Trite, but true and glaringly ignored. Be it in our responses to client bids or the acquisition of gadgetry in our daily lives. The last three months have seen me sans TV, broadband, radio and videophone with only minor aggravation. Mostly because I have no visitors that need me to scurry down in my PJ's to open the summons of the front door. I have however, had several seconds of my life devoted in the pursuit of trying to locate my mobile phone and even watching in horrified fascination as the bulky telephone installed in the quaint red phone boxes consumed my coins faster than a bulimic shark as I left a desperate message to keep calling till I answered the phone. Since then, I've been circumspect about where I leave the instrument and my keys so as to avoid ageing as I feverishly hunt them down, either before bed or before leaving the house.
Naturally, since I now have that routine down pat (drop keys in front of the door and phone on the bed), it only remains for the damn things themselves to stop cooperating, and the BlackBerry does so with abandon and no warning. I flick my thumb over the track ball and it impudently mocks me by doing nothing. I try and again and it responds with a little teasing move up, before lapsing into sullen non movement. Several more epithets yield nothing. So I try a slew of fetching endearments. Bupkis, zilch, squat. I can't read emails. I can't check my calendar. I can't set my alarm. I can't call anyone unless I know their number by heart. My life is on hold because I can now no longer scroll. My stomach growls in annoyance because bachhi is appalling late for lunch, but I can't do anything about it because I can't call or text. Eventually, she does, and I pacify el growlo with a three course lunch. Fortune smiles on me as a freshly manicured Bewdi bears down on my farewell, and I co-opt her to inspect the oj stain on my carpet and then wind up watching Pelham 123, Forest Gump (well some of it), chewing some stray bones and eliciting a promise of a wake up call at 7 am. Now if I can only get the damn alarm to stop snoozing!
Headlines - September 20, 2010
Since I don't possess a TV or subscribe to a newspaper delivery or broadband, my only source of what is happening on this Big Blue Marble is at work. Helpful exclamations from colleagues, business alerts and my personal favourite, the Beeb online and today has offered up a rather interesting collection of news items.
I'm thrilled by the report on the discovery of an apparent colony of tigers in significantly higher altitudes of the Himalayas in Bhutan and a full family at that. Now if we can only keep the poachers from finding them. As usual, I wonder at the consumers that pay for the imagined miraculous properties that their bodies will bestow and conjure up cruel and creative ways to punish them. But for now, the sight of the big male sniffing his territory makes me smile and the thought of a lactating female makes me want to gush like a dotty old spinster aunt - babies!!!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/earth/hi/earth_news/newsid_8998000/8998042.stm
I wallow in the tigers for a while before moving on to the intriguing headline of the Top 10 Unanswerable questions and my bemusement knows no bounds. I really do worry about the future of the human race if these are the most compelling questions that plague that part of the population that can read, write and have access to technology.....
1. What is the meaning of life?
2. Is there a God?
3. Do blondes have more fun?
4. What is the best diet?
5. Is there anybody out there?
6. Who is the most famous person in the world?
7. What is love?
8. What is the secret to happiness?
9. Did Tony Soprano die?
10. How long will I live?
Siiiiigh. Hopefully long enough to realise that falling asleep on the job when you're a thief is an unsound career move http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-pacific-11361067
Well, at least there's some levity from the deaths from landslides, train crashes and election results that make you wish our DNA mutated to that of the tigers.
I'm thrilled by the report on the discovery of an apparent colony of tigers in significantly higher altitudes of the Himalayas in Bhutan and a full family at that. Now if we can only keep the poachers from finding them. As usual, I wonder at the consumers that pay for the imagined miraculous properties that their bodies will bestow and conjure up cruel and creative ways to punish them. But for now, the sight of the big male sniffing his territory makes me smile and the thought of a lactating female makes me want to gush like a dotty old spinster aunt - babies!!!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/earth/hi/earth_news/newsid_8998000/8998042.stm
I wallow in the tigers for a while before moving on to the intriguing headline of the Top 10 Unanswerable questions and my bemusement knows no bounds. I really do worry about the future of the human race if these are the most compelling questions that plague that part of the population that can read, write and have access to technology.....
1. What is the meaning of life?
2. Is there a God?
3. Do blondes have more fun?
4. What is the best diet?
5. Is there anybody out there?
6. Who is the most famous person in the world?
7. What is love?
8. What is the secret to happiness?
9. Did Tony Soprano die?
10. How long will I live?
Siiiiigh. Hopefully long enough to realise that falling asleep on the job when you're a thief is an unsound career move http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-pacific-11361067
Well, at least there's some levity from the deaths from landslides, train crashes and election results that make you wish our DNA mutated to that of the tigers.
I seem to have a most peculiar knack of snookering myself when it comes to booking my travel dates. Yet again, I have manage to screw up the dates, and have to forgo a long awaited comedy night out to catch a flight instead and that, is the good bit. The less good bit is the spreadsheet I'm blinking at. India, Kenya, London, India, London, Budapest, London, Florida, Mexico, India. The matrix resembles the film as I factor in baggage allowance, climatic conditions, days in each location, potential repeats, borrowed bags, storage provisions and the order of packing. Siiiigh. I'm exhausted and I haven't reached for a bag yet or confirmed dates to the hapless souls who will be welcoming me home in some shape or fashion over the next few months in rather alarming combinations. There used to be a time when I had a great desire to be wedded to a Chinese cook. These days, I'm looking to pledge my troth to a good PA cum packer who will relieve me of the mind numbing decision of whether to take my tulip dress or not....!
Viva Las Vegas
I'm sleep deprived, time zone confused and hungry. But leaving Las Vegas only makes me want to return. This time for longer, time enough to not just see both the naked boys from Down Under and local but to spend time out in the desert, drive past the great swath of America that's punctuated by stark, unwelcoming landscape, never ending horizons, sweltering heat that slaps you in the face without warning, Route 66 dotted by vintage gas stations and hick towns, spectacular dawns and sunsets.
