Thank you. Thank you very much.

Ok, so back to Vegas. I arrived at the hotel on Friday and checked in. I don’t remember so much of the rest of that night, except that I ate a delicious dinner courtesy of my traveling companion. Except when I say that I ate my dinner, I really mean to say that I drank most of it. Which would explain why my memory of that night isn’t that great.

I do remember stopping at a piano bar, and I’m pretty sure I was singing along. Loudly. And most likely off-key. But probably very enthusiastically, too. I’m a firm believer in the Vegas rule, though, that whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I don’t think that I was up on the piano, if that makes everyone feel better. There was no Michelle Pfeiffer moment for me, thank you.

So the next morning clearly began with a headache. But I couldn’t be sidetracked with that, since Saturday was essentially my Christmas morning, as going to the Elvis museum was on that day’s itinerary.

First, though, I needed some good, solid food. Unfortunately, I decided we should eat at Caesar’s Palace. The place I wanted to eat at closed for lunch, so we had to wander around for a while. Apparently “Caesar” is Latin for “freakin’ maze.” It took us a while to a) find some place to eat and b) get the hell out of there. And that hotel is where the mafia stays, I’ve decided. I saw the people in there, and I’ve seen the Sopranos. They were the same, and I’ve never heard the f-bomb dropped with such passion and frequency, and in totally unnecessary ways. Example: “That fucking wall is nice.” “Fuck me, there’s the map.” “Well, fuck, my son said he wanted that toy.” Classy.

Oh, and pseudo-celebrity spotting: Pete Rose was in Caesar’s signing books.

Quick question: where did all the whores go? The Vegas I remember was literally littered with them, up and down the strip. I hate the Disneyification of Vegas. When I go there, I want to see me some whores.

Ok, so after Caesar’s it was on to Elvis-A-Rama. I swear to God that’s the name of the museum. After hiking for about 29 miles, thanks to the advice of completely drunk Vegas worker #1, we found the place (but not before listening to a cab driver berate it). But nothing could ruin this for me.

When we walked in the doors, I swear that I heard a choir of angels singing. And I’m pretty sure I lit up like a Southern Baptist at a revival. I have found my home.

The museum was Awe. Some.

Go there next time you’re in Vegas. And you might see me working there. Or just worshipping at the altar of the King. Until you can go there, go see the website. I touched things that Elvis touched at this museum, by the way. Which means that Elvis and I are essentially likethis. Ah, Maryanne, I see that line again. I see what you mean. For those who are interested, by the way, the official blue suede shoes are located at Elvis-A-Rama.

After the museum, as any cultured person knows, comes the museum gift shop. After a lot of money spent later, and some eye-rolling on the part of my traveling companion, I had purchased my souvenirs. These included a Christmas tree ornament of ’68 Comeback Special Elvis, two wall hangings, some magnets, and a shot glass. Of course, my favorite purchase was my t-shirt with a rhinestone Elvis on the front. Which the cashier advised me to wear with some black pants and I would look “Classy and yet cute.” Thanks, crazy Elvis-cashier lady. Yes, I think I will wear my new shirt to a fancy restaurant, because you suggested it.

But you can’t top a black shirt with a silhouette of Elvis in rhinestones.

Oh yes, here was the point in the day where my traveling companion decided to tell this lady—who did seem to be a few cans short of a six-pack—all about me. He told her that I lecture on Elvis in my history class, that I’m a huge fan, etc. He thought we should bond. Much appreciated. Although it did garner me a job offer. I knew my degrees would come in handy some day.

Ok, I’m done typing on this. Really this visit was the highlight of my trip to Vegas. But I still have the McCartney concert to cover, including my new buddy from there and how Paul apparently “burned” me. I’ll finish that up later, as well as highlights from my drive home. Right now, I’m going to go stare at my newest Elvis ornament.