Tralala blangity blang blang (With ‘a’s not “i”s)

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I’ll fully admit, Aly and I aren’t really the Vegas types. We are both secretly in our late 60’s and are always commenting about all the “hooglians” faffing about. But we were excited to be on another trip together and making snide comments about the public behind their backs is a sort of hobby of ours. And in Vegas it is very easy to make snide comments about people. Actually most of the people in the casinos during the day really don’t look like they’re having all that great of a time. My theory is people come there because its one of the last places they aren’t oppressed by “the man” and can smoke indoors to their lung’s contentment. After getting lost at the City Centre hotel/restort complex and checking Caesars Palace and the Bellagio, we had a delightful lunch at Gordon Ramsay’s “Hell’s Kitchen”. There was way less yelling than there was on the TV show. Maybe they already had the fear of Gordon in them. At any rate, this fear makes for a great lobster risotto.

We walked around the strip some more and stopped in at Margaritaville for a break. Aly’s fashionable shoes were beginning to remind her feet how fashionable they were by causing painful blisters. Margaritaville is one of those very American places where everything is deep fried and at least 2000 calories (its guaranteed on the menu). I was also concerned that it was a place where they take your photo then print it and guilt you into buying it, because what says wholesome family fun like extortion. But they have fun tropical-y beverages and it was conveniently located. I admitted to Aly halfway through my tall, very-alcoholic pineapple-rum whatchamadingle that I actually really don’t like steel drums or tropical music. I explained how like no, life is serious sometimes and there’s no time for all this “trah-lah-lah blangity blang blang”. “Blingity bling bling?” Aly repeated through her giggling. “No, blangity blang blang.” I explained, finishing my drink. “That’s what steel drums sound like. With ‘a’s not ‘i’s.” That settled that then. I was actually in a great mood because of said drink and the overall day so far. It helped too that the photo lady stayed away from us, probably because I was the guy ranting about how to spell the noise a steel drum makes.

I worry sometimes that I’ve become a privileged elitist asshole. Mostly out of guilt because I get super judge-y of the general public, especially tourists. I imagine those reading this completely understand anyway. Tourists are trash (except for us of course. We’re super classy). We left Margaritaville and were walking south on the east side of the strip. This area south of the Venetian is what I call the “extra-classy zone” outside of Harrah’s and the Flamingo. It was crowded and full of people in Mickey Mouse or Pikachu costumes that at distance looked fine but up close were clearly, very wrong. I had even seen a second Mickey with his entire head and torso off taking a smoke break. Walt would be ashamed. (Fun side note, they’ve ripped Donnie and Marie Osmond’s faces off the Flamingo but only off the glass, making for a trendy “barcode” look)

At the cross walk there was a ripped shirtless fellow in a cowboy hat charming the local pedestrians. He was there to balance out the ladies dressed as show girls with big feathery costumes and nothing but tassels on their nipples. What if they were just walking to work? Like it’d probably be annoying with all the people wanting a picture with them their outfits. They’ve got some place to be. “No of course you can’t take a picture with us, what do you take us for? We’ve got a show down at the MGM to get to. Normally we car pool but her car broke down and now we have to walk. Kindly step aside. Gawd people are such pigs.”

After finishing our rounds of the strip, we went back to Caesars Palace for a lovely Italian dinner, which was prefaced by a charming interaction with the host. “How many peoples?” she asked in her distinct “popular girl” voice. “Sorry?” “How many peoples in your party?” “Uh, 2 peoples I suppose.” The lights were on but nobody was home. Nevertheless, our server was excellent gave some great advice on a wine pairings. Aly had ravioli with vodka cream sauce and I had pappardelle with bolognaise. We split deep fried mozzarella for desert, despite being seated next to the desert table. Cake is full of empty calories you know; best stick with calcium rich cheese.

Our walk back from the restaurant took us back through the Bellagio. Aly ran into the washroom which ended up being quite an experience. Now, the Bellagio is considered by many to be one of the more classy joints in Vegas. But that doesn’t mean it can’t host its share of wackiness. Aly told me most of the stalls were full when she arrived but she saw a woman come out of one at the far end. The woman smirked as Aly passed and when she peered into the stall she saw toilet paper was strewn everywhere. She found another stall with a little less crazy in it but as she closed the door and sat down someone else dropped their glass and sent beer flying across the floor. As she was leaving, two women who hadn’t washed their hands barred the exit as they aggressively adjusted the crotches on their pants. Aly could only imagine the nonsense going on back across the road with Pikachu and the shirtless man.

We returned to our new room which had a king bed and was better appointed than our old one but still just as close to the roller coaster. I think every room in this building is somehow. It was 8PM on a Saturday in Vegas so true to our closeted 68 year old selves, we went to bed. It was going to be a big day tomorrow.

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Photos

Hells Kitchen
Amazed there's only 2 other people in this shot

Lunch
The fear adds flavour

Donnie and Marie
Lookin' good guys

Definitely not a copy right infringement
This is Lemy (as opposed to Remy from Ratatouille) He's from Belgium (probably). He's a mouse who bakes cakes or something. Completely original.

Bellagio's Courtyard Garden Thingy
Not pictured: Weird bathroom