Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Californian Cowboys Part 2


We drove from Nipton to the big city, via Searchlight, which was the closest gas stop and we were running low. We took the back roads as usual, until the last junction where we had to meet up with a real highway and real cars.
When you drive a 4 gear Westphalia, you notice right away that they go slow up hill, and they go real slow up mountains. But this is all well and good when you just want to soak in the scenery, and take your time.
When we hit the highway, I began to blush. You really can't go 50 km/ h on a 110 km highway. It's just not kosher.
Anyway, luckily we finally climbed it, and rounded the base of the mountain to look down on the valley.

Las Vegas sprawled out in black, over the wide valley floor - like so many barren ones we had driven through. It's true what they is an oasis, of sorts, smack dab in the middle of the desert. Especially if you go by the definition of an oasis - which is a whole bunch of shimmering lights - with nothing of substance really there. But you go - because you're in the neighbourhood and just have to see it.

You go because you want to see the lights, see the overkill, see the glitz and the cliches.

You go to gawk. jaw open, eyes glazed over - gawk.

And you go because there are gay bars with ladies nights and you "happen" to be there on one, and you go because this Tuesday night "happens" to be a wet t-shirt night.

Las Vegas, Moncton, Atlanta, Ottawa - gay bars, and the ladies that go to them are all the same. The bars are small and dark, with not nearly enough ladies of your liking in them.

The one striking difference about a gay bar in Las Vegas, is the pole. Or rather the pole dancer - in the middle of the dance floor. It is a sight to see, especially after seeing nothing but rocks and mountains for 4 days, to see a lady in a bikini, grinding up a fully dressed lady who is putting money in her... suit.

The second striking difference is the afore mentioned wet t-shirt contest. (Although's really just a matter of time before we run out of themed party ideas that require sexualized hotness... for someone in Ottawa to come up with that one)

The winner, I wouldn't even say had the nicest.. ah.. t-shirt, (which were actually white men's undershirts...*hot*). I think she won on.. on .. effort really. And the runner up, who was actually - the hottest all round, had a broken leg or something, so really it was rigged.

What I can tell you is that we, or at least me, felt like a true blue cowboy. When we walked in there we looked, and no doubt smelled, like we had been living in a van in the dessert.

Luckily for me, they had pool tables, and especially luckily for me, my traveling companion happened to be a pretty girl who can kick some pool playing ass, which got us some street creds. with the locals. The "locals" were a gaggle of surfer styled girls, who we were surprised to discover were our age. They were cute - no doubt and knew for certain that we weren't from them parts. Even could tell we were Canadian. They enjoying talking up my pretty traveling companion, and making her blush on several occasions. The bottomless drink special they had going on that night helped too.

But on a Tuesday night, after the games had been played, the asses kicked, the dances had and the t-shirts wetted, er whetted, we were all ready to call it a night. The hotel just wasn't the retreat we had expected, nor the shower as welcoming as hoped, and by morning we were thrilled to get back in the van again.

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