are we there yet?

in march, b and i took a quick road trip to the armpit of america: las vegas.  i normally detest vegas, but CAKE.  i thought it would be a great road trip eating red vines and quoting friends and the office with my middle brother, but he slept the ENTIRE TIME, thus making him the worst road trip partner ever.  as we neared the nevada border i jokingly asked him if he had remembered his passport since we were about to cross state lines.  he laughed and said, "i actually did consider bringing it but then thought 'why would i need i.d.?'"

i slammed on the brakes.  "please tell me you have some form of i.d.  this is a 21 and over show."

my cute, irresponsible, and lazy brother has been driving around for 3 years with an expired temporary drivers license.  it was a faded and torn scrap of paper in his wallet.  oh great.  so i was going to cake alone and b drove all the way to vegas with me, just to sit outside brooklyn bowl and wait for the show to be over.  i felt so sad for him and tried to think of things i could offer the bouncer to let b in.

we arrived a few hours early, so we walked around the strip, averting our eyes and laughing at the t-shirts that advertised "orgasims."  we also ate at "the haute doggery" and argued over the pronunciation of "haute."  i asked the girl at the counter what she thought, but she was even younger than b, so when she agreed with him i disregarded them both.  i even tried to explain to them that it was a french word and those things are never pronounced how they are spelled, but she looked like she was ready to shove my haute dog down my throat so i dropped the matter.

while we were at the haute doggery, we spotted an attractive, nicely dressed young man sitting all alone eating a hot dog.  i like to make up stories about the people i spy on, so b and i started discussing why this man was eating alone on the las vegas strip on a saturday night.  possible suggestions were that he was stood up and was drowning his sorrows in a mug root beer and an overpriced gourmet hot dog.  maybe he was an undercover security guard at a casino.  maybe he was an average-priced male hooker taking a quick lunch break.  of course, there was only one way to find out for sure: follow him.

so we did.  he walked briskly out of the haute doggery and we stayed right on his tail.  we disguised ourselves by putting our hair in ponytails and donning sunglasses.  we followed him as he weaved in and out of the foot traffic and through two casinos.  we saw him go through a secret, unmarked door in the second casino but we still didn't get our answer.  what choice did i have, but to follow him through the door while b distracted the security guard?  I HAD NO CHOICE.  so i followed him, but i lost him.  i was disappointed that i'd never really know what brought him to the haute doggery alone that night, which is a totally weird thing to be disappointed about, i know.

and that is the story of how b and i were creepsters and followed an innocent guy around the las vegas strip.

then we saw cake and they were awesome.  of course.

(despite all our worries the bouncers didn't even ask to see i.d.  and b whined the whole time about having to stand up and how the show started 30 minutes late and how it was almost his bedtime and how the music was so loud.  i swear, he is like a 70 year old woman sometimes.)