Last night, as my 9 year old daughter Zoe and I drove home, she said what she often says while riding in my car, “Can we PLEASE listen to something from the 2000’s?”

I like contemporary music, but I also love the old stuff. I go through phases of different eras and genres. I would apologize to my kids for subjecting them to that, but I love that my daughter can sing the lyrics to almost any Motown song, much of the 80’s music, and can often be heard belting out “Frankie Valley and the Four Seasons.” Currently as I am typing this, she is walking down the stairs singing “Love will keep us together” by “Captain and Tenille.”

So I ignored her request and flipped on the 70’s station. It was Glen Campbell singing “Southern Nights.” I heard a groan from the back seat.

“You know, your dad flew on a plane with Glen Campbell once.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and the plane got struck by lightning.”

“You’re making that up.”

But I wasn’t. Several years ago my husband was on a flight with Glen Campbell. He said at the time he got on the plane he knew he was someone famous, but couldn’t quite figure out who he was. He said that he was dressed really well. ( I asked him this morning if he was dressed like a “Rhinestone Cowboy.” He looked at me for a moment and then said, “No.” He doesn’t think I’m as funny as I think I am.)

Glen was in first class, and my husband was kiddie corner from him, so he had a direct view. He heard the murmurs all around, people whispering “isn’t that…” and it was clear the flight attendant was giving him extra attentive service. Jeff says Glen looked like he was trying to keep a low profile.

Partway through the flight, that all changed.  It was a bumpy stormy flight to start off. But suddenly there was a large CRACK! The plane lit up like Times Square and then dropped like a thousand feet in an instant. Everyone on the plane thought they were going to die. (He says now that he’s not sure if it actually hit the plane or was just very close. Would a direct hit cause all the electronics to fry?)

When they all realized they had survived, the atmosphere of the plane changed. Suddenly the flight attendants were serving drinks, everyone was getting liquored up in relief and celebration, and Glen Campbell was out of his seat signing autographs. Jeff said, “If he had his guitar with him, he probably would have led a sing-along on the plane.”

Sadly, Glen Campbell is in deteriorating health, but we have his music and this awesome story that will live on.

That story got me thinking about other celebrity encounter stories I have heard and/or experienced. “US” magazine says stars are “just like us!” and then they post ridiculous things like “Justin Timberlake pumps his own gas!” or “Khloe Kardashian has deodorant balls!”

or this:

 I don’t know who this guy is, or why anyone thought he might not use a basket when grocery shopping. Would he use his hands? Would he have a butler carrying his bananas for him?

As a general rule, I do believe celebrities are just like me… only with more money and fame. We are all human beings. And my instinct when I see one is to leave them alone. I passed Urijah Faber (UFC fighter for those who don’t know) in the taxi line at McCarran airport in Las Vegas. His butt chin was unmistakable. I felt that momentary buzz you get when in the presence of someone famous, but then I realized it was 95 degrees, he was in a line of a hundred other people, all of us weaving our way through the queue like lambs being led to slaughter. In that moment, he WAS just like us. I made eye contact and then looked away. It seemed like the right thing to do.

 Urijah “California kid” Faber

We had another UFC celebrity encounter in Vegas last year. The UFC is headquartered in Vegas, so I guess that’s not so surprising, but we lived in Southern Cal for 5 years and I never saw a celebrity.(*editor’s note- Sydney just reminded me that for a semester Bobbi Kristina Brown aka Krissi aka daughter of Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown attended her middle school.)

We were at SW Steakhouse at the Wynn hotel for our anniversary dinner when Chuck Liddell walked by. My husband almost peed his pants. Chuck Liddell is a former UFC light heavyweight champion who successfully defended his belt 4 times, and is now a member of the UFC Hall of Fame. (He’s also my friend Jami’s second favorite UFC fighter.) The next time our waiter came over, Jeff told him he wanted to send a drink over to the “Iceman.” A little while later he returned and said, “He appreciates the gesture, but he no longer drinks. He’d be happy to take a coffee, though.” I said, “Good one. You sent a drink to a recovering alcoholic.” We later found out that Liddell’s sobriety was short-lived when he began appearing in Miller Light commercials.

 “Go ahead. Try to buy me a drink.”

