And then there was Britney (Night Two)

Morning.


A harsh morning if I recall correctly. Space Cadet and I wake up and decide to hit the pool because who are you if you don't have a tan (just kidding....but really) I was still in my shade of winter white (which is actually quite blue-ish...I look a bit like a ghost but with blackheads) but had a nice shellacking of spray tan taking my hue to maybe having stood in a sandstorm for about 33 seconds. We lay out and attempt to soak up all of the glory that the Hooters Hotel pool has to offer.(I should mention the fact that it's been about 3 months since I left this as a draft so it might be more fiction than fact but what the fuck right?) Ok so here we are Saturday morning, nursing a hangover by the Hooters pool, of course. We decide that a gourmet meal is in order so we head on into the luxurious Dan Marino's Restaurant because we all know that an excellent football career and even better cameo in the eternal film Ace Ventura: Pet Detective make the best chefs of us all. Allow me to concede that the food was actually pretty good and considering how badly my stomach wanted to retaliate against me, was a fairly high mark. So we eat about as much as we can stomach and begin preparing for the evening that lie ahead.

Off we head back to our rooms, where I believe a nap was in order. And if we didn't nap, then we should have. We begin our evening by selecting outfits which were numerous and sparkly. And the other girls had dresses too. We start boozing AND HOW but we didn't want to get too wasted before the concert as every detail had to be committed to memory! Dressed and ready we head to MGM Grand Garden Arena.

THE SHOW

So basically words cannot describe just how epic the show was. I mean Britney was there. Nuff said.

I will say I wish that she danced a bit more. I have had this discussion with Space Helmet and probably my mother who I like PROGRAMED to love Britney that basically Beyonce ruined everything. Specifically, that she started dancing in like epic-ly high heels. Flash back to the Dream Within A Dream tour Pre-Blackout era she was always in flats or wedges so that she could more easily shake her business much to the delight of the throngs of fans. But then FUCKING BEYONCE had to come along and ruin it by shaking a good deal more business in skyscraper fetish heels. Britney or more likely TEAM SPEARS decided that it was time to follow suit. Why oh why can't a lady wear some fucking Sketchers or whatever. You don't often see dancers wearing Loubs. I digress.

Basically we had a grand ole time.

We head back to Chateau du Hooters and start the real party. We start hitting the sauce and a while into it, it becomes clear that we aren't really going anywhere. At this point, (I don't remember the euphemism that I called this lady previously so I'll call her Big Gay Al.) Big Gay Al decides to tell us that she had informed a friend of hers from high school who is now based in LV that three ladies were down to party. So since we weren't really going out, I slur that we should just invite him to party with us in the hotel room. Biggest. Mistake. Ever.

He arrives and let's just say that rape-y doesn't really begin to describe him. Tall and lumbering. I'll just throw the word lummox out there. Now that that's covered let's go on to see just how the rest of the night turned out.

We start boozin some more and he decides that no of course we should take our show on the road. OHHHKAAAYYY..... so I throw out there that I basically am unwilling to pay for a cab (shock there...I will climb any mountain....to avoid paying for transportation or parking) so this leaves us with clubs that are close (which being off strip limits us to tropicana or MGM) or the elegant night spots that Hooters hotel has to offer. So we hit Dixie's Dam Bar which I will describe as being like Coyote Ugly but without all the ambiance and filled with lazy strippers. I am all for strippers in the on-screen sense (probably too terrified to go in the real life sense...not enough purell in the world and I don' t think that a biohazard suit follows dress code....maybe if it was assless but that somehow defeats the purpose) but when they aren't really giving their all (they're going to be hygienists!) it's pretty depressing. Also you know it's a good club when it's really brightly lit. I mean they weren't even going to give you the luxury of dim lighting to obscure the sadness that lurks in the shadows. So we hang out for a while and ole rape-y makes friends with an asian new zealander or something (totally fabricated but it was some random shit like that). Also of note there was a pole and so a photoshoot was in order. I realized later that the phrase "dance lessons ten cents" which only lends more class and elegance to the whole eve. We head back up to the room after absorbing enough local culture and continue boozing. By the way raperino is drinking up our drinks....gross.

This is where shit goes downhill. There was a photoshoot of course but its where that went was where it was no bueno. The photoshoot ends in a natural winding down fashion when he goes "don't stop taking pictures" "I'll take your slutty pictures"

Let's just say that for anyone who has ever seen these photos is that slutty really isn't one of the words. It's usually way more visceral than mundane sluttiness. I mean they are all about being as ugly or chromisonally challenged as possible. So I start giving the side eye like nobody's business. I then decide to pull the sheets over myself as to protect from any overly pervy moves.

It should also say that Big Gay Al was not the subject of any of rapey's affection, that honor goes only to me and Space Helmet. I am under the sheets when he starts to rip the sheets up and snap pictures of what lies beneath.....

I am terrified and am trying to cling to what dignity I had left. I then fall off the bed after a series of escalating hide and seek moves between myself (i.e. the Moranis....my vag is named Rick Moranis...don't ask) and rapey. I am on the ground and by the way he keeps taking pictures and I look increasingly violated. In one shoot I am fully under the sheets and Big Gay Al is posing on top of me as Rapey is lurking/hovering above me. All you can see are my hands....thanks for defending my honor, friend.

