Friday, June 20, 2008

Everything

Take a look at the universe
What do you see?
Collections of specks
Spinning in the black sea of space

Look at these specks
What do you see?
Entire Galaxies

What comprises the Galaxies
But collections of specks
Swarming in the black sea of space

What are the specks
But entire planets
The Earth one among
Countless nameless orbs

Take a look at the Earth
What do you see?
Clumps of Land
Floating in a vast sea of salty water

Look to the Land
Stretches of silent soil
Spotted by collections of specks
Cities

Cities of specks of Humans
Swarming the streets
Sitting on the couches
In the grids of high rise buildings

Take a look at the Human
What do you see?
A skin sack of salty water
In which the Organs float

Every Organ a collections of Molecules
Themselves comprised of Atoms
Themselves comprised of Electrons
Orbiting their Neutron Proton anchors

Between the charges
Empty space
Vast distances separating
Negative from Positive

Take a look at the Proton
What do you see?
Quarks described by Probability
Comprised of

Nothing.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Vegas II

Although I was amused by the interaction with the statuesque transvestite as I reclined upon a velvety red pillow cradled in the prodigious bosom of the rotund half naked Hungarian woman, I was too filled with anticipation to be aroused by my participation in the staged orgy scene.

I lay there on stage, my shirt had been removed and my jeans unzipped and pulled slightly down. My CK bikini briefs were all that lay between my well “man-scaped” privates and the peering eyes of the crowd packing the seats at the New York New York Las Vegas Hotel theater. This was the finale of the show Zumanity My Love and I were attending that Saturday evening.

Upon my return from last visit to Vegas, as you may recall from the resulting blog, I had pledged to return, but this time on a vacation with My Love. I made true on this promise, and booked the trip in the middle of January, at a time when the weather forecast and my job outlook both appeared equally dismal.

Now, more than 4 months later, brightness has broken through and My Love and I were smiling and sipping our Bloody Mary’s comfortably ensconced in the second row of the United flight early that late April Friday morning.

The drinks were free (premier coupons) as well as the seats (miles and that free voucher I received for agreeing to give up my seat on the Florida bound flight late last year when I had that panic attack in the terminal). Free, baby.

On our second Bloody Mary (which, by the way, is a very excellent drink even on a plane. United Bloody Mary’s have kept me simultaneously tranquilized and hydrated for hundreds of thousands of miles thanks to the high salt content… probably not so great for the old blood pressure, but decent protection against hangovers) the flight attendant commented that we seemed much too happy and young to have a combined 5 children.

We were relaxed, even despite the challenging time we had making it to the airport that morning. My Love’s mother had agreed to get her kids off to school, and had accidentally overslept. She was very harried and apologetic, but we assured her everything would work out fine, and we greatly appreciated her assistance to enable us to have this greatly desired respite.

When the agent told us we were unable to check our bags because the flight was departing in 38 minutes and there is a 40 minute cut-off, there was a spike of anxiety. We had agreed not to carry on our bags so that both of us could pack a full assortment of beauty products and sun repellant.

Watching the TSA agents rifle through our carefully packed bags, lining up our full bottles of shampoo, conditioner, perfume, creams, salves, ointments and what-nots, like a colorful just-convicted rogue’s gallery took a little wind out of our sails, I must admit.

My Love was facing the loss of newly purchased shampoo, conditioner, sunscreen, all of her beauty supplies, and, worst of all, a nearly full bottle of her (and my) favorite perfume.

That paled in comparison to the loss I was facing: my bottle of Product I had just purchased from my hair stylist the day before.

I hadn’t even been able to squeeze one dollop from its gray and green supple body and there it sat, unceremoniously dug out with a filthy clear plastic glove and placed upon the stainless steel search table. Destined for the trash bin or (as I have been told, although I can’t verify the veracity of the claim) a battered woman’s shelter, I said a fond farewell under the bitter steely gaze of My Love who was convinced that her loss was far more onerous.

Her welling frustration was stemmed a bit by a new thought of what kind of man she had taken up with, and then seemed to subside with the TSA agent (whose ass I had been thoroughly kissing through the entire process. Traveler’s Tip: Surrender to the TSA or any other airport agent, it is your only chance of getting away with anything.) digging out a few “just in case” plastic bags I had packed and shoving as many things as he could into them.

The perfume of My Love was saved, and she was happy for my preparedness (which freaked her out a bit and added to her unease about my general state of manliness).

My Product, however, was abandoned, despite my pleadings. I can only hope it is brining joy to the locks of a lady much less fortunate.

