Category Attractions

I’m a sexy hypnotist/lost on the strip

March 2, 2010 26 Comments read Attractions, Travel

On Saturday, I woke up at a semi-reasonable 8am and then flopped around in bed until 11. What is this blazing death ball in the sky that insists on my being up and about? Why won’t it leave me alone? …Where did it go?

That’s right, folks. It had started pouring outside, to the dismay of all of the NASCAR people who had flooded the city this weekend and four Seattleites who were hoping to engage in more shenanigans.

We immediately decided to head to the tacky end of the strip (aka the end I was staying on) to find the world’s tackiest hoodies to protect us from the elements. I had already predetermined that I was most interested in something that had ‘had the shit bedazzled out of it’ but I was also willing to consider a particularly gross or offensive picture or slogan.

What wonders might we find in the world’s largest gift shop?

Elvis, for one!

A book on proper pole-dancing for two!

Penis nose glasses for three!

We were all pretty taken by these totally fetch velour hoodies, but then I found one that was so tacky, it made me catch my breath in shock and awe. Something that had had the shit bedazzled out of it. We also found butterfly princess crowns that were topped with sparkling fiber optics and bubble wands, and couldn’t pass those up, either. We also considered all hitting the town in matching leopard print snuggies.

Properly outfitted, we decided that the next thing to do was have a lightsaber joust on the moving sidewalks at Bally’s.

Only, when we got outside, as it turned out, the moving sidewalks were broken down and closed off. This was somewhat of an advantage as we figured there wouldn’t be people getting in the way of our picture-taking, but after we climbed over the yellow rope and walked up the escalator stairs, we looked back, and hordes of people were following us up, demonstrating the lemming effect. When I asked them why they followed us, they shrugged. One woman insisted there was no sign or anything that told them that it was broken, so clearly she was either blind or illiterate. Can YOU find the yellow rope, ladies and gentlemen? Hint: It is not as difficult as finding Waldo or doing the Magic Eye pictures.

Jason got video of Matt and I charging one another for our joust, Matt stabbing me with his lightsaber, and me subsequently falling down…in the magnificently sparkly crown. As soon as this assuredly hilarious video hits the internet, I will link it here. (And make a new post about it.)

Jason and Kirsti then did battle.

We got some more pictures and then happened to look down the escalator, where security guards had now taken up residence. We ran for it. They weren’t coming for us, but we ran anyway, and then Jedi-posed on the escalator coming down on the inside.

After these shenanigans, we decided it was time to actually do some gambling and get some free drinks. First things first: Felix has a tradition. Every time one of his friends goes to Vegas, he sends them five bucks to place on the roulette wheel for him. I remembered this earlier in the day and texted him about it:

We couldn’t find a blackjack table for Matt with a reasonable minimum bet–the majority were at $15-$20 min a hand, so we set up shop at the video poker terminals at the bar in Paris.

The bartender was very attentive, and I was plowed in very short order. I began blowing bubbles with my bubble wand after each hand to milk the booze:money spent gambling ratio and also because they were “scho….pretty”.

Some dude came by and asked me to blow a load in his face, and who was I to refuse?

I then got four of a kind twice in a row, struck up a conversation with strangers who were talking about ordering some funky-ass drink called the ‘sparkling wiggle’, told my friends to guard my winnings and my one and a half drinks already at my terminal, and wandered off with said strangers to do shots with them. They were visiting from San Diego, I got phone numbers and supposedly we are going to hang out when I’m in San Diego next month and the Sparkling Wiggle is DELICIOUS. The lady standing next to me won $200 with a five of a kind, high-fived me, everyone screamed ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’ down the bar to Kirsti, and then I roamed back, cashed out, and we continued our shenanigans elsewhere.

No one had good luck at the Star Trek machines.

Then we met this dude who wanted to show off his alcohol drinking prowess, and I was suitably impressed.

I was shooed away by a security guard when I tried to borrow someone’s Rascal scooter. He wasn’t using it! He was gambling! I would have brought it right back after a few laps. Jeez. I thought we lived in a society that shares.

Shortly thereafter, I abandoned my fiber optic crown that no longer sparkled and was denting my forehead.