This eventually ends (thank jesus) and he starts lumbering to a corner. Around 3 I stand above him and point to my watch. Then I kick him and point again to my watch. He then says ....I can't drive home.

Yeah because Vegas is really hard to get around in super wasted. Lummox takes up like half of the floor space and is really hard to wake in the morning. I should have just vomited on him.

And I am pretty sure that covers it all....we did another cameo at the val party (aka the Hooters pool) which was generally awesome as the pool wasn't heated at all so it was frigid (which I am kinda into...explains a lot...or not) and the hottubs were fucking cesspools so we dare not enter....drive home primm....end of story.

FIN.

And then there was Britney (Night One)

This has been in mind for over a month but don't worry this is what my brain capacity has been dedicated to.


I saw Britney Spears in Concert at the fabulous MGM Grand Garden Arena.

Consider my world rocked.


Here's the set-up:

Sunshine (myself plus the space cadet and the busy beaver let's call them) decide that we obviously must reconvene in order to live the Britney Experience. We couldn't get three seats next to each other at the $150 price range in LA or Anaheim (before they added more dates) so we obviously see this as the perfect excuse for a Vegas trip ( I am sure that at some point down the road I will pontificate on my love of Vegas, so don't you worry). After buying our tickets and booking flights (I drove because I love to drive and continually disregard the fact that my car is made for Tokyo Drifting or whatnot and as a result the seats are equivalent to the back row of a transatlantic flight).

The Beav can't make it till Saturday so I drive in on Friday to spend the day with Space Cadet. I grab some In-N-Out (any excuse really) and meet up with her in the parking lot of the Tropicana. We figure, who cares where we stay because most of the time won't be spent in the room. We head up to registration and begin checking in when the concierge (that doesn't seem appropriate) informs us that they are "out" 500 rooms and they will be sending us to a different hotel. My mind swims with thoughts of slightly more upscale digs. She then finishes her sentence by saying "and you'll be staying at the Hooters Hotel, just next door." It's hard to describe the noise I made in response. A chuckle of disbelief? A chortle in jest? At any rate she gives me a look as if I told her that I enjoyed rubbing my shit on her mom's face and I make like I didn't just make a chortle of any kind. As I didn't book the hotel and Eager Beaver was still at work in LA, we reluctantly drag our shit back to the car and drive even more reluctantly, into the Hooters Hotel parking lot.

As I kick open the doors (like I am going to touch anything in the fucking palace that Valtrex built), my sense of dread only deepens. I didn't really think about what the "theme" of the hotel was (tits? ornithology?) but as it turns out it's basically as if someone decided to bring all the luxury and glamour of St. Petersburg, FL to Paradise, NV (just to be a nerd, techincally Vegas, the strip part, isn't in Las Vegas...kinda like the Vatican!)

I am not really good at negotiating in spite of being told that I have "solid gold balls" since approximately 4th grade (they retract when I really need them), so I don't really put up much of a fight with the agency that we booked the hotel through. We were going to make the best of it. We get into the room, that doesn't even have a mini-bar mind you, and what lovely accessories have they left for us? A plastic Bud Light ice bucket and a Hooters magazine which should really be renamed Busted Faces Monthly.

After settling in to our new surroundings, the Cadet and I start to prepare for the evening's festivities. A friend set us up by putting us on the list of the members only Hard Rock Foundation Room at the top of Mandalay Bay. It's pretty ritzy and if anything I stand for refined elegance with a rock n roll twist. We pre-game like champs and the night is going pretty well. Cadet even learned a lesson! If you use a bathroom item offered, you must tip the attendant, it's like the only reason they are hanging out in the loo (aside from the scat fetish...dirty bitches). Basically after that the old lady allowed us to basically pass off the flask of Jimmy Beam in the stall. There wasn't actually a dancefloor which was quite dissappointing but they were at one point showing The Lost Boys on the TVs. We head out onto the balcony where we start basically drinking out of the flask out in the open.

It should be said that I don't really make "friends" in bars (or anywhere...) but this is not the case for the Cadet, who caught the eye of a tiny Azn. One should note that the Cadet stands proud at 5'11" and the azn, didn't. But he and his friend who finds me so fascinating that he literally walks away in the middle of saying something and doesn't really ever come back (swoon!) do buy us drinks. Cadet ends up with a beer and I got a crown and dc (I don't really know how I swung that one) after the drinks and he continually slaps my friend's inner thigh, we declare it high time to leave.

As we walk out the Cadet hands me the flip flops that she brought in her purse for aching feet. Interestingly enough, my feet didn't actually hurt. Until I put on the flops that is. It was like when you wear those soccer athletic spa massage-y sandals for the first time and what should feel like comfort, seems more like searing pain. I do not change back into the heels, that would make too much sense.


Here's where it gets really good. We head back to the hotel and I promptly put in my silocone ear plugs (they are AMAZING, I started using them when I lived in a room with 7 roommates) and pass the fuck out.