We arrived at Caesar’s Palace an hour too early for check in, and soon found ourselves, salty rimmed Margarita in hand, on the outdoor patio of “Margaritaville”, nibbling on raw ahi tuna. The Sun, unshielded by clouds, swathed us in much needed warmth as we drank, ate, and expectantly looked across the street at our hotel.

It was clear something was amuck when the desk agent immediately picked up the house phone when he looked up our reservation. I had vowed to stay at the Wynn with My Love, but the rates were over $650 a night when I attempted to book the hotel in January. Many other hotels on the strip I was familiar with were upwards of $400 to $550 per night. Now, I don’t mind being a big spender once in awhile to live things up, but how much time do you spend in the room anyway? Plus, I was able to book Caesar’s on hotels.com for a much more reasonable rate.

The gentleman at the desk replaced the receiver and spoke to us in a hurried but polite stream of consciousness which left us both a bit taken aback.

“We had planned on construction being completed by the time you arrived but this was not the case so we do not have any rooms for you however we are owned by Harrah’s and they have several properties on the strip so you can stay as our guest at either the nearby Rio or Bally’s which is directly across the street Rio is newly refurbished and a bit sexier with every room being a suite but Bally’s is also very nice and the rooms are new as well and if that is not acceptable to you, and if I were you it wouldn’t be, we will also be sending you a certificate for a free room upgrade the next time you visit us and here is $20 cash for the taxi over to the other hotel so where do you want to stay?”

My Love was the first to speak, “So, our room is free?”

It turns out they credited our hotels.com charge and we stayed totally free at the Bally’s across the street. When our certificate arrived in the mail, it was actually for a free stay at Caesar’s for our next visit. My Love and I are already planning our return for the October timeframe. Free, baby.

Out of discretion, I will decline comment on the long sessions of uninhibited, playful, imaginative, passionate and even a bit naughty love making that ensued in our room overlooking the Las Vegas strip as well as the rooms from the other tower of the hotel. Let’s just say we left the maid something to think about.

Saturday morning we work up earlier than our 4AM bedtime would have predicted, and after Starbucks, a bran muffin and our morning elimination routines, we made our way to the pool’s at Caesar’s. We had been given nonfunctional room keys to the hotel so that we could still use their pool, as we were excited to visit the “Venus Pool”.

This was a private area, featuring comfortable chaise lounges, areas for rent, premium service by slender tanned white bikini’ed waitresses, and a European bathing dress code.

At 11 o’clock in the morning we were comfortably reclining on the white toweled couch by the pool we had rented, our guide and waitress chatting with us about children, Chicago and what we wanted to drink.

That day as we defrosted under the brilliant blue sky we subsisted solely on an entire bottle of Stoli Blueberry mixed with either soda water or sugar-free Red Bull.

During a swim, we ran into a young lady with the Chicago skyline tattooed on her stomach and side. We recognized it as our fair city and I have to admit, it was a very good job, very artistic and not trashy at all. I did notice she hadn’t added the Trump Tower yet, though.

We finally left the pool after chatting with a young gregarious man with a mild southern accent. He was with a large group of people and chatted with every lady possible, including My Love. We shared some drinks and finally got introduced to his wife.

She came to the pool fully dressed. Her outfit was completed by two heavily wrapped wrists. I smelled carpal tunnel, but she had just been in a small car accident and the air bags burned her slight wrists.

They had been married for just a year, he desperately wanted kids, she did not. He laughed and joked with everybody at the pool. She sat there with a grim look on what could have been a pretty face clothed and somber. It would probably take them years (and perhaps even a few children) to figure out they were absolutely miserable with each other.

The pool was closing, and our southern friend copped a feel of My Love’s beautiful bottom which put an awkward and unfortunate closing on an otherwise cleanly sexy day.

We showered and got dressed up for the show. My only complaint was that I had to use “LA Looks” hair gel for that evening, purchased that morning at a Walgreens of all places.

The show was so sexy and wonderful; we had a special loveseat right at the side of the stage so we could see the athletic bare bodies writhing right in front of us.

Near the end of the show one of the dancers leapt onto the laps of My Love and me. She was a grown woman but seemed to weigh less than My Love’s 5 year old daughter; she barely made an impact upon landing.

She led me on stage, and the resulting photo I have posted on this page.

After the show, I was like a mini celebrity, the crowd filtering out of the theater shouting out my name. Groups of girls giggling and waving. Dudes coming up to me and shaking my hand, “You are my hero, man.”.

It was a perfect way to cap off a perfect weekend of sexy sunny fun.