Nice restaurants are great places to spot celebrities, but I never expected to see one in Utah. We lived in Utah for 5 years, and when we moved to Southern Cal, our house in Utah was still on the market. It took several months, but it finally sold, and we had to fly back to Salt Lake to oversee the final packing and closing of the house. We decided to do it in style, so we stayed at the Grand America Hotel. One morning as we sat in the nearly empty restaurant having breakfast, I looked over at a group about 20 feet away and almost choked on my orange juice.

“Oh my God!”

“What?”

“It’s that guy. Holy Cow. The guy. You know, ‘Silence of the Lambs.’ One of the greatest actors of our time!”

I couldn’t think of his name. I had a total mind blank.

Our waitress came over. “Is that…?”

She smiled. “Yes it is.”

It took my brain another couple minutes and then I said triumphantly, “Anthony Hopkins!”

Jeff said, “Shh.”

I leaned forward. “Oh my gosh I can’t believe this. He’s amazing. I wonder what he’s doing in Utah of all places?”

Jeff responded, “Currently I’d say he’s trying to eat his breakfast in peace.”

A little while later he said, “You need to stop looking at him. ”

“I can’t. He’s Sir Freaking Anthony Hopkins!”

“You’re making me uncomfortable. I’m sure you’re making him uncomfortable. Stop looking at him.”

“I wanna go over there and ask him if he’s having some fava beans with a nice Chianti.”

Blank stare of incredulity.

“No.”

We eventually got the scoop from our waitress that Sir Hopkins was in town because he was filming the movie, “The World’s Fastest Indian” on the Bonneville Salt Flats.

I said, “Well that’s racist.” But it turned out the “Indian” in question was a motorcycle.

Jeff has had a lot more celebrity encounters than I have, in part because his old job required a lot of traveling. One day, when we still lived in Socal, he texted me.

” I’m at the airport sitting next to Jesse Jackson.”

“Shut up! You are not!”

“I am. Do you think I should sidle up next to him and say, ‘Hey my last name is Jackson too?'”

Hmm. Should you, a white man, tell Jesse Jackson, civil rights activist, that you share the same last name? Probably not. But I replied, “Totally. You totally should.”

He didn’t. I’m pretty sure he was joking.

 This is not a current pic of Jesse Jackson, but it’s awesome, so that’s why I picked it.

I have to say, though, my favorite celebrity encounter story is my mother’s. My mom was born and raised in Southern California. She went to high school with David Ward (Oscar winning screenplay writer of “The Sting.”) and musician Jackson Browne (who taught my aunt to play guitar.) She went to college at USC at the same time as Tom Selleck, George Lucas and OJ Simpson. She’s also a people person, can strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere, at any time. Celebrity status doesn’t phase her.

Back in the 70’s when she was living in Huntington Beach, there was a local club called the “Golden Bear.”

 Note- Hoyt Axton’s name on the marquee. See my previous post http://kbjackson.com/any-man-can-be-a-father-it-takes-someone-special-to-be-a-dad/ to learn more about Hoyt Axton.

My mom was a regular down at the “Golden Bear.” It was a place where you could go hear rising stars and past their prime musicians perform in a cozy atmosphere. The small space lent itself to a feeling of familiarity with the performers. Early in her career, Linda Ronstadt played the “Golden Bear” and my mom went to see her several times.

One night Linda said that she was trying out a new band. At the break, my mother walked up to her and said, “I think you should lose the back-up band.” She went on to tell her that she felt the band was overpowering her, that she loved the acoustic style and that these guys were just too loud. Linda thanked her for her feedback.

She didn’t lose the band. Good call on Linda’s part…

It was “The Eagles.”

 Maybe “Witchy Woman” was written about the lady who tried to get Linda Ronstadt to ditch them at the “Golden Bear.”

One of my favorite parts of going to Las Vegas is the cultural diversity. It seemed as though every other person that we walked past was speaking a foreign language of some sort, or at least an accent from another region.