As usual, my IQ of 129 is no match for my hand/eye/brain co-ordination and I contemplate my return leg with an aura of disappointed karma. Vegas. Phoenix. Philadelphia. London. Looks like I'll be taking the scenic route. A delay in Vegas means I'm just in time to board for Phoenix and a brief chat with a relatively well travelled young man who introduced himself as Matthew. Well, Matthew and I have enough time to swap a few geographies, before I find myself seated next to a rather dapper John, offering me his bucket of Oriental mix. John's on his way home to Detroit after some training the military kindly offered him and we share a companionable four hours with much discussion about what's he's going to do when he visits India. Before I can recover from Matthew and John, the wide smile introduces himself as Jesus. Matthew, John and Jesus. My smiles matches his and I don't bat an eyelash as I tell him I'm Magdalena.
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
As usual, my IQ of 129 is no match for my hand/eye/brain co-ordination and I contemplate my return leg with an aura of disappointed karma. Vegas. Phoenix. Philadelphia. London. Looks like I'll be taking the scenic route. A delay in Vegas means I'm just in time to board for Phoenix and a brief chat with a relatively well travelled young man who introduced himself as Matthew. Well, Matthew and I have enough time to swap a few geographies, before I find myself seated next to a rather dapper John, offering me his bucket of Oriental mix. John's on his way home to Detroit after some training the military kindly offered him and we share a companionable four hours with much discussion about what's he's going to do when he visits India. Before I can recover from Matthew and John, the wide smile introduces himself as Jesus. Matthew, John and Jesus. My smiles matches his and I don't bat an eyelash as I tell him I'm Magdalena.
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
Viva Las Vegas - Cher
The Coliseum is a spectacular venue and worthy of all it's hype. I wish I could say the same for Cher. I have put up with much mocking on my taste and sexuality for my brazen appreciation of her voice and style, but having been the proud hairdresser of the Cher doll with the (once) long hair (although I have struggled to understand the doll's coffee coloured skin tone...) and a considerable couture wardrobe complete with exquisite footwear and accessories, I have long harboured a deep affection for this zany creature. Her eccentricities aside, I have always loved her evocatively smoky voice (much improved by age) and along with Tina Turner, she has been one of the performers I have always wanted to watch live. Granted, it's well past her heyday, but ole Tina has a few years on her yet, and if they were to go head to head, Tina would've just annihilated Cher. Unthinkable. The show lived up to it's promise of a grand production with Cher flying in over the audience, outrageous costumes (13 changes that I can remember!) including a full Indian headdress, a show that was a cross between the Cirque de Soliel, a tribute to the Sonny and Cher era and duet that her glide in on a gondola.
All of that and more... Yet, it was sadness I felt as I left instead of the expected euphoria that one expects, that Tina demanded. Sadness for a woman who seems to be alone. One that still seems to be mourning the one man she loved, wallowing in the past instead of revelling in the woman she is today. Her opening was very Cher but then the performance was littered with image montages of the Sonny and Cher show, including a number of duets and sketches and film moments that were hers. While her voice can still raise the hair on my arms, her routine was just that, routine. No passion, no high octane energy and tragically no Oooomph. I had expected so much more. I remember, perhaps unfairly, how Tina just whipped the crowd into a frenzy with a few sultry drawls before belting out her numbers, and here was Cher, resplendent in her sequins and feathers, there, but oddly, not present. Yet, I remember her vibrancy and potency with the crowd, watching a recorded show of one of her earlier concerts in Vegas. Ike is history. Sonny was disconcertingly in the Coliseum with us. He's certainly still with her, weighing her down. Or maybe it's just what being the other side of sixty and alone can do to you.
All of that and more... Yet, it was sadness I felt as I left instead of the expected euphoria that one expects, that Tina demanded. Sadness for a woman who seems to be alone. One that still seems to be mourning the one man she loved, wallowing in the past instead of revelling in the woman she is today. Her opening was very Cher but then the performance was littered with image montages of the Sonny and Cher show, including a number of duets and sketches and film moments that were hers. While her voice can still raise the hair on my arms, her routine was just that, routine. No passion, no high octane energy and tragically no Oooomph. I had expected so much more. I remember, perhaps unfairly, how Tina just whipped the crowd into a frenzy with a few sultry drawls before belting out her numbers, and here was Cher, resplendent in her sequins and feathers, there, but oddly, not present. Yet, I remember her vibrancy and potency with the crowd, watching a recorded show of one of her earlier concerts in Vegas. Ike is history. Sonny was disconcertingly in the Coliseum with us. He's certainly still with her, weighing her down. Or maybe it's just what being the other side of sixty and alone can do to you.
Viva Las Vegas - Caesers Palace
Decadence, just like the Roman Empire. Right from the generous sprinkling naked marble statues that adorn random fountains and nooks, the little Venus garden tucked away near the opulent pools to the Trevi fountain under a fake blue sky littered with puffy white clouds. It's crazy, magnificent and utterly louche in the most tasteful manner and I love it! My meanderings take me past a cafe that reminds me of Europe and the set lunch menu makes my stomach groan in anticipation. This is where I will subduing my sky dive shivers come lunchtime. I'm distracted and tell the charming bellman I only have a UK mobile before smiling at his charming little hit. The room, like all rooms in this country is large but has little else to offer, the bathroom, 2 bathrobes and the ubiquitous ironing board and iron. Why is it then I see so many crumpled Americans??
Having already booked a table, I stroll past the snaking queue for the buffet rather smugly and am soon seated at Payards, wondering why there are still tables empty at 1pm. I unfurl the crisp linen napkin with a sigh of pleasure, which turns into a moan of longing as a basket of freshly baked baguette (French rendition) is set before me with a pat of butter (American rendition) - marriage made in heaven. The shrimp remoulade arrives looking too pretty to eat, but I'm a ruthless woman. As is typical, the sheer size of the shrimp guarantees it won't be sweet, but the sauce has just the right bit of kick to make that irrelevant and I enjoy every morsel. The service is attentive without being cloying and they remember to top up my glass with un-iced water, and I'm baffled at the desire of the general populace to grace the buffet bus stop instead. Next, is the seared sea bass on a bed of ratatouille, a triumph as I moan into the best ratatouille I have had in a very, very long time. A triumph that makes me forget the small print on the menu. But the accented waiter won't let me forget and hands me the only unsophisticated piece of my meal so far. A dessert menu with brightly coloured photos of the chef's selection. My natural inclination is for the Tiramisu, but the chocolate mousse also beckons and I leave it to him to end this for me. A classic mousse interrupted by caramelised peanuts. Distinctly unattractive to the ear, but manna in the mouth! All this for the Caeserly sum of $21 (and this doesn't even include the $1 the waiter throws in when I inform him of my intention to torture him by asking him to split my bill between my card and every last cent of my loose change). I feel like I've just perpetrated a crime and rue the fact that they're closed for dinner.
