It's the beginning of our trip and Sheri and I are already in sync. Whatever vibes we’ve got going on, I have to admit, this feels like the perfect preface to a free-wheeling metropolis like Las Vegas.
It's 103 degrees, and you should know that our Portland skin is thin. We reside like vampires in our continental corner of this country. We hide amongst the overgrown moss and mammoth sized evergreens. While basking amongst the deluge, we resit things like, GMO’s, President Agent Orange and… the sun. The sun is relentless and daunting on rain-soaked skin like ours. Therefore we learned quickly that the throws of hell (aka the whole month of July) hath no fury on a garment that refuse to protect our P-town coats.
For anyone that feels empowered to make the immoral pilgrimage from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, my humble suggestion is; do it on a major holiday weekend. Better yet, sojourn your expedition on a weekend that is congested with cars, human beings, dogs, cats, parrots and the like. Find any possible way to make a leisurely 4 hour journey, 8. OH! And by all means! Go the same weekend that marijuana becomes legal and 4th of July soirées are all the rage(r).
We set on meeting our subjects at our Airbnb…. Our 80’s porno, “bow-chicka-wow-wow”, just shy of a mirror on the ceiling, Airbnb. Primped, proper and true as we possibly knew, we hit the buzzing Vegas streets— amongst strollers, fedoras, blinking penis headbands and all.