This was particularly true in the case of our taxi drivers. Some of them attempted light chatter, many didn’t even bother. A gruff, heavily accented “Where you going?” was about all they were willing to give. One, however, stood out above all the rest.  He said his name was Andy, but my guess is that wasn’t his given name.  A native of Albania, Andy said he had come to the United States in 1992, but you wouldn’t be able to tell by his thick accent that he had been here twenty years. He has, though, picked up some combination of New York slang and Hawaiian pidgin. He asked us where we were from and we told him Seattle. He got very excited.

“No! You kiddin’ me brah. I LOVE Seattle. I used to live there but I hate the weather. No lie brah. I love the people. I could live there no more. Best people. The weather? Fuggedaboudit.”

He told us that when he first left Albania, he landed in Brooklyn. He spent a couple years there and then moved to San Diego. After that was Seattle, Alaska ( I go to sleep, it’s dark. I wake up 10 hours later, it’s dark.) and finally, Vegas.

He said, ” I run the 7-11 in Seattle. That Kurt Cobain- great guy. He come in, he say, ‘Andy I got no cash.’ I tell him ‘You beautiful, man. No worries.’ He say, ‘But Andy, I go on tour. Don’t know when I can pay you.’ I say, ‘We all good. I no worry.’ He come in, he buy pack of gum wit a hundred. He tell me ‘keep the change.’ Shaun Kemp, he nice guy too. The best. Man, I love Seattle.”

The skeptic in me did the math. I know Kurt Cobain died in 1994, because I was pregnant with Sydney at the time. If he came in ’92 and spent 2 years in New York, he must have come at the beginning of the year and only stayed in San Diego a very short time. I want to believe the story, but I take it with a giant grain of salt and just smile from the back seat.

Andy drops us off at Caesar’s Palace, the site of our show for that night. We were going to see “Absinthe.” When we mentioned to Jessica, the girl who checked us into our hotel, that we planned to see the show, she looked a little nervous.

“So, do you know anything about the show?” She asked.

Jeff told her that he had seen it recently on his last guys trip and she said, “Oh, ok good. I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were getting into.”

Jeff was still concerned. He had thought the show was funny, but he also knows that I’m a bit of a prude. The best way to describe this show is, well, it’s what you would get if Cirque Du Soleil and Steve Buscemi had a baby: A little freaky, some crazy acrobatics, and a weird host who likes to harass and humiliate audience members. Jeff had made sure not to get front row seats in what he referred to as “the heckle zone.” We watched people getting seated up there, and every time I cringed as I imagined what about them he might use against them. Jeff tried plying me with the house drink specialty in hopes of loosening me up. A group of four, two couples, came in and sat down next to me. I didn’t look at them too closely, other than that the girls were tiny and pretty, and the guy who sat next to me was about 6’5 and 200 pounds of pure muscle.

Jeff leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Parker would be so excited.”

I said, “About what?”

He said, “That Shaggy and Fred are here,” and nodded towards the two couples.

I looked at Mr. Muscles next to me and couldn’t figure out what he meant until I glanced further down the aisle to see the other guy in the group. I almost choked on my drink. He was leaning forward animatedly (no pun intended) talking to the two girls. He had reddish brown hair in a style I would call “Prince Valiant” and he had a reddish-brown goatee. It was Shaggy. I got the giggles, and I couldn’t stop.

When the show began I was a little nervous. Jeff had made so many disclaimers that I was expecting to be horrified. In reality, it wasn’t so bad. It was a little crude, but mostly it was just amazing feats of human strength and grace that left even Mr. Muscles in awe. The host, called The Gazillionaire, seemed a little off his game, and I suspect it had something to do with the woman in the front row. I don’t know if she was drunk, disabled or just suffering from a severe case of narcolepsy, but I couldn’t help myself from looking at her throughout. Her husband seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the show and laughed heartily when the Gazillionaire dubbed them “The Republicans.” He claimed they had purchased the two empty seats on either side of them to distance themselves from the rest of the undesirables in the audience. The woman could barely hold her head up. Every once in a while she would look up, start laughing and clap her hands. The Gazillionaire made a few attempts to razz her, but finally dismissed her with a wave of his hand, saying, “Aww, never mind. Just go back to sleep.” It was odd.

So, in actuality, the show was much tamer than the hype. I think both Jeff and I were relieved. But mostly Jeff.