My post coital, ooops, luncheon indulgence is a ninety minute abandonment to the spa. I'm greeted and shown around the facilities and politely told that I'm not allowed any phones or cameras as this is a clothing optional spa. Ah. Good thing, given that the clothing had completely eluded me and I had rocked up without anything but optional. I eschew the pools for iced tea in a softly comfortable sofa. As my time draws closer, I'm escorted to a holding area, heated, tiled sunken seating where we're all reminded of the clothing optional choice as soon I'm the only woman among five men. Before I'm left feeling like a fifth wheel, Aaron comes to fetch me and guides me to the treatment rooms, a part of the spa I hadn't seen earlier and I try not to grin as we walk the length of an apartment block to get to Room M (yes, they begin at A, and M isn't the end).
Safely ensconced in M, Aaron leaves me instructions to change into the spa bikini and I'm taken aback to see 2 plastic packets. Top and bottom. Hello? I have to wear a bra? Aaron tells me I do, oblivious to the irony of being in the city of titty shows and having to cover my boobs in a clothing optional spa in the privacy of my own M room. Needless to say, the bra seems to share my sentiment, and does precious little to cover my boobs every time I move an arm. I feel like I've entered a start trek audition as he smears me detoxing mud type thingy around my shining, moving, virtually alive bikini and soon agrees with me that it's more than just a tad pointless. The audition goes up a notch as he picks up a fat roll of cling film and starts wrapping me up. I feel a close kinship with Seven of Nine, warring between feeling cool, laughing at how nerdy I am, and rather enjoying the saran wrap! There's enough cellophane around me to wrap lunches for the entire World Cup round robin players and my audition morphs into a shoot as I'm ushered to the table and horizontalised, waiting to be ministered by the good doctor. Trekkie turns to sap as my head, neck and shoulders are being manhandled. Soon enough, it's time for surgery and I'm de-mummified by a pair of nail scissors. I feel oddly bereft, but all that is soon forgotten as the dear boy flattens his palms on my spine drawing it up, arching my back in a freakishly unexpected move. Oh my! The next fifty minutes are confined to little moans and the occasional groan and it takes me a full seven minutes to crawl off the table and into my robe. My complaisant surrender is evident as I trade sleepy smiles with the other women in the locker room. Veni, vidi, vici.
Having already booked a table, I stroll past the snaking queue for the buffet rather smugly and am soon seated at Payards, wondering why there are still tables empty at 1pm. I unfurl the crisp linen napkin with a sigh of pleasure, which turns into a moan of longing as a basket of freshly baked baguette (French rendition) is set before me with a pat of butter (American rendition) - marriage made in heaven. The shrimp remoulade arrives looking too pretty to eat, but I'm a ruthless woman. As is typical, the sheer size of the shrimp guarantees it won't be sweet, but the sauce has just the right bit of kick to make that irrelevant and I enjoy every morsel. The service is attentive without being cloying and they remember to top up my glass with un-iced water, and I'm baffled at the desire of the general populace to grace the buffet bus stop instead. Next, is the seared sea bass on a bed of ratatouille, a triumph as I moan into the best ratatouille I have had in a very, very long time. A triumph that makes me forget the small print on the menu. But the accented waiter won't let me forget and hands me the only unsophisticated piece of my meal so far. A dessert menu with brightly coloured photos of the chef's selection. My natural inclination is for the Tiramisu, but the chocolate mousse also beckons and I leave it to him to end this for me. A classic mousse interrupted by caramelised peanuts. Distinctly unattractive to the ear, but manna in the mouth! All this for the Caeserly sum of $21 (and this doesn't even include the $1 the waiter throws in when I inform him of my intention to torture him by asking him to split my bill between my card and every last cent of my loose change). I feel like I've just perpetrated a crime and rue the fact that they're closed for dinner.
My post coital, ooops, luncheon indulgence is a ninety minute abandonment to the spa. I'm greeted and shown around the facilities and politely told that I'm not allowed any phones or cameras as this is a clothing optional spa. Ah. Good thing, given that the clothing had completely eluded me and I had rocked up without anything but optional. I eschew the pools for iced tea in a softly comfortable sofa. As my time draws closer, I'm escorted to a holding area, heated, tiled sunken seating where we're all reminded of the clothing optional choice as soon I'm the only woman among five men. Before I'm left feeling like a fifth wheel, Aaron comes to fetch me and guides me to the treatment rooms, a part of the spa I hadn't seen earlier and I try not to grin as we walk the length of an apartment block to get to Room M (yes, they begin at A, and M isn't the end).
Safely ensconced in M, Aaron leaves me instructions to change into the spa bikini and I'm taken aback to see 2 plastic packets. Top and bottom. Hello? I have to wear a bra? Aaron tells me I do, oblivious to the irony of being in the city of titty shows and having to cover my boobs in a clothing optional spa in the privacy of my own M room. Needless to say, the bra seems to share my sentiment, and does precious little to cover my boobs every time I move an arm. I feel like I've entered a start trek audition as he smears me detoxing mud type thingy around my shining, moving, virtually alive bikini and soon agrees with me that it's more than just a tad pointless. The audition goes up a notch as he picks up a fat roll of cling film and starts wrapping me up. I feel a close kinship with Seven of Nine, warring between feeling cool, laughing at how nerdy I am, and rather enjoying the saran wrap! There's enough cellophane around me to wrap lunches for the entire World Cup round robin players and my audition morphs into a shoot as I'm ushered to the table and horizontalised, waiting to be ministered by the good doctor. Trekkie turns to sap as my head, neck and shoulders are being manhandled. Soon enough, it's time for surgery and I'm de-mummified by a pair of nail scissors. I feel oddly bereft, but all that is soon forgotten as the dear boy flattens his palms on my spine drawing it up, arching my back in a freakishly unexpected move. Oh my! The next fifty minutes are confined to little moans and the occasional groan and it takes me a full seven minutes to crawl off the table and into my robe. My complaisant surrender is evident as I trade sleepy smiles with the other women in the locker room. Veni, vidi, vici.
