Vegas wrap-up

We came to Vegas with 10 bags. We left with 15. Okay, those extra 5 were boxes to go back to Lyle's work. But it's a good thing we drove the Range Rover.

Lyle's favorite 1¢ slot machine
Or as he called it "Gay Pirates" and it so was.

My favorite 1¢ slot machine. When you won big it was La Cucaraches wild! I mean who doesn't enjoy a nice wholesome racial stereotyping slot machine?

I asked Stormy if I could take her picture illustrating the painful aspect of being so beautiful, she may wear stunning shoes for the fans, but she'll be walking back to her room in flip flops. Her right hand indicates that she thinks I'm #1!

Carmen is here to prove that the models really do eat. She even said "Hell yeah!" when I asked if I could put it on my blog. I guess she knows that only four of you are actually reading this.

I feel I may have cheated you on your vicarious Vegas experience. Though I may be there because of the Adult show, I have to say that is not what defines me. Food, travel, my beautiful blue eyes, gay wit, self deprecating humor, love of dogs... that sort of stuff defines me, not my work. With that in mind you may have noticed I've been very careful not to write some people's last names or phrases which might direct people here via random searches (not that it matters, as once someone was directed here after typing the words "Paula Dean in a swimsuit" into a search engine).

So as for the show, I went in and out of that convention center at least twice a day. Before the show opened I saw stuff I would never seek out shown on banners bigger than my car. At times I had a difficult time figuring out where to look as even the floor may not have been safe. Once the show was on, I never went past the booth I worked on, it was in the front row. I did not take photos of the girls in skimpy clothes, or of those hanging out over their clothes or even any of the hideously unfashionable footwear.

Instead I put my efforts into enjoying myself, getting Lyle out of the hotel, and being certain that everyone I worked with had a bright spot to their day. A compliment, a genuine concern for how they felt, or just a smile to let them know I thought they were worth it.

Now before you think I'm some freakish Pollyanna, I also spoke under my breath, pointed and laughed behind people's back, and muttered repeatedly, "I hate people, I hate people, I hate people," as I walked through the crowds... But not to anyone I worked with.

Perhaps all of that is why I am so fucking tired.