We hung out in Kiki and Matt’s palatial room for a bit, and then called it a night. I ended up walking home to the Riviera, figuring it would be a good idea to try to walk off some of the booze, and also because I was feelin’ fine and wanted to strut a little and extend the evening instead of sitting for a cab for five minutes and calling it a night. I high-fived nearly every single person I passed on the way back. Only two people resisted my high-fivin’ prowess. When I saw people taking pictures of one another, I offered to take pictures of them together. Then we high-fived. One girl couldn’t stop fawning over my tacky sweatshirt, saying she had seen me before and wanted to know where I got that masterpiece. When I told her, she hugged me. Then we high-fived.

Then I walked into McDonalds, saw they were only serving breakfast, uttered ‘FUCK BREAKFAST’ and stalked out. By the time I actually got back to my room, it was 5:30 in the morning. Thus endeth day two.

Blasting across the alpine hills in a jet-powered, monkey-navigated tube

February 3, 2010 35 Comments read Attractions, Pacific, The Great Outdoors, Travel, USA, Washington, West

On Sunday, I went tubing with Tristan, because we both agree that skiing and snowboarding sound like a lot of work, but that sliding downhill at high speed on our stomachs should be completely doable.

Two out of the last three weekends, I have had to sign documents promising not to sue if I break my face. This is a good trend, I think. We ended up getting there with quite a lot of time to spare, and instead of standing around in the snow for an hour like schmucks, we hiked up to the ski lodge and hit up the bar at ten am.

Gin & tonic & mac & cheese: truly the breakfast of champions. The bartender was maybe a little heavy-handed for ten in the morning, but I can hardly fault him. By the time we hit the snow, I was already toasty warm inside.

We were maybe a little apprehensive about flinging ourselves downhill on a tube; after all, they wouldn’t have us sign a waiver unless there was actual danger involved, right? What if the abominable snowman doesn’t just go after skiers but instead enjoys snacking on the easier prey of adults on less-maneuverable tubes, swelled with dairy and starches and too drunk to run away? Worse, what if we enjoy it so much we end up concocting a special tubing uniform like this guy?

The only way I can describe this outfit is: A clown ate crayons until he exploded, and a passing unicorn was so amazed by the sight that HE exploded, too. We oughtn’t have worried–flinging ourselves downhill was insanely fun, even better as adults than we remembered as midwest tykes. We conducted a series of experiments as to which position led to the fastest and furthest ride and didn’t come to any official conclusions, but unofficially, flinging yourself onto the tube, superman-style (belly down, legs out or up, arms extended) was the most fun, knees into the hole of the tube was probably the most dangerous (Tristan flipped his tube, to the raucous laughter of us all), and on your back looking up at the sky FELT most dangerous but actually got a shorter overall distance owing to not being able to run and dive onto the tube with any great accuracy. About half the time, we trudged back up the hill on foot, and half the time we took the tow. We probably could have gotten more rides in during our two-hour block if we’d trudged up every time, but then I might have died.

This is my ‘I’m boozed up and overstimulated’ face. The two hours positively flew by, but at the end, I was surprised at just how worn out I was–it didn’t seem like we’d done anything worthy of the term ‘exercise’ but my body told me otherwise. Everyone else seemed to be running out of steam as well. Tubes were being abandoned at the bottom of the hill and I ricocheted off one and nearly flew off my tube. A kid who didn’t want to hike back up the hill threw snow at his dad’s camera and the dad lost his shit. The employees were perky as ever, cracking jokes, asking us if we had fun, saying they hoped we would come back…it was really nice. On the way home, we loudly sang along to the Rocky Horror soundtrack, maaaaybe drawing stares from passing cars. Maybe.

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OH MY GOD. Tramampoline! Trabopoline!

January 21, 2010 46 Comments read Attractions

On Saturday, a group of bold adventurers gathered in Bellevue to risk injury, death, and annoyance in order to jump on a multitude of trampolines, undeterred by tales of girls who had bitten their tongues off and couldn’t speak for a full year.

I had encouraged people to wear ridiculous clothing if at all possible, something fluttery that might swirl around them attractively whilst they jumped; I myself was hoping to find one of the full-length ballet tutus appropriate for La Sylphide, but had no such luck. I decided the next most ridiculous thing I could wear would be a completely sequined jacket and a long purple wig, for maximum sparkling AND movement. This was both an awesome and a terrible choice.

