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Las Vegas - Part 3
Written by: Dominick A. Miserandino
Photography by: Margherita Miserandino
Elvis-arama, Bellagio Hotel, Camelot Steak House, Lance Burton and Crazy Girls
Day 3
Today the first stop we hit was Elvis-A-Rama. Elvis-A-Rama is the celebration of all things Elvis and, Elvis in Las Vegas. Deeper than that, it is the largest personal collection of Elvis memorabilia I have ever seen. The owner collected Elvis paraphernalia throughout his lifetime, and now has this large building to house it all. The "official" bus picked us up at the doors of the "Viva Las Vegas Villas," and we headed in for a quick 30-minute tour. And to complete my "largest collection theory," while we were leaving, one customer was trying to get the museum to buy his Elvis comb, hairbrush, or something along those lines.
Anyway, after Elvis-A-Rama, we had the van drop us off at the Bellagio to see the lower half of hotels. The Bellagio is one of the biggest and prettiest hotels we ever saw. It was there that we grabbed lunch at the buffet, which was good, but still left us yearning for the Aladdin buffet.
We did, however, find the Bellagio Fine Arts Gallery, which was featuring an exhibit on Andy Warhol. This was fabulous! Narrated by Liza Minnelli, it explained Andy’s work and gave you the chance to appreciate it for what it was instead of just thinking it was soup cans. It went over Andy’s life from birth to death and also showcased his pieces in a chronological manner, which seemed to mirror his life. There is the tragic event in his life, and there is the picture. There is the time he hung out at Studio 54 and met Mick Jagger, and there is the portrait. Simply amazing.
The strip is made for walking, and that is just what we did. One of these days these boots are going to walk all along the strip. Sorry to paraphrase Nancy Sinatra, but it seemed to fit. From the Bellagio, we decided to walk south until we got exhausted. Between the hotels, the people watching...there is quite a lot to see on the strip.
Regarding people watching, beware of the small Mexican men with pamphlets. They smack the pamphlet in their hand, making the most startling sound, and then stick a little card in your face advertising a girl who will "dance in your room" for a set price. I’m quite happy with the way Margherita dances, so I avoided the opportunity presented to me.
Our next stop was the hotel, New York, New York. We signed up for their gambling card and got a free hat. We didn’t even need to gamble and already we got a hat. It was like winning at gambling just for saying our name.
My grandmother called and wanted me to throw in $1.25—"5 quarters, no more"—just for her. We did it, won $2.50, and walked out. Since it wasn’t me gambling, I still stuck with my "so much to do besides gambling" theory.
Anyway, we got exhausted by the time we reached the Excalibur, which was rather good timing. The Excalibur has the Camelot Steak House in an atmosphere as posh as any New York restaurant, which is certainly not what you’d expect for a hotel resembling a castle. To follow the steak house theme, I had lobster bisque and a lobster dinner. I know, it sounds odd to have this in a restaurant that is proud of their steaks, but the maitre'd seemed so into it, it just seemed to be the thing to do.
It was here that I learned the intricate nuances of flaming soup. The lobster bisque they make here has a bit of cognac in it. To eliminate the alcohol, but keep the taste, they light the darn thing aflame. With a flick of the wrist and a twist of the match, my soup looked a bit like lava flowing from Mount Etna. I took a spoonful of the flaming soup and burned the roof of my mouth, but hey, it was good soup. Only kidding, I waited until the flames went out, but I just wanted to keep you in check and make sure you weren’t getting lost. Margherita wanted me to report how her steak was as incredible as was my lobster. I was still obsessed about the flaming bisque, however, so that only got added in the editing phase.
After dinner, though, is when the adventure really began. We had not one, not two, but three shows planned this night. It was theatrical masochism to the hilt. Nathan Lane, himself, would have considered it artistic suicide. Margherita, on the other hand, loves shows, and our friends, Anthony and Maria, were in town, so it was a good way to kill two birds with one stone.
We met Anthony and Maria at the Lance Burton show, at the Mirage and made the show with barely seconds to spare. To see a magic show on television is one story. It’s two-dimensional, and your brain is constantly trying to convince you that the only reason you can’t see the tricks is because you’re not sitting in the right seat.
Not so with Lance Burton. It was the first magic show I watched and resigned myself to failure. I watched the show knowing that I was clearly seeing myself get duped. Clearly watching the trick, but I still resigned myself to the fact that although I could see the trick, there was simply no way to figure it out.