After the show I talked him into going into Max Brenner’s. This is my kind of place; where the meal is just a speed bump on the way to the dessert, and they are specifically famous for their chocolate desserts. When I was in New York a couple of years ago, my mom and I had eaten lunch at the Max Brenner’s in downtown Manhattan. As we made our way out, I noticed the most amazing-looking dessert pizza I had ever seen. About a month or so later, Max Brenner’s dessert pizza was featured on the Food Network show “The Best Thing I Ever Ate.” I’ve been craving it ever since.

Jeff was not impressed.

“Can’t you get this same thing from Papa Murphy’s for $3.00?”

“It’s not the same,” I insisted. “It can’t be. It’s famous.”

We looked through the dessert menu and told the waitress that we wanted  half of a dessert pizza with the works, and we’d try the sugar waffles banana split also. The dessert pizza was ok. We shouldn’t have ordered “the works.” It was covered in melted chocolate chunks, bananas, hazelnuts, peanut butter sauce, and toasted mini marshmallows. One bite was great. The rest was just too much.

But the sugar waffles- GOOD LORD! Sweet waffles with vanilla ice cream, brulee’d bananas, caramel sauce, a vial of warm chocolate sauce to drizzle, candied rice krispies and chocolate pearls to sprinkle over the top. It was the single best dessert I’ve ever eaten. I felt so sick afterwards. But it was totally worth it.

The next morning at breakfast I noticed a stamp on Jeff’s hand. I couldn’t quite read what it said, as it had smeared.

“What’s that from?”

“What happens in Vegas…”

“We’re still IN Vegas. Where did you get that? I don’t have one.”

He laughed.

“Seriously. You’ve had insomnia the past couple nights. Did you go out while I was asleep?”

He laughed again. “I’ve gotta have some secrets.”

I looked closer. I squinted. Absinthe.

“Hmm. They didn’t stamp my hand.”

His eyes twinkled. “Mystery solved.”

Maybe.

While Jeff did some work, I figured that was a good time to do my souvenir shopping for the kids. It’s pretty difficult to find appropriate souvenirs for children in Las Vegas. I texted Sydney.

“You’re hard to souvenir shop for.”

She texted back, “That’s because I wouldn’t use anything that has ANYTHING to do with Las Vegas.”

We finally compromised on copper earrings in the shape of wolves.

I texted my mother.

“What do Zoe and Nathan want for souvenirs?”

“What do they have?”

“Everything.”

After some back and forth about what types of things I had seen, I texted her again.

“Tell Zoe they have ‘Big Bang Theory’ bobbleheads.

She responded:

Sigh. Nathan. My own personal parental guidance system.

I walked back to the hotel with my bags of random souvenirs. The Strip is lined with people in costumes who get paid in tips for getting their picture taken. God help the person who tries to get a shot without paying.

I passed the Elmo. I heard him say to the guy right behind me, “Wazzup, pimp?”

Further down was the Michael Jackson impersonator with a boom box playing, “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” while Mario and Luigi tapped their giant feet next to him.

I’d have to say out of all of them (including creepy dirty SpongeBob, Alan from “The Hangover” and a very unfit Ironman) the one that really caught my eye was the guy from KISS. I texted Jeff.

“On my way back. I’ve now seen it all. Gene Simmons on a Rascal.”

He texted back, “It’s prob the real Gene Simmons.”

Saturday Night’s show was “Wayne Brady.” He was performing that weekend only at the Mirage, which also happened to be the location of the buffet Jeff had pre-purchased for half-off on Travelzoo. The buffet itself was fine. It was a buffet. What we hadn’t anticipated was that it would be dinner and a show, courtesy of the highly inebriated twenty-something Canadians at the tables next to us. There’s nothing quite like the condescending life-coaching/insults of a drunk know-it-all.

We got done with dinner at about 830 and our show wasn’t until 10.

Jeff said, “What are we going to do for the next hour?”

I said, “I don’t know about you, but Superman’s calling my name.”

“Superman already called your name. It turns out he was just asking for money.”