I awake later, being tapped on the shoulder. I sit up (at this point I should mention that I do not sleep with a shirt on) and see the Cadet standing above me along with about 4 burly security guards.

"Tell them you know me"

Slowly pulling the sheets up I respond, "Yeah, I know her. Way to go" then promptly fall back onto my pillow in time for me to see the men RUN out of the room. It was like I had some Total Recall shit going on.

In the morning I find out that dearest Cadet got locked out of the room (she doesn't remember why) and had to walk down to Security in the lobby wearing a sleep t-shirt, no bra, soccer shorts and was of course, barefoot. Since the room wasn't registered to her name and she had no ID anyways, they had to check with the occupant to make sure that they weren't letting in a lunatic (that I didn't previously know).

Way to go indeed.

Part 2 to come.

I've made a huge mistake

I have already found someone I know (and don't want to know any better on JDate)


You can't really say that you're shallow on your profile (No fuggos?)


Oy.

Jew-wanna-man

Ok so how jewish is jewish?

I mean I wasn't raised jewish and I didn't come out of a jewish vagina so that's pretty unjewish.

BUT i have an estranged rabbi uncle! Also, the jew blood runs through my veins and I feel like the sarcasm also gives me more jew cred.

I ask this because I want to be on J-date.

I don't think it's technically a fetish when my real type is "having of a pulse" but I totally cop to loving the sarcasm and well neuroses are the ties that bind.

It's a whole nother discussion when it comes to online dating in general but I am a nerd and I don't really go outside except for going to movies and I am terrifying and apparently other nerds scare easy? I don't really have the answer to why I don't really meet people but that's a nother nother discussion. I think online dating is fine when you're not of MTV age and I think I am still in their demo for another two years.

Because I didn't meet anyone in college I immediately feel behind in the game. I mean don't get me wrong because I'd rather be in my situation than married to anyone I met in college. Really. And I am sure there were amazing nerds hiding but alas I went greek so I kinda shot myself in the foot with that one. On the plus side being greek was way more rape-y and now I could end up writing a straight to dvd classic. I like to keep positive.

So do I wait er out or well lower my standards?

Whatever I guess, back to the jew-scussion.

It would be weird if I joined a black dating site. Does the same apply with a religious and cultural tradition instead of skin color?

There isn't really much of a point to this as, even if I did join, I almost guarantee that I am going to get enough attention to boost my self asteem to like indigo on the terror color coordination chart, get creeped out and quit.


Are there others like me, indoor cats, nerds, sitting on their couches at 3 am watching Buffy (hopefully not...maybe BSG...yeah...more masculine. Male buffy fans...confused people or TV nerds, perhaps both) thinking the same thing?

For the record I have been on J-Date and I tried as much as I could to assert my lack of any knowledge of Jewish religion or history (My mom, former deacon at Bel-Air Pres, called me the worst jew ever because upon reading about Alfred Molina's Playbill interview, I asked my mother, what's a YAR-MULKE?) but then I got an IM from a rabbi who wanted to chat me up? What was he looking for? A rebel (Dottie)?

Basically any sort of face to face human interaction terrifies me and so I prefer digital screens. Not that this is case in point.

If life was Three's Company (which I wish it was) I would be some freakish Mr Roper/Janet/Jack hybrid. That sounded cooler than I expected. Throw in Mrs. Roper's caftans and I embrace 23-yr-old spinsterdom.


Until then, there's always cable.

Yeah, I'm a lazy douche

So it's been more than a month since I have graced you with my lovely witicisms.

I am going to give you an excuse, not a reason, for my absence. I am lazy and then I saw that my "friend" (you know the person you call a friend but find yourself counting down till they leave your presence...if you're reading this it's probably not you) had a blog and I read like three lines of an entry and I rolled my eyes more times than when I read Cosmo (I was in the dentist's office cut me a fucking break) and I was like "do I sound like that?" "do I sound like that much of a douche bag?" It basically justified the whole lazy blogger (oxymoron?) fear and basically I wasn't going to stoop to that level. Two months later....


I realize that no matter how hard I may try (very, very hard) I will never be the douchebag he is and if I am, what are you doing reading this?

So basically the message is that I am back, bitches.

Wonderhauer, now with 90% more resolve!


I have a lot of back material to work with so batten down the hatches.


On a final note, what does it take to become a fitness celebrity? Can I just buy some airtime, wear spandex and commit to mono-syllabic speech punctuated with often completely unrelated, always forceful hand gestures? Speaking of raging narcissism, I got an email (actually two, because this bitch just didn't get the hint) from facebook saying, let's call her sumdumbitch, sumdumbitch suggests you become a fan of sumdumbitch. Literally asking me to be her fan? This girl who clearly comes from the home life that most american idol audition round "competitors" come from thinks, that despite having seriously tree trunk legs, she's going to be a model. What kind? Hand model?

I love how the only thing that our generation has to bind us all together is raging narcism and being easily amused. I think by being post-post-modern it's basically equivalent of fighting in a world war or inventing important shit. They may as well give up the search for the cure for AIDS because honestly, does anyone think we're going to last long enough for the world to see another generation of Heidi and Spencers? I hope not.