Maria was quite impressed by Lance’s interaction with children; but then again, she’s pregnant, and that’s just the way her mind thinks now. This started a new debate with Margherita about children and whether our second book should be, "How to Survive Your First Year of Children by Traveling."
This conversation was going to go downhill quickly, but fortunately Anthony saved me by doing his best "Lance Burton" imitation. Lance’s voice seems a cross between Jack Nicholson in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest," Barry White, and Louis Armstrong. Yes, Lance is Caucasian, and two of the men I mentioned were African-American, but Lance’s voice does sound like a cross between the two men I mentioned. It’s so unique of a voice, and he has such a personable attitude, it makes for a unique presentation.
But the good news was coming. The baby talk was going to drift away. After Lance, we were grabbing a cab to see Crazy Girls, the longest running topless revue.
"What’s Crazy Girls about?" Margherita said with Maria next to her. She knew fully well what the show was about, but now having two females there, she seemed to feel more empowered to mock my desires to see the show.
I took a deep breath in and stood in a dramatic pose. "They’re girls...they’re naked." I paused for an even more dramatic presentation. "I simply love the premise of the show."
Anthony then chimed in, mimicking Al Bundy. "Do they really need to dance and sing? Can’t they just stand there and be naked? Why ruin a good thing?"
We got to the show, and the guys sat together on one side of the table, while the girls sat on their side. At the time, it seemed the thing to do; but then again, enjoying such a thing with another male by my side seemed to be a self-defeating prophecy.
Anyway, the show starts, "Crazy, Crazy, Crazy Girls, we are the Crazy Girls." There wasn’t a plot beyond the fact that the girls were excessively attractive and dancing. It even made it more disappointing to note that Margherita and Maria were enjoying the show. I mean, how raunchy and devious could a show be if my wife was OK with it?
Crazy Girls, however, is an institution. It’s been there for what seems like a millennium, and they’re still going strong. It’s become a barometer of shows involving dancing Vegas showgirls. They come out; they dance to the music and do an act. It’s tasteful; it’s quaint; but it is not a strip show like one sees on late night cable. Your wife will be happy; you as a man (if you are a man reading this) will sit there like a hypnotized puppy.
But the night was not over. It had just begun and with what at first seems "quaint" soon turns "burned" by the sun. Our next show was revenge. It was a balancer. We got to see Lance Burton with his lovely female assistants. We got to see Crazy Girls with girls no plastic surgeon could produce. It was now time to see, "Thunder from Down Under."
Yes, the name is a double entendre. They’re males from Australia, and they seem to like pointing out the fact that they have a thunder "down under." A double-entendre, which not only was lost on me, but emasculinated me even further. Not in a million years would I have agreed to do this, but we needed to "Balance things out" as far as Margherita told me. Most likely, Anthony was secretly hating me for this. Maria was already getting worked up into a frenzy.
"Oooh, will they dance like the girls did?"
"Quiet, Maria."
It was a solemn moment. The taxi ride was akin to a death march for our masculinity had died.
We met the producer, and I gave him an evil eye. How could he do this to me? Create a show with dancing men? Men who make me look twice at my developing gut? Men, who are so attractive that I...well, it just plain freaked me out.
The producer suggested that one of the "Aussies" could pull Margherita on stage. I promptly threatened to "Go Brooklyn on their a@$ess" if they even thought of such a thing. It was a hollow threat as these men were so sculpted, they could have toppled me over with the muscles in their kidneys.
The show began, and out of pure male insecurity, I refuse to describe it here. I will not mention a detail about what they did. However, I will say what the audience did. It was sick! Grandmothers were jumping out of their seats screaming. Women were flashing their "crazy girls" to the Aussies to win a calendar. Bachelorette parties broke into a sweat. Here were 200 women screaming like banshees on Viagra, and I was clutching my wife around the neck to "mark my territory."
"Did you enjoy it, Anthony?" I asked.
"Don’t ask me that. But it was pretty good." He replied.
"Jeez man, I can’t believe you said that!" I said, mocking him, while not mentioning that I actually enjoyed it in a way, too.
Read Part 1 | Read Part 2 | Read Part 3 | Read Part 4 | Read Part 5 | Read Part 6
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