He wasn’t lying.  I had been lured in a couple nights before by the Superman slot machine. I was a huge Superman fan as a kid. I had a Superman doll that came in and stole Barbie’s heart away from Ken. I listened over and over to the Superman II soundtrack record, and even chose one of the songs for an ice skating routine. Me personally, I wanted to be Wonder Woman, not Lois Lane. I found Lois annoying, with her smoker’s voice and habit of playing damsel in distress, mostly in problems she’d created for herself. But I digress.

So, I had been drawn to the Superman game. It didn’t matter that I was losing 50 cents each time I pushed the button. I was enjoying every minute of it- the music, the movie clips, and my favorite, the bonus game for losing. It would say, “You’re not a winner, but Superman saves the day!” at which point Superman (Christopher Reeves) would fly across the screen,

wink and smile at me, and then start flying around the earth to reverse its rotation. This caused a reversal of fortune as well, resulting in an exciting $3.75 win.

We discussed the odds of various casino games and finally settled on spending a few minutes at the roulette table. Jeff handed me $40 and I tentatively sidled up to the table. He left to go to the bathroom. I got my chips  and put my $10 minimum bet on three numbers- 25 (my birthday), 4 and 6. I had to reach all the way across the table to put the last two down, and the dealer offered to do it for me going forward.  He spun the wheel, dropped the ball and it landed on 25. I had won! I had only put $4 down on it, so I was surprised to see the giant stack of chips the dealer pushed my way.

I said, “Wait. What did I win?”

The woman next to me laughed. “Oh darlin’, don’t you know? You put 4 chips down on the winning number. Each chip won at 35-1.”

Jeff said later that he left a timid woman with a few chips and when he came back I had a giant stack of chips in front of me, was cracking jokes and ordering the dealer around like I owned the place. He’s exaggerating. A little.

Soon it was time to head to the show. We got seated and Jeff kept chuckling as we waited for it to start. I asked him what was so funny and he gestured towards a woman a couple rows in front of us. She was scrolling through the pictures on her camera.

“What is she looking at?”

“Herself. Really bad pictures of herself.”

I watched her for a while, and she took about 10 selfies. After each one, she’d look at the screen. Jeff would groan and laugh every time he saw what she had taken. I didn’t have a clear view, but judging by his reaction, none of them were turning out well. I considered offering to take a picture for her.

As for the actual show we had gone to see, we hadn’t realized that instead of stand up comedy, Wayne Brady does an improv comedy show in the style of “Whose Line is it Anyway?” It was very entertaining, he was smart and quick on his feet and hilarious. He was also very adept at putting the drunk woman heckling him throughout the show in her place.

“You WISH you were Rod Stewart!” She yelled from the back row.

Really. Wayne Brady wishes he was Rod Stewart. What kind of insult is that? But she got much worse. Let’s just say that even if my kids didn’t read my blog, which they do, I wouldn’t print what she said. I felt sorry for the people she was with. Oh, and happy birthday Wayne.

Sunday morning we packed our stuff, stowed our bags with the bellman and headed for the pool for our last few hours before it was time to leave for the airport. It was forecast to reach 106 degrees. It was noon and already scorching hot.

We made it about 10 minutes laying out before we had to get into the water. I took my kindle and posted up on an edge, shoulder deep. I’ve been reading a fantastic book about the father of Alexandre Dumas, the author of “The Count of Monte Cristo” and “The Three Musketeers.” The book is called “The Black Count: Glory, Revolution, Betrayal and the Real Count of Monte Cristo” and is set in both France and the former Saint Domingue ( now Haiti) during the time of the French Revolution.

I was so immersed in the book that it took me a minute to realize the man standing next to me was speaking French.

I wanted to tell him what I was reading. I wanted to know if he knew his country’s legacy of slavery, of revolution, of race relations and of those who fought to make things right. Instead I just smiled to myself and enjoyed the ambiance of reading a book about French history while people spoke French around me. It was meant to be.

I know a lot of people don’t like Las Vegas. It is, after all, sin city. But it’s also a place where people come together from all over the world to see musicals and concerts, to see inspiring works of art and architecture, to eat food prepared by the most creative chefs in the world. I think your Vegas experience is whatever you want it to be. And ours was fabulous.