When we got there, Sky High Sports made us sign waivers, which again reminded us of how likely we were to be injured, and we STILL pressed forward. It was then that we noted just how many rules they had, each no-no accompanied by a man on the monitor waggling a finger in the universal ‘naughty, naughty’ gesture. No jumping in socks. No hanging on the yellow pads. No standing on the red pads. No double-jumping. Nothing allowed in pockets. No laying or sitting on the trampolines. Most damning of all, no bad words.

NO BAD WORDS? What did they expect me to do when I shattered a leg, shout “OH GOLLY GOSH DARN HECK!”?

Promising myself that I could swear just as much as I wanted to if and when I injured myself, we proceeded to shove our belongings into a series of lockers before we got down to business.

And get down to business we did. The place was crawling with children with no regard for their safety, running rampant across trampolines where clumsy, elephantine adultsI was trying to jump AND not squash children. It was insanely, ridiculously fun, springing up and down, spinning around in circles. Within minutes, I announced that I’d like to have my wedding on these trampolines. One by one, we attempted bouncing off the trampoline wall and doing some manner of trick. I gamely flung myself off it and tumbled head over heels, promptly losing a shoe. I also lost a shoe in a collision with Rindy after she put on her pirate eyepatch and lost depth perception, and there was a desperate battle to recover it–Rindy is already taller than me, and playing keep-away on a trampoline just isn’t fair. But is awesome.

The safety no-no naughty monitors all eyed our group suspiciously. Apparently, they don’t get many adults out on the trampolines, especially a group of adults like us, who almost universally appeared that we didn’t know our limits. Poor Anne was picked on quite a lot by the safety no-no naughty monitors, first telling her that her shoes were unacceptable for jumping (no laces), then that she couldn’t jump in socks, and then they wanted to check her wristband, and then when Jim took off his sweatshirt and handed it to her, they scolded her for that, saying it was a safety hazard. Yes, of course. The sweatshirt is the safety hazard, not the small children bouncing across six trampolines underfoot. Inanimate monster, endangering us all!

Tristan and I deliberately tried to double-jump when the monitors weren’t watching and couldn’t pull it off, so I swore for good measure. Then Cole attempted to teach me how to bounce up from off of my back and I had a wig incident.

In addition to the trampoline floors and walls area, there was a separate area with two trampolines where you could fling yourself off into a pit of foam. While I was waiting in line, a tiny child in a tutu approached me (after my crusty withered heart, that one), tugged on my hand and sweetly asked if my hair was really purple. She would have only needed to watch me jump to find out the truth. Boolia hopped right up to the edge, stared into the foam abyss, and said “OH FUCK THIS” and backed away. I was a little more foolish and went for it, attempting a spectacular cannonball leap into the foam. As it turns out, the cannonball is ideal for maximum foam penetration, and I sunk to what felt like the bottom, losing my glasses while my wig turned around on my head. As I attempted to claw my way to the surface, I wondered what it would be like to die in a pit of foam, and additionally wondered if perhaps they had one of those claw arms used in attempts to win stuffed animals to retrieve my corpse. Eventually, I pulled myself out, in front of a crowd of people who were no doubt dying with laughter and mocking comments on the inside while I straightened my wig and brushed off my dignity. Rindy later described my moments in the foam as ‘looking into the eye of a purple whirlpool’. Other people performed the foam leap many times; I decided I was lucky to survive it once.

Jumping on the trampolines was actually much more work than anticipated. Yes, fine. I am not in great shape. Or even good shape. I can walk for a lot of miles and be fine. I can do high-impact aerobics for a good long time and be tired, but not exhausted. Jumping on a trampoline for an hour? I could not do. Nor could anyone else. Little by little, we crept over to the side to wipe our brows and rest, then go back out and jump again, each jump period getting shorter. Toward the end, body heat hiked even higher due to the wig and the jacket, I stood up too quickly and the world went black for a moment. Not enough to ruin my fun, but enough to make me reconsider hot costume elements next time.

Upcoming event ideas:

Rockaroke (karaoke with a live band! Of course we would have to dress like our favorite glam rockstar.) Whirlyball: Beyond Thunderdome Indoor Go-Kart racing Blacklight Mini Golf