The Southwest - Part 15

August 29th - Marketing 101

So after a thoroughly gluttonous night in Vegas, I awoke, bleery-eyed* and made my way to the lobby of Luxor.  At least I think it was the lobby.  This pyramid is built like a maze, either to confuse potential grave-robbers or trap the elderly. 

*According to dictionary.com "bleery" is not a word.  "Did you mean beery?"  Yep, that'll work.

As last night I had experienced the buffet to end all buffets, the last last thing I wanted was more food.  So I settled for the next best thing: the oxygen bar.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, it's that machine in the hospital that pumps oxygen directly into your face via tubes up your nose.  Like much of the medical industry -- the ass-less gowns, nurses who are mildly attractive at best, and DISCOUNT BRAND JELL-O -- the purpose is to make you as uncomfortable as possible so you'll fake your recovery enough to get you out of there. 

However, unlike the hospital, the oxygen bar in Luxor is administered by a pretty girl and not a doctor who thinks he knows better than you.  I told you it's athlete's foot NOW GIVE ME THE MORPHINE!

So the girl hooks me up and immediately proceeds to give me a back rub.  Oh Luxor, I've misjudged you.  She busts out all sorts of crazy and wonderful massage devices and begins telling me about how she's "balancing my chakras" and "restoring my chi". 

Between her skillful manipulations and what was by now a pretty serious oxygen buzz, I am purring like a kitten with a fresh saucer of liquid cocaine. 

And that's when the pitch came.  In an instant she went from "me love you long time" to late night infomercial.  In practiced fashion she begins to list off the various benefits and payment methods for each of the little devices with which she had seduced me into this stupor. 

This goes on for twenty minutes.  And of course, I can't leave as I am literally attached to the bar by my face.

All I know is that when that sweet sweet O2 stopped flowing, there was an array of  mythical creatures  tacky little products arranged in front of me and a very expectant looking masseuse.

You are good, Vegas.  You.  Are good.

The Southwest - Part 10

August 25 - Can you say "Viking Funeral"?

We awoke (against all odds) the next morning to the sun rising over the canyon wall of the Colorado River.  Little did we know we had set up camp in a National Geographic photograph.  Alright Utah, we're even.

There's something you should know about camping in Utah: it is an almost capital offense to urinate in the desert.  Seriously, these guys aren't messing around.

Now before you start wondering what the Mormons could possibly have against urinating, it turns out there is actually a good reason for this.  Evidently the desert ecosystem can't process the nitrogen in urine, so that if you pee your name in the desert it will stay there, permanently.  And they tell you this to discourage you from doing it.  Silly Mormons.

Now, normally this would be a problem except that you never, ever have to pee.  The rule of thumb for desert camping is that if you are not drinking water (note I said drinking, not sipping) right now, you aren't drinking enough water.  And still, you never have to pee.  It's actually a real time saver.

Our first day in Moab we decided to hit the Colorado River rapids.  We rented two inflatable kayaks, deceptively referred to as "Duckies" (ducks don't float upside down), and launched a few miles upstream.

"Duckie" is actually spanish for "Death Trap"

From the road, the Colorado appears very calm, even tranquil.  This is a trick, designed to lure unsuspecting mariners to their doom.  The current is very, very strong. 

This being my first experience with white water rafting, no one had bothered to inform me that, once the rapids take you, your paddle becomes little more than a placebo.  Clutching my (at this point purely ornamental) paddle in a death grip, I flew (usually right side up) all the way back to Moab with all the grace of a piece of jetsam. 

Heading back into town  to explore my options for legal recourse  for a much needed, if barely qualified, beer (or ten) we found one of the few restaurants with a highly coveted "liquor" license.  As you can likely guess, getting a liquor license in Utah is a Herculean task, making such establishments very popular indeed.

Long story short: getting drunk in Utah is not just a chore.  It is an accomplishment.

Mission Accomplished.

The Southwest - Part 8

August 24 - Yoo-TAW!

I know you were all worried, but yes, we survived.   Evidently the highway we wanted was a few miles past Cisco (still unmarked, what the hell Utah?)

While it was still two hours to Moab, and my father felt compelled to take photos of every bend in the road (urge to kill... rising...) we made it without having to refuel.  Hybrids, guys.  They're a thing.

You guys remember the roadrunner and coyote show?  Utah actually looks like that.

We pulled into Moab just as the sun was setting.  I thought I'd seen what a sunset looks like.  Evidently, I was wrong:

Some things you guys should know about Moab, Utah.  First off, Moab does not belong in Utah.  It is a glaring cartographical error.  Moab is filled with trendy shops with anti-establishment slogans like "Coffee: Still Legal in Utah".  It's the one place in the state where dreadlocks outnumber cowboy hats (though both are equally unfashionable).

Now some things you should know about the rest of Utah.  Not only are the people of Utah very friendly, they are related.

And you know all those jokes about American beer?  À la "What do American beer and sex in a canoe have in common?  They're both fucking close to water."  (Canada, I love you.)

Well in Utah it is actually true.  It is state law that no establishment can sell beverages above 3.2% alcohol.  The effect being that a beer in Utah has the potency of watered-down baby formula. 

So between the wedding and the mormons, I have not had a real drink since the airplane.  I know, I'm scared too.

The Southwest - Part 4

August 21 -  The Day Before the Day After Tomorrow

I don't remember the rest of the trip into Ridgway.  Free booze will do that to you.

So waking up in a foreign bed (or as I call it, saturday) I decided the best cure for my hangover would be to go for a run.  My reasoning can only be explained by a) still being drunk and b) altitude sickness.

The problem with this plan, aside from the obvious, is that in Ridgway there is only one direction of travel: UP.

Not to be deterred by simple things like common sense, aversion to pain or the instinct to survive, I tore up the nearest hill (read: motherf***ing mountain.  Colorado doesn't do hills).

Passing by   the conjurings of my booze-addled oxygen-deprived mind  a llama farm I soon realized (the full extent of) my mistake: there is no way to gently descend a mountain while running.  My return trip was more of a (un)controlled plummet.  Don't even think about   petting that llama  tying that shoelace!

That afternoon I  was carried  went to what my Seventh Day Adventist kin call a "devotional".  A devotional is basically like a wedding but without booze, cake, music, booze or cake.

This was followed by a group hike (still no booze) and then a barbecue (no meat AND no booze).  Can you even call it a barbecue if there's no meat?  That's more like a stir fry.

I don't know if you've ever attended a family barbecue sober, but those things are long.  It's amazing how slowly time goes by without social lubricant.  Where's the classic after dinner entertainment: those two uncles who can barely contain their hate for each other long enough to unwrap presents, whose animosity needs only a sprinkling of eggnog to erupt into a (hilarious) showdown?

This was going to be a long weekend.