Viva Las Vegas - Bombs away
Groggily I reach for the phone... can't be the Czech again, can it? It's a woman. The same one who reluctantly agreed to my 11 o'clock slot for a Sunday skydive. The winds are already up to 25 mph and predicted to go up to 40 mph by 11 am. The sooner we get you down here, the better our chances of dropping you out of the sky. I sigh and wonder just how badly I want to do this. Badly enough.
My bag duly deposited at the bell desk at Caeser's Palace, I warn him I only have a UK mobile before his wide grin alerts me to the classic I need your phone number flirt. Sleep. I need more sleep! I get to Bally's ten minutes ahead of time and squint at the limousine parked in the driveway. Yep, the license plate says JUMPER and the windows scream Las Vegas Sky Dive. Must be my ride, so I amble over as nonchalantly as my embarrassment will allow to be ushered into the back. Great, I'm special, the only one for today and I lean back getting comfy in the vast interiors for my 25 minutes sojourn away from Vegas to Jean airstrip.
Clearly, the shop is open just for Ms. 11 o'clock on a Sunday. The woman who called me, limo chauffeur, diver, pilot and yours truly. I've already signed away all my fundamental rights and double signed 'it may result in death' on two different forms and then gag at the dust that rises from the overalls I'm handed over. Apparently, the only function this serves is to keep my clothes clean. Riiiight! Luckily, I'm fairly blase about protocol and saunter purposefully towards the little plane sans any briefing. We're off, and in a bit, the shutter is opened and I get my first taste of flying at 5,000 to 15,000 feet in a plane with no door. It's thrilling and the vastness of the arid landscape is stunning. The wind has already picked up and soon, the temperature drops as we climb higher and Jace points out Red Rock, the whorehouses on the other side of the canyon, Lake Mead and familiar instructions on the jump, with the proviso that he'll tell me the rest when we're parachuting down.
It's a bright sunny day with nary a cloud, so very different from my first jump, and oddly enough, I find a few butterflies running around my stomach. Hmmmm. Interesting. Last time around, there were none. This time I can see the ground below me the entire way, feel the wind slapping against an outstretched hand, feel the cold air cutting through the overalls. Nearly there, so we scuttle to the edge of the plane, and a bloomin' countdown. 3-2-1 and whooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaa....... we tumble of the edge into bright sunshine and blue nothingness going around in circles before face down in the fall position. Before I can digest the fact that this jump lacks the sheer adrenalin and excitement of the last one, the chute deploys and my thoughts are cut short by a rude yank. Ok, it's still too short, but I am surprised by the ordinariness of the experience, and marvel at the boys skill as he combats the strong winds to direct us to the drop site.
Naturally, he's been doing it since he was a boy, 16 years along and the parachute ride is more fun than the jump (I know, utterly ridiculous!) and I feel like a bad heist film in the making as I contemplate the traffic on the highway below us, flanked on either side by parched wide space, sure we're going to miss the drop zone altogether. The wind keeps pushing us away and I'm dubious as to whether we're actually making any progress on our descent, but the trucks get bigger along with the spots on the square that await us. Eventually, Jace maneuvers us down (yes, he did mention the feet off the ground bit), and it takes him, and the two others to slow us down and pull the chute to a stop on the ground, as the wind callously whips all of us around. I still have a very large grin on my face as we ride back to the base, Jace and pilot speeding away on their motorbikes as I glide by in my limo.
Clearly, I'm going to have to give this another go to sort out my feelings about sky diving. From sheer euphoria, shaking excitement hours later and I would do this every week if I could afford it to hmmmm, ok, that was nice but don't need to do it again. Very peculiar. Till jump 3, I guess....
My bag duly deposited at the bell desk at Caeser's Palace, I warn him I only have a UK mobile before his wide grin alerts me to the classic I need your phone number flirt. Sleep. I need more sleep! I get to Bally's ten minutes ahead of time and squint at the limousine parked in the driveway. Yep, the license plate says JUMPER and the windows scream Las Vegas Sky Dive. Must be my ride, so I amble over as nonchalantly as my embarrassment will allow to be ushered into the back. Great, I'm special, the only one for today and I lean back getting comfy in the vast interiors for my 25 minutes sojourn away from Vegas to Jean airstrip.
Clearly, the shop is open just for Ms. 11 o'clock on a Sunday. The woman who called me, limo chauffeur, diver, pilot and yours truly. I've already signed away all my fundamental rights and double signed 'it may result in death' on two different forms and then gag at the dust that rises from the overalls I'm handed over. Apparently, the only function this serves is to keep my clothes clean. Riiiight! Luckily, I'm fairly blase about protocol and saunter purposefully towards the little plane sans any briefing. We're off, and in a bit, the shutter is opened and I get my first taste of flying at 5,000 to 15,000 feet in a plane with no door. It's thrilling and the vastness of the arid landscape is stunning. The wind has already picked up and soon, the temperature drops as we climb higher and Jace points out Red Rock, the whorehouses on the other side of the canyon, Lake Mead and familiar instructions on the jump, with the proviso that he'll tell me the rest when we're parachuting down.
It's a bright sunny day with nary a cloud, so very different from my first jump, and oddly enough, I find a few butterflies running around my stomach. Hmmmm. Interesting. Last time around, there were none. This time I can see the ground below me the entire way, feel the wind slapping against an outstretched hand, feel the cold air cutting through the overalls. Nearly there, so we scuttle to the edge of the plane, and a bloomin' countdown. 3-2-1 and whooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaa....... we tumble of the edge into bright sunshine and blue nothingness going around in circles before face down in the fall position. Before I can digest the fact that this jump lacks the sheer adrenalin and excitement of the last one, the chute deploys and my thoughts are cut short by a rude yank. Ok, it's still too short, but I am surprised by the ordinariness of the experience, and marvel at the boys skill as he combats the strong winds to direct us to the drop site.
