Zeitgeist Las Vegas, 2

Part Two: Travelogue

First, the bad news. The fantastic bagel place in Victorville is no more. There’s a tattoo parlor there now. This is also a metaphor, one to be ignored for all eternity.

The Mad Greek in Baker, home of The World’s Tallest Thermometer, was, I believe, the model for Callahan’s Bar, the Inn at the End of the World, and every other mythic stopping-place in print. On the way out, it was a bickering elderly couple (Welsh husband and Irish wife) in line next to a patient and multiply pierced tall youth. On the return, it was a tableful of louts who were as annoying in the parking lot as they were inside.

First stop in Vegas, by tradition, is Payard in Caesars Palace (no apostrophe, thank you Max.) We were enjoying pastries at a table by the fountain, when a gracious English lady started taking pictures nearby. I offered to take one of her, and just as I was clicking the button (a real camera, not digital) some asshole stopped and put up two hairy fingers behind her gray head. Of course I took a second shot. When she develops the film, she’ll have a story.

When we got to THEHotel™, we were checked in by Rosie, a very nice woman we’d never met before. We had a conversation about home-made bread. Rosie’s daughter is a lifelong vegetarian, who happens to eat chicken. I can’t say much, I eat fish, which isn’t a vegetable either. (If you wonder how I get into these conversations, read the post “It Takes All Kinds”. It’s what I do.)

The montage of characters: A kindly man who paints the retaining wall outside of Caesars every couple of weeks. The scruffy and dreadlocked hipsters who for some reason always represent near the fanciest designer stores in the Forum Shops. Tony, the motorcycle-riding Italian by way of New Jersey waiter, an anachronism who belongs more in Bugsy’s Vegas than the current Dubai outlet. A hostess so snotty we walked out of the restaurant without eating rather than deal with her a moment longer. The cowboys. My dears, there were cowboys galore. ‘Twas the 50th anniversary of the Rodeo, and they were everywhere.

(By the way, the cowgirl word for toilet, is “terlet”. I tell you this as a favor, in case you ever need to ask for directions in their territory.)

In the cowboy marketplace, there was a very long line of people waiting for an autograph from a man in full regalia. Turns out he was Fred Whitfield! Okay, I didn’t have a clue either. You can find out for yourself at www.fredwhitfield.com. The best part was when we were leaving. A Norman Rockwell circa 1995 – esque family was just coming in the door, and Opie (soon echoed by both Dad and Grandpa) exclaimed in awe, “Look! Over there! It’s Fred!” Oh, just so you know, it is apparently pronounced “Fray-ud.”