I’m a history buff. I’m not the fact-spewing, expert on the “Battle of the Bulge” kind of history buff. I love the stories behind the stories. Those stories that reveal the humanity of our revered heroes and reviled villains. I’m drawn by the ability to connect with the times, the people, to imagine what it really was like. I have been on a somewhat tumultuous journey this past year to discover the truth about the history I was taught, the reality of the history I wasn’t, to give context to what was, to get a more complete picture of where we have come from. It’s the best way to understand how we got to where we are.

Last year at this same time, Jeff and I took another trip to Vegas. At drinks one night we mentioned to our friend Joey, who has spent a lot of time in the area living and/or working, that we wanted to go out for a great steak dinner. He said, “I’ve got the place, but you gotta trust me.” As we left the bright lights of the strip behind and headed towards an older part of town, I must admit I was a little concerned. That concern grew when he pulled up in front of what was basically a strip mall right on Sahara Avenue. Joey continued to reassure us as we hesitantly walked into the dark restaurant. The woman who greeted us asked if we were there for dinner and I said, “We haven’t decided yet.”

She smiled and said, “Best steak in town. You won’t regret it.”

We said our goodbyes to Joey as the woman led us to our table. What we didn’t know at the time was that Joey was secretly arranging to pay our bill as an anniversary gift. Our hostess motioned towards our booth and said, “Here we go, this is Sammy’s booth. But would you like me to give you a tour before I seat you?”

I asked her what she meant and she began to tell us the fascinating history of the Golden Steer.

Back in the late fifties, when the restaurant first opened, Las Vegas was one of the more segregated cities in the west. Sammy Davis Jr. was performing nightly, headlining at the Frontier Casino, but was not allowed to stay at any of the hotels or eat in any of the fine restaurants on the strip. He was good enough to perform for them, but not acceptable to dine with them. He, along with other African American performers, were relegated to the off-strip boarding houses and restaurants. It just so happened that the Golden Steer was conveniently located near where Sammy stayed, and welcomed him. It soon became one of his favorite hangouts. He eventually introduced his Rat Pack buddies (Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Joey Bishop) to the Steer and they also became regulars. With Frank came some of his “associates.” To this day you can still rent the back room where some of the most significant mafia meetings in Las Vegas took place. The room had a secret exit, but it has since been closed off due to drunken bachelor/bachelorette parties getting out of hand. As I stared at the long table, I couldn’t help but wonder whose murders were planned there, how much cash was counted, what nefarious plots were plotted.

Muhammad Ali celebrated his birthday here not too long ago. And OJ made the Golden Steer his final meal before entering prison. You won’t find that kind of helpful information on Yelp.

After a tour of the various booths (“That’s Marilyn’s booth. After she and Joe DiMaggio split, he would sit in the booth across from her while she tormented him with the amorous encounters of her latest suitor.”) we were seated back in Sammy’s booth. Even though thousands of other rear ends have planted themselves on the original leather that still covers the seats, there’s just something special about knowing that a true legend once sat there. We soon realized that, not only was the food amazing, the staff was also part of the living history of the restaurant. Many have been there for 30-40 years. The bartender once wooed Sinatra’s girl right out from under him back in the 70’s. Walking through that door feels like going through a time warp back into another era.

This year, when trying to decide where to go for our anniversary dinner, it was an easy choice. As we told the hotel bell-hop who flagged our taxi where we were going, he gave us an approving nod and said, “Now THAT’S the place to go!”

The same hostess from our previous visit greeted us and led us to our booth. I longingly passed Sammy’s and Dean’s, Frank’s and Marilyn’s. I imagined what this place was like back then. I could still see them.

 Marilyn and Joe having dinner at the Golden Steer

We scooted in and Jeff asked her, “Whose booth is this?”

She replied, “This is Mr. Baxter’s booth,”

Didn’t ring a bell. I’m a huge fan of old movies and music, and I racked my brain but couldn’t think of anyone named Baxter.

She saw our confusion and said, “Mr. Baxter began coming here 55 years ago, when he was a teenager. He courted here, proposed to his girlfriend here, and they were married here. They are still married to this day. He’s spent a lot of time and money here, so we gave him his own booth. ”

Although mildly disappointed that we weren’t at Elvis’ booth (apparently a favorite of Motley Crue when they are in town)it was kind of cool that we were celebrating our anniversary  in the booth of this long-married couple.