Naturally, he's been doing it since he was a boy, 16 years along and the parachute ride is more fun than the jump (I know, utterly ridiculous!) and I feel like a bad heist film in the making as I contemplate the traffic on the highway below us, flanked on either side by parched wide space, sure we're going to miss the drop zone altogether. The wind keeps pushing us away and I'm dubious as to whether we're actually making any progress on our descent, but the trucks get bigger along with the spots on the square that await us. Eventually, Jace maneuvers us down (yes, he did mention the feet off the ground bit), and it takes him, and the two others to slow us down and pull the chute to a stop on the ground, as the wind callously whips all of us around. I still have a very large grin on my face as we ride back to the base, Jace and pilot speeding away on their motorbikes as I glide by in my limo.
Clearly, I'm going to have to give this another go to sort out my feelings about sky diving. From sheer euphoria, shaking excitement hours later and I would do this every week if I could afford it to hmmmm, ok, that was nice but don't need to do it again. Very peculiar. Till jump 3, I guess....
Viva Las Vegas - Let's get Nekkid
Sin City. Gambling may bore me, but toned, naked dancing bodies? Not yet.....
As a connoisseur of all things beautiful, it would be remiss of me to confine myself only to watching naked men gyrate, so I indulge in my preferred form of naked women, à la Burlesque. Sadly, the Vegas interpretation is quite dramatically divergent from my own, with nary a nipple tassel in sight. I do have a thing for elbow length gloves being peeled off, and well, they didn't. More like Demi Moore in Striptease, of a lascivious and sophisticated variety, there was just one woman that was worth watching in the line up apart from a strikingly tall and skinnyly athletic blonde (better clad than bare) with talent for the pole. One of the women, of Asian descent spent most of the show with a rather forbidding scowl on her face, perhaps pandering to the S&M strands in the crowd, but all she did was remind me of someone who had sucked on rather a sour lemon. The best moments of the show were offered up by Nancy Rand ,the stand up interlude between the change of sets who was hilarious. Still, the house was packed and the crowd enjoyed it.
Now, the men. More specifically, the Chippendales. I had entertained the hectic notion of catching them at 8 o'clock and then heading off for the 10.30 appearance of the Thunder from Down Under (Nekkid Aussie Men gyrating...) to do a comparative assessment, but clearly, age is catching up with me and I pick the morning sky dive over more toned torsos. First of all, an all woman (well barring a couple of gob smacked men) crowd is fucking scary. There is much screaming in shrill tones and for some reason colour is no longer au fait. I stand out like a sore them with my turquoise and covered legs amidst a gaggle of fuck me heels clad mourners crowing over their veil bedecked hens. When the lights go down and the show actually begins, my senses are assaulted by screaming like I never heard, and my brain registers a whole new decibel level. Jesus Christ! These women are crazy! Either that, or they've actually never seen a bunch of naked men before. The contrast between last night's crowd and tonight’s is poles apart (no pun intended), and I can understand why the men might enjoying performing a damn sight more!
By the time the first lot of clothes are ripped off, I fear for my eardrums, but have zoned in on the one man who's clearly got it. That certain je ne sais quoi that makes a woman grrrrowl and want to sink her teeth into. A look, a raised eyebrow, a crinkle of the eyes, the slash of a cheek grin, the fluidity of a movement, a roguish wink, a slow hand across the chest and he can even dance. Fuck.... an animal in heat with oodles of charm, and nipple rings! I have never seen a sexier man move on the dance floor in my entire life. Combine that with washboard abs, buns of steel, sexy tats and nipple rings? Have mercy! Reason enough to join the caterwauling!
I'm torn between the ubersexy bad boy and the screaming women and have to laugh. I'd yeowl for him but this is ridiculous and the smile that stays on my face has as much to do with the women as the men. Right from the sultry You can leave your Hat On, to an unexpected hip hop bounce, the construction workers (they actually had live welding torches...oh my!) and finally, the cowboys. Cowboys! I mean puhleese! But I find myself conflicted between shaking my head at the obvious and enjoying it thoroughly - What can I say..... there is something about a hot man in a Stetson that will get the hormones into overdrive even while you try and contain your laughter at how predictable you are. The piece de resistance had to be the simulated sex with three of the hottest (everything is relative) studs - on a bed, a couch and a motorbike, start of with a slow strip, and then buck naked, although strategically placed gyrate slowly and then into a controlled frenzy is positively pornographic, utterly orgasmic and totally frustrating as the howling reaches epidemic proportions...
Unlike the burlesque, the boys come down and hug the brides to be and let the screaming hordes manhandle them, and the lucky few get to go up on stage for some serious participation and full frontal views (not to mention some serious stroking!). So far, the best thing that the Strip has to offer..... Maybe next time, I will do the Thunder from Down Under as well. I'm disappointed that the store doesn't have any DVD's (apart from the making of the calendar), and photo stills do little justice to the pure male sexuality and charm of the entirely edible Jace Crispin. Viva Las Vegas!
As a connoisseur of all things beautiful, it would be remiss of me to confine myself only to watching naked men gyrate, so I indulge in my preferred form of naked women, à la Burlesque. Sadly, the Vegas interpretation is quite dramatically divergent from my own, with nary a nipple tassel in sight. I do have a thing for elbow length gloves being peeled off, and well, they didn't. More like Demi Moore in Striptease, of a lascivious and sophisticated variety, there was just one woman that was worth watching in the line up apart from a strikingly tall and skinnyly athletic blonde (better clad than bare) with talent for the pole. One of the women, of Asian descent spent most of the show with a rather forbidding scowl on her face, perhaps pandering to the S&M strands in the crowd, but all she did was remind me of someone who had sucked on rather a sour lemon. The best moments of the show were offered up by Nancy Rand ,the stand up interlude between the change of sets who was hilarious. Still, the house was packed and the crowd enjoyed it.
Now, the men. More specifically, the Chippendales. I had entertained the hectic notion of catching them at 8 o'clock and then heading off for the 10.30 appearance of the Thunder from Down Under (Nekkid Aussie Men gyrating...) to do a comparative assessment, but clearly, age is catching up with me and I pick the morning sky dive over more toned torsos. First of all, an all woman (well barring a couple of gob smacked men) crowd is fucking scary. There is much screaming in shrill tones and for some reason colour is no longer au fait. I stand out like a sore them with my turquoise and covered legs amidst a gaggle of fuck me heels clad mourners crowing over their veil bedecked hens. When the lights go down and the show actually begins, my senses are assaulted by screaming like I never heard, and my brain registers a whole new decibel level. Jesus Christ! These women are crazy! Either that, or they've actually never seen a bunch of naked men before. The contrast between last night's crowd and tonight’s is poles apart (no pun intended), and I can understand why the men might enjoying performing a damn sight more!
