Witnesses can attest that I can do several things and drive at the same time, but sadly typing is not one of them and since I have been driving up the coast to Santa Rosa and through the desert to Sin City, my random thoughts have taken a back seat.
Although the rains have wreaked damage on several Malibu homes, it has generously spread its power over the farms and fields of Pismo, San Luis Obispo, Paso Robles, Soledad, Gilroy (which you can't mention without the requisite: GARLIC CAPITAL OF THE WORLD!) and other small towns that make up the historic El Camino Real, now known as the 101 Freeway. Everything was so green and smelled so sweet as I motored up to Hope Sutton's house in Morgan Hill, I wanted to jump out of the car and lie right down in the middle of it all. Beyond Hope's back fence is a gorgeous mound and one is tempted to run up to the very top and spread out under the low growing California Oaks stretching their limbs, as if protecting the crest of the hill. The property is off limits due to the grazing long-horned steer, but the sheer greenness of it all and the solo comical conical shape silhouetted against the sky was glorious and warranted fantasies of random running and rolling.
The rain has made everything new again, including the normally dry, dull and arid Mojave I-15 Freeway where the only respite is “The Mad Greek” until you reach Primm and gratefully, Starbucks. The desert is in full bloom, and in contrast, the hills near Silverwood Lake are stretched and straddled with red and green veins running through them and Big Bear snowy mountains rising out of the mist in the background. Butterflies are swarming, which is beautiful if you’re not doing 85 miles an hour. The unremitting splat of radioactive looking yellow guts was so dreadful to behold, I felt murderous.
So, I entered Vegas with a windshield coated in bright yellow streaks and 260,000 miles on my odometer. I have an idea for a revue and thought a research trip was in order. However, telling someone you're doing "research" seems mighty suspect when you're buying a single ticket to "Showgirls of Magic", a topless number hosted by the San Remo, a smallish casino wedged behind the MGM. The usher hurried to get me into an open chair in the front, but managed to I slip out of his reach and into the obscurity of back row seating. March Madness and spring break had collided on the strip and college students were everywhere. Three boys from Kansas State sat in front of me insistent on finding out what school I attended. At first I was confused, but when I realized they meant “college”, I responded that while flattered, I had already graduated. Best to keep it vague. A tow headed lad politely inquired over his Bud what I was doing later – Hello, Mrs. Robinson! The compliment was much more compelling than the actual show and I was grateful I was able to sneak out during yet another "illusion" where the girl is cut in half, a dove flies out of a scarf and tops miraculously fall off while Kid Rock tunes serve as the soundtrack. I wonder if he knows just how raunchy his “Cowboy” has gotten.
I am lucky to stay with LeeAnn on these trips and her classic 1960’s ranch is lovely to return to after a night on the town. I adore the neighborhood, historical by Vegas standards, everything being built new and developed and subdivided and sold as fast as the stucco dries. The guest room is at the front of the house and as I was lying in bed trying to find sleep, I was reminded of an evening two years ago when I had driven out for LeeAnn's 40th gala birthday party. At the time, I was quasi-engaged* (see definition below) to the townie/speedracer/metrosexual. What? A pattern? You think?
Anyway, there I was, lying in bed remembering the party and how that night I met a Blue Man. I noticed him right away. Blue Men share some commonalities. They are bald. They are in great physical shape. There is usually a bit of blue somewhere around the ears where makeup remover has missed its target. The Blue Man and I eyed each other and then circled the patio like a cats until finally we found ourselves facing each other. For hours, we sat by the pool chain smoking, talking books, music, classic films, existentialism and how we are all connected. We were forehead to forehead in a deep trance like state. I was wearing this fabulous retro dress with a plunging neckline straight down to my sternum. In hindsight, the attraction might have been the free floorshow. Although I had completely forgotten about it in past three hours, I felt I had to tell him about my high school obsession to whom I was quasi-engaged. Even though I could hear this rattling off my tongue, I was beginning to doubt it. The Blue Man looked good. We had lots to say to each other. And you know me; I always have a lot to say. It was in this room that we said our early morning goodbyes, he having forged his way through the juniper hedge and ancient rose bushes to kiss me through the screen that separated us.
Later that week, when confessing my sin to a girlfriend, she rushed past the important details, (like what I was wearing, our spiritual connection, etc), and gasped, "You Met a Blue Man!?!” How was I to know the rarity, the one in a million chance of meeting a Blue Man? A hairless character cast in a non-speaking role, painted with patented latex seemingly from head to toe who wows audience every night with paint drums and Twinkie tricks and, if one of the TV Blue Men, fly around powered by Intel! And I had decided that to return his calls would be unfaithful to my current situation. What a huge mistake that was!
My quasi-engagement with the townie/speedracer/metrosexual ended a few months later when I realized that I couldn’t compete with Laguna Seca. I learned that the Blue Man had found a sexy go-go dancer who worked the Palms Casino. True love had eluded me once again…
"quasi-engaged" means they've asked you to marry them, but haven't ponied up the ring. Lesson: Don’t any answer without ring in hand, especially when a Blue Man is wooing you.
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