Where do you go to bond with your twelve-year-old son? Why, Las Vegas, of course! Six days of cloudless, searing heat punctuated by clinks and clanks of cascading coins and retina-burning neon signs. Oh, how I embraced her tacky cheese.
Pocket for a moment your inquiry as to why I would take my child to Sin City—there will be plenty of time to ponder my parenting choices later—and allow me to share a few insights, perceptions no doubt absent from the local visitors’ guide.
My son is a talented magician. Really, he is. I’m not just saying that because I’m his mama bear. He studies instructional DVDs by the experts, and his skill with card tricks merits a jaw drop. Or at least an eye pop. Thus, magic shows ruled our stay, including Penn & Teller, Criss Angel, and Mac King, all brilliant and exciting. But here’s my magic wish. Just once, I’d like to see a female magician perform, assisted by a scantily clad man, butt cheeks protruding from toddler-sized shorts.
In fact, maybe I’ll study the trade and one day perform at the Luxor, assisted by none other than Criss Angel himself. I’ll clothe him in tiny pants and no shirt. After all, the man likes to showcase his awesome abs. Instead of Criss Angel Believe, it will be Criss and Carrie Absurd. Look for it.
Where’s the Freaking Door?
Magic shows were not our only path to mysticism. Luckily for us, two Houdini Magic Shops flaunted their make-believe wares within walking distance from our hotel. That meant hours of browsing for my son. And hours of pain for me.
To pass the time, I visited Zoltar, Gypsy fortune-teller extraordinaire, who seduced me with his repetitive foreplay: “I see you over there. Yes, you. Come. Come to Zoltar and let me share with you your fortune.”
Well, how can a girl refuse?
But as with all seduction, the thrill didn’t last. Sure, he murmured nice things: “You are a virtuous person. You are not easily influenced. You have a keen mind and an understanding nature.” Aww, shucks. Kind of like the spam bloggers receive. But to be honest, what I really desired from the sexy Romanian was a fortune that revealed the secrets to escaping a Las Vegas hotel. Or at the very least, a floor map. Smaktakula of Promethean Times warned me that the “painted whore” would do all she could to trap me in her vacuum of vice, and oh, how right he was. And I don’t even gamble.
Maybe it’s me, but is it really necessary to pass out Booby cards on the sidewalk every five feet? If you’ve never been to Vegas, by Booby cards, I’m talking about the small, glossy T&A pics handed out by a seemingly endless supply of sweaty entrepreneurial representatives. (And no, T&A does not refer to tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy, though, normally, that is my first thought upon hearing the acronym. Yours, too, I’m sure.)
It seems to me that a greater distribution distance—say every fifty feet or so—would still alert visitors to the city’s ubiquitous sex supply. But in these fine workers’ defense, they did lower their card-dispensing arms as my son and I approached, displaying a conscientious side to their sleaze-spreading nature. Sadly, the trampled path of Booby cards littering the ground rendered this attempt at respectability moot.
If only that trodden trail of sex crumbs could have guided my exit from the dark hotel vortex.
Though it likely did wonders for my son’s sex education.
Have you ever been to Vegas? If so, what’s your favorite attraction? Have you visited the city with kids? Do you collect Booby cards? What about tonsils?