By the time the first lot of clothes are ripped off, I fear for my eardrums, but have zoned in on the one man who's clearly got it. That certain je ne sais quoi that makes a woman grrrrowl and want to sink her teeth into. A look, a raised eyebrow, a crinkle of the eyes, the slash of a cheek grin, the fluidity of a movement, a roguish wink, a slow hand across the chest and he can even dance. Fuck.... an animal in heat with oodles of charm, and nipple rings! I have never seen a sexier man move on the dance floor in my entire life. Combine that with washboard abs, buns of steel, sexy tats and nipple rings? Have mercy! Reason enough to join the caterwauling!
I'm torn between the ubersexy bad boy and the screaming women and have to laugh. I'd yeowl for him but this is ridiculous and the smile that stays on my face has as much to do with the women as the men. Right from the sultry You can leave your Hat On, to an unexpected hip hop bounce, the construction workers (they actually had live welding torches...oh my!) and finally, the cowboys. Cowboys! I mean puhleese! But I find myself conflicted between shaking my head at the obvious and enjoying it thoroughly - What can I say..... there is something about a hot man in a Stetson that will get the hormones into overdrive even while you try and contain your laughter at how predictable you are. The piece de resistance had to be the simulated sex with three of the hottest (everything is relative) studs - on a bed, a couch and a motorbike, start of with a slow strip, and then buck naked, although strategically placed gyrate slowly and then into a controlled frenzy is positively pornographic, utterly orgasmic and totally frustrating as the howling reaches epidemic proportions...
Unlike the burlesque, the boys come down and hug the brides to be and let the screaming hordes manhandle them, and the lucky few get to go up on stage for some serious participation and full frontal views (not to mention some serious stroking!). So far, the best thing that the Strip has to offer..... Maybe next time, I will do the Thunder from Down Under as well. I'm disappointed that the store doesn't have any DVD's (apart from the making of the calendar), and photo stills do little justice to the pure male sexuality and charm of the entirely edible Jace Crispin. Viva Las Vegas!
Viva Las Vegas - God Bless America
Clearly, Las Vegas is not a city that any woman visits on her own. I don't remember encountering quite so many, "Are you by yourself?", "And you're on you're own?"'s ever before when I've travelled alone. I suppose, if you're not a hard core gambler and in Vegas to do what one normally does, than you probably wouldn't be here alone. But then, I'm here to do all the other stuff.... like the white water rafting.
Of the six who ventured forth, the Germans thankfully and predictably were hardly surprised by my state of singledom, but it caused much consternation amongst the boys from Oklahoma. A young lad, a middling one and an older one. As it turns out, Daddy and the two boys, celebrating the baby's eighteen birthday. Older bro asks me if I'm by myself before we set out for the raft, and Daddy confirms with a gruff, "and you're here by yourself". I nod assent, trying not to look too woebegone, but can't help the smile when he adds, "We'll take care of you". As it turns out, I'm on the same raft as the Oklahoma boys, and what can I say. They are sweet and charming and do keep and eye on me - making sure I'm happy sitting up front where I am, holding out supporting hands for any rock scrabbling to be done, waiting till I crossed all the slippery bits, and then, taking photographs with a promise to send them to me as well. Old fashioned they might be, but I am touched by their chivalry and genuine concern about me on my ownsome.
The freaky Czech who seems to have done pretty much everything from working in a gold mine to chauffeuring a rich lady across Europe and meeting mad scientists at council forums to legalise cannabis has also imbibed of Americana, and calls me up later at the hotel to say how wonderful it was to have had my company and apparently how everyone thought I was such a lovely woman. He might have said girl, but I choose to ignore that. While I'm trying to decide whether this classifies me as beyond pathetic, or whether he's angling for an invite to share a bite of some variety, he does tell me that had he been single, sans pregnant wife, he'd have loved to show me around Vegas and suggests I might want to try the gold mine tomorrow. I hang up a tad bemused, and still unsure of whether I err on the side of the forlron or siren.
They might be nosy, they might talk way to much, but you have to admit, these Americans are really much warmer than their European counterparts, especially when it comes to a stranger.
Of the six who ventured forth, the Germans thankfully and predictably were hardly surprised by my state of singledom, but it caused much consternation amongst the boys from Oklahoma. A young lad, a middling one and an older one. As it turns out, Daddy and the two boys, celebrating the baby's eighteen birthday. Older bro asks me if I'm by myself before we set out for the raft, and Daddy confirms with a gruff, "and you're here by yourself". I nod assent, trying not to look too woebegone, but can't help the smile when he adds, "We'll take care of you". As it turns out, I'm on the same raft as the Oklahoma boys, and what can I say. They are sweet and charming and do keep and eye on me - making sure I'm happy sitting up front where I am, holding out supporting hands for any rock scrabbling to be done, waiting till I crossed all the slippery bits, and then, taking photographs with a promise to send them to me as well. Old fashioned they might be, but I am touched by their chivalry and genuine concern about me on my ownsome.
The freaky Czech who seems to have done pretty much everything from working in a gold mine to chauffeuring a rich lady across Europe and meeting mad scientists at council forums to legalise cannabis has also imbibed of Americana, and calls me up later at the hotel to say how wonderful it was to have had my company and apparently how everyone thought I was such a lovely woman. He might have said girl, but I choose to ignore that. While I'm trying to decide whether this classifies me as beyond pathetic, or whether he's angling for an invite to share a bite of some variety, he does tell me that had he been single, sans pregnant wife, he'd have loved to show me around Vegas and suggests I might want to try the gold mine tomorrow. I hang up a tad bemused, and still unsure of whether I err on the side of the forlron or siren.
They might be nosy, they might talk way to much, but you have to admit, these Americans are really much warmer than their European counterparts, especially when it comes to a stranger.
