Fear and Dancing in Las Vegas

Our recent family vacation started and ended in Las Vegas. It may seem incongruous to bookend travels with children in a place known as Sin City or for me to use a 10-cent word like “incongruous.” However, I have plenty of photos of us enjoying “wholesome” touristy things to prove otherwise.

Like …

Dolphin feeding at the MGM Grand “Secret Garden.”

Excitable being chosen to participate in a comedy magic show at the Four Queens casino.

To his sister’s disappointment, the magician did not make him disappear. At least not permanently.

Swimming in the Golden Nugget’s pool / aquarium. 

Go-go dancing bar maids outside the Golden Gate Casino. Whoa – how’d that get in there?

O, Las Vegas. So many big boobs. And breasts, too.

Speaking of boobs, here’s me waiting to zip line along downtown Las Vegas’ Fremont Street.

My hasty and totally out-of-character decision to do this shocked the entire Uncool clan, myself included. I credit being swept up in the carnival-like atmosphere of downtown. And $4 beers at the Golden Gate go-go bar.

“Dad’s so scared he’s going to pee his pants and spray it all over us as he goes by,” predicted Excitable. Nice vote of confidence there, son.

In the video of my adventure, listen closely as I go overhead to hear Li’l Diva mention how “embarrassing” all this is to her.

My real reasoning for setting aside my innate chicken-ness to do this:

1. I’d never heard of anyone being killed on these zip lines before (unlike the near-death experiences taking place at the Heart Attack Grill across the street while this was going on). Ignorance is the aphrodisiac of the weak-kneed.
2. I’d be attached to something attached to something attached to solid ground the whole time. The “Electricity” rule from schoolyard tag applies to life. Um, doesn’t it?
3. There were plenty of obese, semi-drunk tourists below to break my fall. Not that I’d fall. Right? I said: RIGHT?

Instead, it’s the stuff I don’t have photos of in Las Vegas that should really put the fear in you. Luckily most of it only My Love and I witnessed while the kiddies were safely asleep upstairs in the hotel room.

All right, only I witnessed it. My Love spent our nights feeding her blackjack habit, a.k.a. stimulating the Vegas economy, a.k.a. the kids weren’t the only Uncools underwater at the Golden Nugget. While she did this I was often left alone to experience the most hideous debauchery known to humankind:

Middle-age white folk dancing to a classic rock cover band in the casino lounge.

Armed with only my daughter’s iPod Touch and casino Wi-Fi (and maybe a few Heinekens), I fearlessly trekked into the belly of the beast to file this slightly edited report one evening via Twitter:

• People - you aren't partying with Michelob Ultra. Period.
• Either I'm drunk or this cover band made Yes danceable.
• Should newlyweds in Vegas really be out dancing at this hour? To the Boom Boom Room!
• These dancers make this CT suburbanite feel LESS white.
• I think alcohol makes Journey covers symphonic.
• I wonder if My Love has lost enough at blackjack yet to consider consolation sex?

Somehow I survived the bumping, grinding and “white man’s” overbiting masses to make it back to our hotel room. I even managed to be up by 7:30 the next morning – thank you jet lag! -- and in line at the hotel coffee bar.

“And how’s your day going?” asked the unreasonable perky barista.

I didn’t answer. I think the extra-large coffee and bran muffin in my hand did all the necessary talking.

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