Gotta Have A Montage

Just a few notes:

We drove north to Las Vegas against the steady traffic of Thanksgiving weekenders coming south. With only two lanes going in each direction, and in the slow lane no less, a bratty little pick-up kept high-beaming a big rig -- as if there was anything the big rig could do to get out of its way.

Just fyi, “falling down drunk” is not a euphemism. I done seen it happen, in the middle of the afternoon. Sic.

Decades ago, when Robert had temporarily grown his hair long, a salesman once came up behind us and called us both “Ladies”. Parity was achieved by a saleswoman in the Palazzo who came up behind us and called us both “Gentlemen”. I thought my shoes were cuter than that, but okay.

Two big burly cowboys (the National Rodeo Finals were in town) stood a ways away from a bored Little Person in full Elvis regalia, complete with cape and shades. One cowboy said to the other, “Go on, take his picture. What’re you afraid of? Think he’s gonna knock you down and steal your camera?” Real couth, guys.

And if you’re keeping score, the bride count this trip was six.

Lest we forget, the Ladies’ Room Chronicles:

The drunk guy mistook the Ladies’ room for the Men’s room. Fine. But he didn’t have to get mad at me. I was just washing my hands.

“Hello. Hello? Hello!” came out of a stall down the row. I assumed the woman was on a cell phone, but she kept saying hello. “Hello? Hello!” Just as I was about to respond, she switched to profanity, in complete sentences. I left silently.

Another woman began her phone conversation in the next stall before she even sat down. Then I heard, “No, don’t. I mean it, do not do this. No! I said no! Oh… Hi sweetie. Mommy will be home soon.”