Viva Las Vegas - Dolan Springs, Arizona
The medinas in Morocco are the places that time forgot. Once inside the walls, life stepped back, unchanged for the last hundred years. Driving through Arizona wasn't that much different. Surreal, a bit like being on a permanent living and breathing film set. Spectacular landscape, dotted by half hearted settlements that seem oddly quaint. I might be entirely urban, but I am still someone that calls India home. Maybe it's a cultural thing, or maybe it's all the absence of bullock carts that makes me feel this way or the sight of forlorn tumbleweed.
We're in Dolan Springs, and it is nothing but a little village in the true sense of the word, just missing the trappings. Unlike most villages I know, it extends to fill the vast horizon so I'm happy to go along with their definition of small town. Small hick town crowds my brain as we park at the gas station feeling oddly out of costume. I watch the burly man exit the store, baby clamped to his chest while three others dally around, the chimes on the door echoing noisily behind. There's no one on the porch, but I swear they just might have been. It's like the clocks move more lethargically this side of the border.
The van that ought to be coloured like a school bus pulls out, towing a resisting trailer tanker of water. My nose crinkles and I settle for burly dude being a model father, lugging around a port-a-pool for his children's paddling pleasure. Right! Daniel eventually appears with yet another cup of coffee (for a man that drives on average between 300-400 miles a day, yes, A day, he doesn't reek of eau de café), clearly affected by the town's absence of speed and gives us a bit of history. The Springs in the Dolan Springs is more optimism than anything else as they lack a proper water supply. We're not really sure quite what he means. Read the man's lips - there is no proper water supply. Ergo, the pretend port-a-pool being towed around. We are parked in a town with an alleged population of 2,000 bodies and at least 1,000 vehicles in the middle of the worlds greatest rumoured superpower, and they don't have running tap water. Unbidden, I think of DDM's broker and his indefatigable enthusiasm at introducing each flat with a flourish of the wrist in the bathroom/kitchen, "See, 24 hours water!". It does not augur well for the aptly named Washing Well Laundromat....
Daniel the well informed (inhaling weed has many spectacular side effects - such as meeting interesting people of course!), shares the fact that 1 of the 2,000 inhabitants of Dolan Springs includes a mad scientist. Yep, that is correct. A 100% bonafide mad scientist. A brilliant man who has explored the realms of anti gravity amongst other things and has also (as we were reliably informed), been spoken to by aliens on more than a single occasion, and had court cases slapped against him for patent infringement to stop him in his ground breaking research. Naturally, he has been investigated by the FBI, CIA, ATS, DDA, YMCA....
Regretfully, it's time for us to move on before we can run through the roster of the remaining 1,999 inhabitants of this wonderful part of the world. Maybe next time.
We're in Dolan Springs, and it is nothing but a little village in the true sense of the word, just missing the trappings. Unlike most villages I know, it extends to fill the vast horizon so I'm happy to go along with their definition of small town. Small hick town crowds my brain as we park at the gas station feeling oddly out of costume. I watch the burly man exit the store, baby clamped to his chest while three others dally around, the chimes on the door echoing noisily behind. There's no one on the porch, but I swear they just might have been. It's like the clocks move more lethargically this side of the border.
The van that ought to be coloured like a school bus pulls out, towing a resisting trailer tanker of water. My nose crinkles and I settle for burly dude being a model father, lugging around a port-a-pool for his children's paddling pleasure. Right! Daniel eventually appears with yet another cup of coffee (for a man that drives on average between 300-400 miles a day, yes, A day, he doesn't reek of eau de café), clearly affected by the town's absence of speed and gives us a bit of history. The Springs in the Dolan Springs is more optimism than anything else as they lack a proper water supply. We're not really sure quite what he means. Read the man's lips - there is no proper water supply. Ergo, the pretend port-a-pool being towed around. We are parked in a town with an alleged population of 2,000 bodies and at least 1,000 vehicles in the middle of the worlds greatest rumoured superpower, and they don't have running tap water. Unbidden, I think of DDM's broker and his indefatigable enthusiasm at introducing each flat with a flourish of the wrist in the bathroom/kitchen, "See, 24 hours water!". It does not augur well for the aptly named Washing Well Laundromat....
Daniel the well informed (inhaling weed has many spectacular side effects - such as meeting interesting people of course!), shares the fact that 1 of the 2,000 inhabitants of Dolan Springs includes a mad scientist. Yep, that is correct. A 100% bonafide mad scientist. A brilliant man who has explored the realms of anti gravity amongst other things and has also (as we were reliably informed), been spoken to by aliens on more than a single occasion, and had court cases slapped against him for patent infringement to stop him in his ground breaking research. Naturally, he has been investigated by the FBI, CIA, ATS, DDA, YMCA....
Regretfully, it's time for us to move on before we can run through the roster of the remaining 1,999 inhabitants of this wonderful part of the world. Maybe next time.
Viva Las Vegas - Rosie's Diner
4 am is not the best time for a sprightly meet and greet strangers encounter, but the query about whether we'd get a chance to stop somewhere for some coffee that wafts down from the back receives a warm response. Daniel the driver assures us we will get a chance to stop for breakfast and offers us a choice of either Rosie's, a classic diner from the 1920's (assuming she's open) or a Starbucks for our pre dawn needs assessment. A unanimous decision at an attempt to awaken Rosie over Starbucks best sees us settle down for the long drive, across the state line into Arizona.
We cross Boulder city as the horizon starts to lighten, and the pale yellow of the yet weak sun streaks the sky in nervous anticipation of another scorcher. It's seldom I get to see the sun rise, and I savour the unending horizon as the fringes of the sun move from the twilight zone to a freshly washed, pink hued, blue sky, unmarred by a whisper of a cloud. We drive past the majestic Hoover dam, awed by the new bridge (due to open in November, but much delayed as evinced by Daniels disgust) and the stark landscape that reminds me of Iceland, and soon pull into Rosie's diner. Still bleary eyed, I fail to notice more than the quaint film like facade and porch but am caught up short inside. A large blackboard announces eggs and ham, eggs and bacon, eggs, ham and cheese and various other titillating combos including a rather odd eggs and cake. My need for adventure lies in different directions and I opt for a tame ham and cheese grilled sandwich and settle myself on the plastic bar stool at the counter, mouth open at being transported to a different time. Rosie is blonde (naturally), loud, has a pencil tucked behind her ear and calls everyone honey. The decor is mostly vinyl, the jukebox ancient, the coffee permanent and the advice eternal. I chuckle as I stare down the barrel of a pistol on the large poster - "Thieves pay attention. Have your ID ready, we notify next of kin". You tell 'em Rosie. Ritchie Sambora pings in my superego and I wonder if she ever was the darling of the high school team or has a rose tattoo tucked away somewhere indiscreet. Shockingly, Rosie also serves tea, and her food hits the spot. She offers Daniel pithy advice and I hear things about dropping three babies and what it'll do to a pregnant woman and focus on masticating instead. We loiter outside for a bit, enjoying the morning and getting used to each other, and I suppress a smile at the sign I'd missed earlier, proudly announcing the beer garden.