A short time later our hostess came by again and said, “It’s Mr. Baxter.”

Jeff, thinking she had forgotten that she had told us that, said, “Yes. Mr. Baxter’s booth.”

She replied, “No. Over there. That’s Mr. Baxter and his wife. It’s his booth that you’re sitting in.”

Suddenly sitting there felt very wrong. “Doesn’t Mr. Baxter want to sit in his own booth? Should we move?” I asked.

She said, “No, he’s perfectly fine back there in DiMaggio’s booth.”

This had changed the whole dynamic of our meal. We couldn’t stop sneaking glances at the infamous Mr. Baxter. Was he annoyed we were in his booth? There was an instant need to rise to the occasion of being in Mr. Baxter’s booth in front of Mr. Baxter. I found myself laughing a little louder. Look Mr. Baxter, we are enjoying your booth. I am sitting with my best posture. I am using my best manners. We are worthy to sit in your booth.

Jeff whispered, “Mr. Baxter looks a little like Jack Nicholson.” He did.

Jeff whispered again, “Mr. Baxter has a flip phone. Like old-school Nokia flip phone. ”

Me, whispering back, “Like 90’s?”

Jeff, “No, not that old. But old. And sturdy.” Like Mr. Baxter. Maybe Mr. Baxter was able to eat here all the time because he was so frugal with his phone.

After dinner we waited for our cab in the bar, which is also the entry to the restaurant. One of the people at the bar was a woman who worked there, but had come in on her day off, just to hang out. After Mr. and Mrs. Baxter left, the woman said to the bartender, “You should let Mrs. Baxter fix you up. Then the six of us can go out.”

The bartender replied, “She’d fix me up all right. With the devil.”

How do you not love a place like this?

Coming soon- Three Musketeers, Superman, Kurt Cobain and Wayne Brady is No Joke (Vegas part 3)

People love the phrase “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” It leaves so much to the imagination. It implies that you might possibly have done something completely out of character…shhh. We must not ever speak of it. I’m sure sometimes that’s true, but my guess is that phrase pertains mostly to the clothing people choose to wear while on vacation there. Glitter and sequins in the daytime. Paisley or loud tropical scenes. Dresses whose hemlines may or may not cover the entire rear-end. Women of all ages and sizes stuffing themselves into what looks more like a tube top than a dress, and always 3 sizes too small. Mesh shirts with nothing underneath, revealing large breasts. On men.

Our time in Vegas this past week was a lot of fun, but we certainly didn’t do anything that left us unable to look ourselves in the mirror in the morning. Or, as you can see, blog about it once back home.

Our first night in town we decided to walk the strip and search out the discount ticket booth to see some shows while we were there. When what to our wondering  eyes should appear?

Ross Vegas. A Ross discount clothing store, emblazoned in neon, right on the strip. You’d be surprised at how many people are jammed into Ross at 1030 on a weeknight in Vegas. As I flipped through the dress racks I looked around me at my fellow late-night bargain hunters. I started seriously questioning my judgment when I realized I was flanked on one side by a 70 year old woman in a silver sequined tank top and rainbow feathers in her hair, and on the other by a 20 (?) year old in 6 inch heels and a dress with less fabric than my bathing suit.

The next morning we did a little work and then headed down for breakfast. I’m still trying to figure out how an order of French toast, an omelet, a side of bacon, some coffee  and orange juice for two people came to $65- not including tip. Of course, the bacon alone was $6, and since there were 5 slices, that comes to more than one dollar each. So, I suppose that’s not unreasonable. O_O           At the buffet, it’s all the bacon  (and other stuff, too) you can eat for $18. Something isn’t right with that math.

