Vegas, Baby

When the Hot Urologist and I were offered tickets to the Eagles concert at The Sphere in Las Vegas, we didn’t ask questions. We hopped a flight. As Delta would have had us double back from Nashville to Atlanta, we opted for a direct route via Southwest. The Greyhound of the skies can always be counted upon for intrigue. As we waited to board the flying cattle car, I enjoyed the conversation of a gentleman in queue behind us who was excited to see Circa de Olay. “You know the one where they dip them in water and shit.” I was not aware that the Vegas bar had dipped so low as to include public excrement, but it has been a long time since I have been there.

In addition to Circa de Olay, the gentleman had plans to celebrate this, his 40th birthday, with “getting all out shitcanned.” Getting shitcanned was not part of our itinerary. Aside from the concert, the Hot Urologist focused our schedule on food. Not the playing of games for money. Not shoe shopping. Not Circa de Olay.

Food.

I was more interested in fancy strippers. Our first evening in town was a compromise of sushi followed by a burlesque show. The Hot Uro, a true connoisseur of multi-cultural cuisine, was determined to squire me to an authentic Omakase experience for the enjoyment of the fare and to watch me squirm. We left the confines of the strip in an Uber and made our way to an establishment somewhere near a bail bonds shack and a diabetic candy store. I wouldn’t say the area felt safe, but he assured me the sushi was authentic.

In an Omakase experience, you eat what is given to you. Any deviation is seen as the height of rudeness. For an uncouth American such as myself, sushi consists of the basic white girl spicy tuna roll. What I normally ingest as “sushi” is a complete bastardization of this elegant Japanese culinary trade. Eyes watering, I did my best to swallow items from the sea for which I had no reference. Two hours later, after 200 tiny fish filets had been brought forth, the meal mercifully ended. Just in time for us to make it to the highbrow nudie show.

For years I had dreamed of seeing world famous glamazon Dita Von Teese in all her burlesque glory and I forked over a heap to get the best seats in the joint. The venue inside The Venetian hotel was a fabulous throwback to Rat Pack days of elegant black-tie evenings in sultry smoke-filled lounges. Alas, my 1960’s dream was marred by the 2025 reality of men in dirty Nikes and middle-aged women in shants.

Ms. Von Teese was indeed a goddess with a pinup bod and ruby red lipstick. Her mastery of seamlessly shedding costumes worthy of Liberace was impressive. The costume changes must require a good deal of time cover and thus an entourage of backup performers were sent on stage in the interim. Tragically, the original backup cast had been replaced with patrons from the doughnut shop next door.

Of the many emotions I expected to experience during the show, I had not anticipated fear. During a Dita-free interlude, a lady decorated in pasties and a feather bustle wiggled her way to the back of the stage where stood a singular bedazzled carousel horse. My stomach tightened as I foresaw her plan to hoist herself atop the glittery steed. It was a race against the music and a lack of upper body strength. With each attempt she appeared further from her goal. I panicked that ultimate failure might leave this dear lady nursing a broken hip in a heap of feathers. With a last great effort she managed to heave one leg over the glittering horse. It landed with a flop. The ascent was neither stimulating nor athletic but I was greatly relieved as she jiggled in triumph.

I had hoped for a more aspirational visual if I am honest. Glitz encrusted costumery dropped to reveal rock hard abs and orb like bosoms that would make me contemplate surgical procedures instead of dough and dry wall. If the pre-requisites to stripping as a career no longer include starvation and athletic prowess, I would like to be informed. I could be interested in dropping trou for money if I can still eat burgers in the process.

But the burlesque show was merely a digression along the great food tour to come. I treated the Hot Urologist to an evening at Joël Robuchon. I had been told that this epic meal ended with a dreamy dessert cart and that a junkie like me could go hog wild on sugar. I planned to request that my meal begin in reverse, but the Hot Uro put his foot down. We were treated to 400 courses of fancy food items. Pearls made of cauliflower; a petite pumpkin filled with soup. Caviar. Fish. Scallops. So much wasted time before they finally delivered the cart. Disastrously, I was too full of snooty chow to partake. Michelin starred chefs of the world take heed: ambiance, bread cart, dessert. No one is interested in shrimp foam.

The Hot Urologist was forced to consume all the food I did not at Robuland. Which he did gladly, accompanied by the most extensive wine pairing I have seen. As we rarely imbibe, I feared he might pass out. He finished off his smorgasbord with two chocolate lollipops and a coffee. I demanded that my uneaten dessert cart selections be wrapped to go. Miraculously still ambulatory, he made it back to the hotel suite and promptly fell into a coma leaving me to watch reruns of Southpark alone.

The next day, as an adventure, he thought it would be kitschy to hit the Bacchanal buffet at Caesar’s Palace. How it was possible for him to contemplate putting another morsel of food in his mouth after the previous evening’s gluttony was beyond me. I am no killer of dreams, but I have made an appointment with a gastroenterologist to ferret out the parasite.

Our fellow bacchanal diners blew through plate after plate at speed as there is a time limit on debauchery; my plate of sadness consisted of some fruit, a small yogurt, one cracker, and then because of the dessert fiasco the night before, 3 bowls of gelato. The Hot Urologist ingested 4 plates which he termed the following: The Seafood Tasting, A Tour of Asia, The Mexican Palette Cleanser, and The Meats. He wasted no time with dessert, though he did waste an hour of my shopping time communing with the toilet.

The rest of our stay in Vegas was punctuated by cannolis, fried chicken sandwiches, and myriad odd sightings.

I witnessed two human people riding their luggage. Just two young, attractive, physically fit people who decided that the best mode of transport through a casino was motorized mini luggage. The Gucci clad duo rolled along the carpeted pathway at kneecap height before veering right into slot machine land to try and win back their self-respect.

Both the old and young abounded atop motorized scooters. There were scoots for the infirmed, scoots for the obese, scoots for the lazy, and scoots for the none-too-convincing sunburned Elvis. The best show on the strip will be the moment Elvis’s cigarette makes contact with his oxygen tank.

We clocked almost 20,000 steps per day migrating between food destinations and attractions. For this I was rewarded, not with fancy new footwear, but with more food. I would say that I have had enough of Las Vegas to last me several decades. Yet I I have just been informed the American Urological Association will hold its annual meeting at the Venetian in April. Thus, Vegas round two is fast approaching.

I hope we can resolve the parasitic situation before then and establish some new ground rules. I respectfully request that 75% of the food budget be re-directed towards shoes and I will not return to commune with Joël unless he is willing to run that menu in reverse.