It's time to roll, and we do, down Route 66, to experience the natural side of Vegas... as exhorted by the screaming Pink Jeep Company on its side. Viva Las Vegas!
Good Morning America...!
While the flight from London is a bit disconcerting when the Air Marshall turns out to be 'cabin crew' complete with drinks trolley, it does make me take a closer look at the selection on offer. From fairly standard long painted nails trollop to prison warden, each adorned in a seemingly random collection of uniforms... trousers, skirts, dresses, t-shirts, jackets... but the seats are built for XL and there's leg room to match the overhead luggage bins.
I'm pleasantly surprised by Philadelphia airports Market Place, and succumb to the offering by the little Chinese girl. Bourbon chicken on a toothpick has me hooked and I battle sleep as a shovel some good old Chinese food towards my starving belly. Tragically, flying has always found me eating before, during and after the event, but this was a deeply satisfying pit stop.
I amble over to my gate well ahead of time, trying not to gape at the man ahead of me, who reminds me of all cartoons with his oddly structured very large torso topped by a small head and supported by relatively small legs. I find an empty section and try my new resolve to get some sleep while travelling. My snooze worthy efforts are reduced to null and void in a matter of minutes as a gaggle of elder ladies delicately plonk themselves down behind me and proceed in shrill tones to discuss the gambling that will happen. I sigh and give the lounge a once over through slitted eyes, desperately seeking an avenue of escape. Table talk gives way to some serious bitching about someone else who ate soup when they got home in 100 degrees, and my head swivels with greater desperation. Hah! Little did I know...
My resigned consciousness registers a middle aged/older couple that take up residence next to me and insist on speaking with each other in extremely loud tones. I curl deeper into my seat with a low moan and thank my stars as the large husband tells his gregarious wife that the lady on his other side is reading the same book. Stig Larson's damn tattoo. I shudder at the thought but that is rapidly swamped by the soft sell of the Kindle that springs up. I wonder if they actually work for Amazon (on commissions, naturally) as wifey swaps her place next to mine to demonstrate how marvelous and space saving it is to the hapless lady who has now abandoned any reading of the novel, and that couple surrender to the verbose onslaught of the couple that just joined us all.
The hapless couple eventually leave, whether it's to really get some food or just escape the assault and go read her book, I do not know but they go armed with great insight on car rentals and prices and advice that a one way is cheaper than a return.... and our duo turns their attention to the rest of the lounge. His booming voice makes me want to smack him, but I merely breath more deeply as he starts of a conversation with this young German couple sat across (at a distance not considered in conversation range!). I now know (along with 43 others) that Laughlin on the Colorado river is a must visit because they have old cave paintings that date back to 10,000 years, that our lady doesn't have a head for heights, that you can go skiing and indulge in coffee type drinks in a chalet type environment somewhere in the mountains (my auditory senses must've blinked), next year they would be visiting either the Islands or Europe, the Islands of course being the Caribbean (where apparently they are an annual fixture... shudder!) and that the buffet on Fremont Street is the best to be had in Vegas, but it's not cheap mind you... all of $25-30 American money! Hallelujah!
I'm pleasantly surprised by Philadelphia airports Market Place, and succumb to the offering by the little Chinese girl. Bourbon chicken on a toothpick has me hooked and I battle sleep as a shovel some good old Chinese food towards my starving belly. Tragically, flying has always found me eating before, during and after the event, but this was a deeply satisfying pit stop.
I amble over to my gate well ahead of time, trying not to gape at the man ahead of me, who reminds me of all cartoons with his oddly structured very large torso topped by a small head and supported by relatively small legs. I find an empty section and try my new resolve to get some sleep while travelling. My snooze worthy efforts are reduced to null and void in a matter of minutes as a gaggle of elder ladies delicately plonk themselves down behind me and proceed in shrill tones to discuss the gambling that will happen. I sigh and give the lounge a once over through slitted eyes, desperately seeking an avenue of escape. Table talk gives way to some serious bitching about someone else who ate soup when they got home in 100 degrees, and my head swivels with greater desperation. Hah! Little did I know...
My resigned consciousness registers a middle aged/older couple that take up residence next to me and insist on speaking with each other in extremely loud tones. I curl deeper into my seat with a low moan and thank my stars as the large husband tells his gregarious wife that the lady on his other side is reading the same book. Stig Larson's damn tattoo. I shudder at the thought but that is rapidly swamped by the soft sell of the Kindle that springs up. I wonder if they actually work for Amazon (on commissions, naturally) as wifey swaps her place next to mine to demonstrate how marvelous and space saving it is to the hapless lady who has now abandoned any reading of the novel, and that couple surrender to the verbose onslaught of the couple that just joined us all.
The hapless couple eventually leave, whether it's to really get some food or just escape the assault and go read her book, I do not know but they go armed with great insight on car rentals and prices and advice that a one way is cheaper than a return.... and our duo turns their attention to the rest of the lounge. His booming voice makes me want to smack him, but I merely breath more deeply as he starts of a conversation with this young German couple sat across (at a distance not considered in conversation range!). I now know (along with 43 others) that Laughlin on the Colorado river is a must visit because they have old cave paintings that date back to 10,000 years, that our lady doesn't have a head for heights, that you can go skiing and indulge in coffee type drinks in a chalet type environment somewhere in the mountains (my auditory senses must've blinked), next year they would be visiting either the Islands or Europe, the Islands of course being the Caribbean (where apparently they are an annual fixture... shudder!) and that the buffet on Fremont Street is the best to be had in Vegas, but it's not cheap mind you... all of $25-30 American money! Hallelujah!
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