Jeff left the restaurant ahead of me. They were in the middle of remodeling, so I had to follow some signs to the temporary exit. I came to a dead end. I backed up a few feet, looked at the sign again and tried another route. Once again, I found myself at a dead end.  I could see where I needed to get to, but I was surrounded by frosted glass walls at every turn. I felt like a rat in a very beautiful maze. Helplessly, I stood there for a minute, contemplating my next move. Jeff texted me asking where I was. I texted back, “I’m lost. I can’t find the way out.” A family came behind me and I said, distressed, “It says this is the exit, but there’s no way out.” The woman walked towards one of the glass walls and asks, “Did you push on this door?” I stared as she pushed the wall open. I mumbled, “There’s no handle. It doesn’t look like a door.” In truth, this was the second time that morning I had been stymied by a frosted glass door; I had a momentary panic earlier as I found myself unable to figure out how to exit the bathroom in our hotel room. In my defense, it was pre-coffee, and frosted glass can just be confusing.

As we made our way through the hotel, we came to discover that many people were in town for the Gem show. Jeff felt pretty confident that he could spot the gemologists that were in town for the event. But soon I began to notice that  most of the time when he said under his breath “gem show,” a gaggle of attractive women were passing by. Throughout the next couple of days this became code for pretty girls. Sometimes, perhaps out of guilt or some sense of fairness, he would occasionally throw in a “gem show” after a man walked by. Eventually I said, “Clearly you and I have different ideas of ‘Gem Show’ men. You say ‘Gem Show’ but all I see are Abercrombie model- wannabe d-bags.” The next night, as we entered one of the shows we attended, the tall, very dark and handsome man at the door took our tickets. I said, “Gem Show.” That was the last time he uttered the phrase on our trip. (* editor’s note- Jeff disputes this retelling of events. If you would like to hear his version, you will have to ask him.)

The other groups we noticed a lot of were the bachelor and bachelorette parties. These were easy to spot: The bachelorette parties all wore matching pink t-shirts, one of whom was wearing a sash and/ or tiara. Usually both. The bachelor parties were either wearing matching tuxedo t-shirts, or were discussing the idea of buying matching t-shirts, usually ones that said, “wolfpack.” We passed by four different groups of guys saying something along the lines of, “You know what we should do? We should all get wolfpack t-shirts!” Genius.

We spent most of our days relaxing poolside, reading, writing, and drinking something called “The Miami Vice.” A combination of pina colada and strawberry daiquiri, a “Miami Vice” tastes like Sonny, but makes you feel like Tubbs, so we limited ourselves to just one per day. I should say, It’s not that we didn’t miss our kids, but we definitely enjoyed the time away.

Our second night in town, we went to see a Motown tribute group called “Human Nature.” Last year when we were in Vegas and deciding which shows to see, Jeff tried to get me to see this show. My answer was the same last year as it was this year when he brought it up- “But…they’re white. And Australian.” In my mind, I imagined “the Wiggles” singing Motown. It felt sacrilegious. It was just wrong. Jeff said, “It’s like the highest rated show in Vegas.” In a town where ventriloquists, creepy magicians and Donnie and Marie thrive, this was not a glowing recommendation as far as I was concerned.

He said, “Look at this. May 30th only- special event. Some actual people from Motown will be there.”

Now THIS peaked my interest. If REAL Motown people were willing to sit through this show, then so would I. And boy, was I glad I did. Besides being adorable, those white boys can dance and sing like nobody’s business. The accents didn’t hurt either. And instead of just being a Motown cover band, they were clearly passionate about the music.They had been performing Motown and their own Motown- inspired music for 23 years since three of them were in high school and one was 12 back in Sydney. Australia.

Even if it had just been them that night, standing less than 5 feet in front of me singing and dancing their… hearts out, it would have been worthwhile. But having a member of the original Four Tops, Duke Fakir, sitting right behind me, and then Mary Wilson of the Supremes coming up on stage and singing so close that I could almost reach out and touch her, sent me over the moon. And it didn’t even bother me that the drunk Australians next to me kept singing along loudly out of tune. After the show, we walked out shoulder to shoulder with Duke, and I was able to get my picture with him. I am only mildly ashamed of the fact that I used my cleavage to talk him into taking the pic after he had said the picture before me was the last one.

I sent the picture to Zoe, as the “Four Tops” song “I Can’t Help Myself” (otherwise known as “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch”) was on her baby video, and a very special song to her. She, in turn, texted it to all her friends with the caption, “Look- my mom with an old man.”

( I made it black and white. It somehow seemed appropriate.)

Tune in tomorrow for part two of our Vegas adventures- ” Mr. Baxter I presume?”