Deer and Loving in Las Vegas

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

I do not drink Red Bull. At all. Not even a little bit. As far as I'm concerned, it's strawberry-and-sweat-flavored rocket fuel.

But that all changed at the end of a day that started at 4:30 a.m. with me and Stipe trying to figure out how the hell to get out of Colorado Springs. Jenny was threatening to puke in the back of the van after a beer pong victory just three hours previous. George the GPS was shook up and confused and we had to let go of the safety net of technology and consult the good ole' fashioned road atlas to get us routed toward the Grand Canyon. The night

was pitch black. With the Eastern range of the Rockies humming by the right

of the van at 80 mph, the rock-solid Matty J kept me awake on the first leg with a conversation about music, life, love, and the value of great service and a great meal at a great restaurant. Sometime after dawn, we loaded up on beef jerky and Sonic. Then Stipe took the wheel and nosed us toward New Mexico. By the time Jenny rotated into the driver's seat, I was in desperate need of a nap. When I woke up, there was a string of Ristras Chilis hanging in my face. Jenny and Stipe had purchased them at roadside stand from one Fadama Martinez, who not only took checks, but also thought that Stipe was Jenny's husband. Sorry Stipe,

seat's taken. The sun rose; the world started

to get hotter. We stopped to pee on the side of the road behind some construction equipment. Jenny may or may

not have peed on her pants and then may or may not have been forced to change her clothes. Rock formations and plateaus jutted up out of the land that was suddenly a living thing. Mule deer ran across the road. We decided to jump off the highway for a while and take some less-traveled state routes through New Mexico. The switchback roads slowed us down quite a bit, but the scenery was fantastic. Somewhere in either New Mexico or Arizona, I bought fireworks - maybe for myself, maybe for my nephew.

We got to the Grand Canyon around six p.m. And yes, it really is a pretty amazing hole in the ground. Neither words nor pictures do it justice, but then again, that could be said about a lot of this trip. We jumped back into the van and motored off toward Las Vegas. On Highway 93 in Nevada, we suddenly found ourselves stopped at a security checkpoint. Baby Stipe w

as sleeping in the backseat; Jenny had just recently smacked a CareBear (TM) tattoo on his arm. After the cop shone his flashlight over the borderline-dead body and the string of roughly three hundred chili peppers, he let us pass. The next thing we knew, we were driving through and then over the Hoover Dam. We had had no idea we were coming up on it. A lot of dam, no doubt about it. As we slowed down to take pictures, we heard guards yelling at us to move on. I had images of snipers training their rifles on our blue minivan with Michigan plates, and needless to say, I stepped on it. When we popped out of the mountains, there was Las Vegas, shining golden and obnoxious and fantastic in the middle of the desert. Before we made it to the strip, we stopped at an In and Out Burger, which Jenny had been talking about since roughly Chicago. It was a pretty damn good burger. The grilled cheese, which Shannon in Colorado had promised was excellent, was, well, it was lame. It was a cheesburger, 86 the burger. Nothing grilled, nothing gained. Terrible call, Shannon. You're super cool, but no more fast food consulting; stick to Snoopy Dancing. Jenny took the wheel and guided us into the strip, into the glittering throat of Vegas. I was exhausted. Three hours of sleep the night before. Three hours the night before that. I was ready to go to sleep. But I wasn't ready for the night to end. There were stories in Vegas; I just had to stumble into them.

And so I did it. I drank the Red Bull.

I haven't had a cup of regular coffee in almost four years. No, my eyes didn't bug out and there wasn't steam coming out of my ears all Loony Tunes like, but the jolt was there. I was on. And the proverbial it was on as well. We checked into the Imperial Palace. It smelled like dirty carpet and cigarettes. Stipe bought a six-pack of Coors. No Coors Light in this corner of Vegas; just the big boys here. We showered. Is there anything more refreshing than drinking a beer while taking a shower? Then we hit the casinos. And let me say, I'm not a gambler. Or rather, I wasn't. But Jenny taught me how to play Roulette, and after I got the hang of it, I started to flirt with a little beginner's luck. But wait a minute; we were in Vegas. What does a starry-eyed - and might I say good looking - couple do in Vegas? That's right. They get married. Again. For anyone who knows us well, they know that what happened next was Wedding Number Two for Miss Basa and myself. We were married in August in the Flint Courthouse by the Honorable Richard Hughes, the man who we named our trusty minivan after. And you know what, we're going to have a third wedding - and this will be the big family friends reunion party of the year - next June. But ANYway, in Vegas, with the help of wedding planner Matt Stipe, all-night sushi waitress Choi, and cab driver Manny, we found ourselves renewing our vows at the Little White Wedding Chapel, where people almost as famous as us -Michael Jordan, Joan Collins, etc. - have also tied the knot.

And let me be truthful here - we didn't actually get inside the chapel; it was locked. And it was actually Manny the cab driver who performed the service. Sure, he forgot our names in the middle of the vows, but let me tell you, he's a hell of a guy regardless for driving us all the way out there and stepping into the chaplain role without even flinching. So, with my new wife on my arm, it was back to

the IP, where my luck at the Roulette table continued to roll on. I went to bed married and $100 in the black, my belly fattened with chicken fingers and frozen pina coladas. What's better than that?

JN