe.

(Like I said. Gullible.)

At check out, we left the smiling cactus face that way. Maybe housekeeping will notice. We hope not. Someone will get a good chuckle.


I find it astonishing that in the 21st century, smoking is still tolerated in confined public spaces. With kids around. What up with that? Have some consideration… This is promoted as a “child-friendly” hotel.


Mommy’s Day:

Lynn and I are planning to make good on our 20th anniversary gifts to each other:

For one day — Please get these friggin’ kids off my back!


I’ll deal with the girls while Lynn gets the spa treatment, the massage, the mani/pedi, the mud bath, the cucumbers-on-the-eyes treatment. Candles. Emoluments. Shopping. Something to do with wax. Whatever. Sounds weird.

But, make no mistake. She’s no girlie girl…

She’ll be playing cut-throat Craps, Black Jack, and Texas Hold ’em tournaments.

Seriously, she knows what she’s doing. She wants to play. And… She will win. She is Fierce.

I spend the day with the girls in the Adventuredome. Riding the Frog Hopper, watching the Sponge Bob 4-D movie, and doing the bumper cars.

Meanwhile, Mommy is winning big.


It looks like Wednesday will be Daddy’s Day in Las Vegas where he can do anything he wants while Mommy tends to the child-folk. No questions asked. (Ok, a few questions asked.) It’s Mommy’s 20th anniversary gift to Daddy.


What should I do all by myself in Vegas? You know. Sin City.

Er…… I’m a deer in headlights. So, I do what most people would do: I ask my Facebook friends.

Now, I know I have nothing but the most classy, smart, eloquent and reserved friends on the Facebook.

They all say: Strippers.

(Ok, not all. Some say: Cars!)

Now, strippers (and cars) are really not my thing. No judgements. I enjoy an MPG every once in a while (we have a Prius, you know.).

But, remember: What happens in Vegas, needs plausible deniability in the real world.

So, I spend most of the day with the girls, catching the circus shows. Like the Acrobats, see my previous post.

Mommy wins more money.


I’m delighted to see that the casino is still hiring women “of a certain age” to serve as cocktail waitresses. Yay, for aging! But, seriously, are 50+ year-old waitresses required to wear the same revealing, push-up, squeeze-here, butt-bearing outfits of women less than half their age? Whatever happened to aging gracefully? Just bring me my drink.


To the chunky Brazilian guy wearing the Speedo poolside today:

Dude, it really takes balls to wear that kind of swimsuit in public. You apparently think you have them. Um… No. And, yet, ironically… You do.


What happens in Vegas

..she had a LOT more fun than the rest of us.


Ok, I can’t ignore this anymore.

Vegas is the Boob Capital of the World. (And, remember, I know what I’m talking about — I live in in Hollywood.) In Vegas, every billboard, taxi cab, magazine, cable-channel, diamond-vision, public walkway, and leaflet-giver is covered in breasts. Basically, any surface potentially visible by men.

I am inundated in breasts. The place is practically crawling with them (nice visual there, eh? I paint with my words.)

Now, I am not offended because they are being thrust in my face. (Definitely, not). I am not offended because the barrage of cleavage objectifies women. Nor, am I offended because I don’t want to expose my little girls to grown-up things until they are ready (though I really don’t).

No. I’m offended that the city has made boobs so common, so… Boring…

And that’s uncool, Las Vegas. Uncool.


Most disturbing 4th of July promo in the Calendar section of the Las Vegas Sun newspaper:

California Invasion: Bare’s mid-week pool party gets into the July 4 spirit with busloads of girls from San Diego and Los Angeles plus music from Blend Artists.

“Busloads of girls” brought in from Southern California? That’s not a party. It’s usually referred to as “Human Trafficking.”


Darren’s Vegas Clubbing Fashion Paradox:

A mini-dress can be cut too low and too high at the same time. Discuss.


We manage to get a late check-out (6pm) for only $20 per room. Mommy knows how to work the system (she’s awesome that way). We figure this is perfect — the girls will sleep most of the way home.

I load up the car. It is 112 degrees. Rethinking this check out time… Maybe early, early would be better. When it’s only 102.

Anyway, we leave, actually getting on the road at about 7:30. With some lane closures on the freeway and a couple of bathroom breaks (by the way: for those who routinely make the LA-to-Vegas trip, the thermometer in Baker has fallen into disrepair. Bun Boy has gone out of business. And, it looks like Bob’s Big Boy has closed.), it is a 6.5 hour odyssey to get home. Julianna is car sick. Isabella is crying. Mommy is desperate for quiet. Daddy is just trying to stay awake. Mommy rubs his back. Getting home is almost as difficult as getting there.

We get home around 2am.

Then, we have to unpack to car. Grrrrr.

At least Mommy is up several hundred dollars. Where’s my pillow?


So I drag myself into the office on Friday only to find my inbox filled with this:

Welcome Home! We missed you! Did you have fun? So glad you had time away! … Yeah, we need this ASAP.

10-and-a-half inches of inbox. Too tired for a “sounds like my honeymoon” joke. Too tired.

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