Saturday, July 28, 2007

Two final days in the Gulch

With the wedding and incredible post-event Italian dinner over (Fellini's at the Stratosphere; with the weight we all gained, I'm surprised the room didn't collapse under its own gravity and become a black hole), we headed back to our friend Vegas Gopher's home to retrieve The Boy.

A quick phone call to VG confirmed The Boy had a great time during his afternoon stay, but was beginning to get a little antsy over the critical, life-changing issue of whether or not he was going to get into his baseball jammies voluntarily. But by the time we arrived, said antsiness had been replaced by a smiling, cooperative Boy gladly wearing said jammies. VG and family seemed a little tired, but were still wearing smiles despite The Boy's friendly relentlessness.

We had a laugh over one event they mentioned, where our Boy commandeered their sofa, reclined, said "Nap time," and then stayed there for all of 30 seconds before resuming his previous relentlessness without missing a beat. (The things society could achieve with his energy... sheesh.) Anyway, his apparent microsnooze was for us a terribly familiar event, and meant the storm clouds were gathering, as The Boy had now gone two days without a nap.

So naturally, after two days of casino-induced physical restraint and naplessness, he was a cranky little monster the next morning. That morning we spent some time in the pool, then headed to the local Claim Jumper consume-mass-quantities restaurant to treat VG and family to lunch as an inadequate reward for their help. After stuffing ourselves silly once again -- admittedly a bad idea after the previous night's Fellini gorging -- we drove back to the hotel, only to witness The Boy's eyes glazing over and closing slowly as we pulled into the Fiesta Henderson's valet drop zone. Even the blinking, ringing, smoky cacophony of the Casino did not wake him during my carry-through.

I accepted Nap Duty -- heaven knows I needed one myself -- while Mrs. T did a little local shopping. Three hours later, with The Boy in a much better mood and with myself bearing a serious case of Bed Head, we reassembled ourselves and headed out to the most anticipated event of the trip for The Boy: The live pirate show at Treasure Island, on the Strip.

Now, that pirate show was something we really enjoyed 10 years ago. As we remembered it, the pirate ship anchored in front of the Treasure Island hotel comes under attack by a British Navy warship. Cannon fire is exchanged, the British ship sinks before the audience's eyes, and a good time is had by all ages. Perfect for The Boy, we thought.

So, it came as a bit of a surprise when, at the show's outset, a phalanx of lingerie-clad minxes took to the anchored former pirate ship, slinking one-by-one up the crow's nests and treating them as two-story stipper poles to the pounding beat of catwalk techno. Moments later, the former British Navy ship -- now converted into a pirate vessel bearing a manly-man bull's head out front instead of the traditional turk's head -- rounded the corner, bearing a crew of pec-equipped, washboard-abbed pirates straight from Style Magazine, none of whom had a complete shirt.

Not quite the show we'd expected, alas. He's not yet three, and we found ourselves inadvertently treating our son to his first live burlesque show.

After a few minutes of pelvic gyrations, suggestive lyrics and phallic cannon fire, all accompanied by The Boy pointing and asking "What's that?" as the pirate ship sank, the Playgirl Pirates had no choice but to swim over to the vixen's boat and live out the fantasies of 85 percent of men. Somewhere over the course of the show, The Boy learned to say the word "bustier." And in the end, his final review was, "The firework booms hurt my ears." Which was kinder than that given by my new bro-in-law Mike, who said simply, "God, that sucked."

Served us right, I suppose, for making time to see the show without researching it first. At least Vegas hadn't yet found a way to sex up the Mirage volcano.

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