Call up text of previous entry
Another perfect day. Brief look:
Identical day, right down to the late afternoon banana daiquiri that’s supposed to glide me into a nap, but doesn’t, so I have two freshly made cups of coffee in the big lobby. It’s really good.
The evening had a different twist: we went to see the big show, called “Chic.” It’s a dinner-and-show thing, Vegas style. Not my shot of tequila, but you have to see it once, I guess.
It costs extra. Not many things here cost extra. The spa is the main exception. Someone will put hot rocks on your back for $200. For fifty dollars you can go in a room where you’re in hot water, and then you’re in cold water. Hell hon you can do that at home in the shower for free, don’t know why you gotta pay fifty dollars for it he
The theater is located in The Village, as all of us with numbers for names seem to call it, and the show begins outside with parading showgirls and guys in lite versions of bondage costume and high-heeled leather boots. SIGH. The whole bondage S & M playacting thing is tiresome to me, and silly. I am not interested in the whole there is sex danger here business. The woman in the fishbowl, that was more interesting. A guy came out and sang “Superstition” at ear-piercing levels, followed by more haughty and aloof showgirls. This was for the ticket-buyers, since we were inside a rope line and fed drinks, but the gawkers on the street could see it too and think “we should make reservations.” Which they can’t, because it’s probably sold out.
After twenty minutes of pre-show some guys show up with torches and primitive drums boom, and we are led inside to be sacrificed, I guess. We had what we thought were the worst seats in the house, right on the stage but at an angle, with a speaker partially blocking the view. It turned out all right.
It was . . . high energy. It didn’t stop. One song and dance number after the other, with an MC occasionally coming out to whoop everyone up with a smarmy Vegas-type routine, meant with no irony at all. The meal proceeded apace: some sort of bon-bon thing, samosas, a soup, a single lobster ravioli in heavy glue sauce, and a steak. All good enough. You feel bad for the dancers, coming to the edge of the stage with bright smiles as you’re loading your piehole, but it spared me the obligation of making that frozen smile of enjoyment you know they want to see, unless they don’t care because they do this every night and we’re all just red sacks of meat in the dim beyond.
There was a guy who climbed up two fluttering pieces of fabric and did acrobatic things, and he was good, inasmuch as he didn’t fall, but he looked as if he was fighting for his life against a set of curtains. The women were much better in a ring that lowered and rose. Two of them were obviously the most accomplished dancers, one of whom had a real Ilse the She-Wolf vibe. The other, I noticed, was wearing braces.
The singers all emoted at the same level, which is supposed to make you go whooooo when they pour it all into that last night note, but I’m just bored by that ersatz dreadfully important emoting all the time. After two and a half hours it looked as if was ending, because the dessert was here and a painting was raffled off. But no. They kept going for thirty more minutes. They really didn’t have to. We’d had an 80s set, a musical set, an Authentico Mehico set (which I quite enjoyed; very old school, or what they think we think is old school) and then some modern set that just pounded away until everyone was exhausted and we were fighting with long balloons.
Then to the bar, where I ran into a guy I’d been chatting with at the gym. He and his wife were here for tennis as well, so they joined us and we did shots and talk until it was time to find our way home and crash. A marvelous evening!
Earlier that day: