I love this completely unintentional tableau. When I shot this picture, I was going for Dino’s winsome stare across the eastern Colorado plain, longing for Nebraska. I didn’t notice the sign in the background until I was editing photos. It changes the story of the photo. Dino is smug because he is a wild beast and isn’t someone’s pet.

Sometimes the best road side attractions are found objects.

Original article: Snapshot Friday: Roadside Attraction may be closer than it appears

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“A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous.” 
― Coco Chanel

Most of the young women at the party would have made Coco Chanel blush and tug at her pearls.  I suspect many of the young women are acrobats given their abilities to stay upright in their six inch heels while consuming epic amounts of vodka. But hey, if they had worn sensible shoes and stopped at two drinks it would have been in Muncie Indiana rather than Vegas, right?

Original article: High heels and booze at the Vegas Hard Rock Hotel

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Cute postcard I found on etsy.com

I love Miami because it’s so low-key. It’s not a proper city like New York or Los Angeles, where if you go outside you have to be properly dressed and everything. In Miami, I could walk around naked. Anna Kournakova–

Spring in my part of North America has been crap this year. I’m writing this piece on April 22 and it’s snowing outside and a blazing 25 degrees. Our trees are without buds and I’m hopeful the grass will turn green after this snow fall. It’s like I need another respite from winter spoiled princess that I am.

I’m so looking forward to a quick trip to Miami with The Girl. It’s our last real trip–barring weekend type things–until next winter. The last time I was in Miami, South Beach was already on a roll but we were driving through to get to Key West. The first time I was in Miami, South Beach was a collection of derelict forgotten buildings and Don Johnson was routinely in shoot-outs against bad guys. It was terrifically hot, creepy, deserted and a little scary. But I was enchanted by the old Deco buildings and had an inkling of a feeling this place wouldn’t always be lost and forgotten. I heard home grown gangsta rap complete with dysrhythmic and sad scratching outside a gas station around the corner from the crumbling old hotels. It’s another one of those trip moments I kick myself for not carrying a camera with me. Those kids glowing with sweat in the waning evening light, trying to make a point with two records, a hand mike, and a bucket full of anger. We didn’t make it into Little Havana, my fiance was unnerved by the seedy buildings and the angry young men: “Miami is dangerous, and anything could happen in Little Havana.”

God I hope so.

Like deep-fried conch.

Pulled pork sandwiches

Coffee that will make you sit up and holler “Good Morning Florida! Whassup?”

Dangerous stuff. Dangerous.

Original article: My Favorite ‘whine’ this spring is “Take Me to Miami”

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Hi Honey, I’m baaack!

Remember a few weeks ago when I was blathering about being completely without travel plans? Remember? Well NOW I’m without a plan, or a reservation or a saved/bookmarked itinerary.

before a vacation to Miami…

I have a quick and busy few days in Las Vegas where I’m a guest at the Hard Rock Hotel for the weekend. Prince will be singing, swinging and swaying at The Joint Saturday night. I won’t be wearing a raspberry beret but I’ll be rocking a black cocktail dress.  When I’m not dancing to the music, I’ll be working my way through the beautiful food at 35 Steaks + Martinis; Culinary Drop Out; and Pink Taco. I just hope all that delicious food doesn’t make me look like a big (er) whale in my swimmies at the Sunday afternoon Breathe Pool Party.  I’m sure this afternoon sojourn in the hot sun will be a relief for my overloaded senses.  I just know it will be quiet and sedate.

Yawn.

(I hope not)

Maybe I should turn it into Rehab for old Gen-Xers and Baby Boomers?

If I haven’t lost the ability to such things.

Did y’all know way back in the ’90s I was asked to NOT be fourth grade room mother when Wally–the oldest son–was eight?  It seems the third grade Halloween party was too…I believe the word assigned to it by the teachers was “wild”… There were complaints from other parents in other classrooms.  Sucked to be in the *other* class.

Whiners.

It was the best party like ever in the history of elementary school Halloween parties. Wally and his buds talked about it well into high school.

Is it sad this is one of my proudest mothering moments? Not the perfect costume, chocolate cake, or craft project but the rowdiest party.

*big thanks to Hard Rock Hotel Las Vegas for sponsoring my weekend. I’ll be on instagram and twitter if you want to see what I’m up to next weekend.  Just don’t tell my kids, I don’t want to embarrass them.  Edgyjunecleaver on twitter and instagram.

Original article: Viva Vegas! Viva Hard Rock!

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On the road in Texas

“There’s a vastness here and I believe that the people who are born here breathe that vastness into their soul. They dream big dreams and think big thoughts, because there is nothing to hem them in.” 
― Conrad Hilton

I’m not sure I am one for big dreams; those big Texas style dreams like Stanley Marcus (Neiman-Marcus founder) or Jett Rink (fictional character in Giant). My dreams are tiny in comparison. And fortunately, I’ve had the courage to act on them and most of them have come true. Like a new job.

And wouldn’t you know the day after I put together a budget for returning to the Andaman Islands next fall I get that new job. A sweet plum of a job that could eventually lead to a mostly location independent gig.

The highway in front of me feels like this one in the picture. Open. Clear. You can see for miles.

This doesn’t mean I will be tied to completely to a desk. Oh nonononono…I’ve got a couple of wild adventures up my sleeve.

And yes, there will be beaches.

Original article: Texas Style Dreams Come Naturally

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MIX at THEHotel Las Vegas

THEHotel is one of those places in Vegas I dream of staying. It’s a smoothly elegant hotel adjacent to Mandalay Bay and The Four Seasons. The lobby’s invisible and ambiant light cast an elegant glow on the sleek contemporary furnishings that made me whisper rather than speak. I was immediately happy I opted for a dress and heels at happy hour.

Mix is on the top floor of the hotel and thankfully it doesn’t involve spinning because standing on the balcony or near the window was vertigo inducing enough without any turning nonsense. The best description I can give of the restaurant’s interior is “crystalline” as it was bathed in the glow from the sunset and the magnificent chandelier looked more like bubbles than glass. Bright but intimate. The maître de was kind enough to let me take pictures and look around the room even though the restaurant was closed for a special event. The bar was an effortless sexy room of sepia and red. The menu was a nice mix of classic cocktails and mixology sensations and my lemon drop martini was almost as good as the one’s The Girl makes for me at home. But the bar is raised super high on that one. I’m off to play in Las Vegas again next week and I’ll have to sample a few more so I have the full report.

The things I do for the blog. A cross to bear. (wink)

Original article: Snapshot Friday: Mix at THEHotel Las Vegas

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I’m not sure how I managed a completely unpeopled picture at the Parthenon in Athens Greece

Athens was stupidly crowded with travelers and tourists that mid-May. I’m not sure if the city could handle more people, or if the hill would groan under the collected weight of so many tourists spewed out of their cruise ship; like school children kicked out of the house and told to go play someplace else. But it was the parthenon for krickie sake in Athens Greece. Of course it’s going to be crowded, one of the most famous sites on the planet. I don’t think I whined about the crowds while I was there. I was too busy navigating slippery marble steps, a camera, and my elderly father (he needed no minding, that was purely my agenda). The scores of people hovering around me, edging into my shots and speaking a babble of languages didn’t annoy me while I was there. The only place the hordes annoyed me were in the unexpected places: back streets and the like. And then they annoyed me when they grumbled and sighed in boredom because the simple pictures of people living their lives in the shadow of a gigantic floating hotel wasn’t fascinating enough.

It’s those moments–not the crowded moments–I become *that* traveler. The traveler with a chip on my shoulder who wishes people would just save their money and buy a new television or suite for their media room rather than taking up space on a Mykanos walkway or Athenian backstreet.

Original article: Snapshot Friday: the Parthenon in Athens, Greece

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1. Festive events in downtown Denver

2. Sitting in the sun

3. Hanging out with friends

4. Beer

Here’s a tiny album of opening day in Denver.  It was the perfect day with the temperature topping off in the 70′s; the Rockies played some decent ball; I didn’t get hit in the head by a foul ball; and there was beer. What more could a girl ask for?

This is where it all started, Fados Irish Pub home of the best Bloody Mary ever made anywhere ever in the history of Bloody Marys. The secret is a wee dram of Guinness. But some feel Guinness makes everything better.

Coors Field, home of the Colorado Rockies. Did I mention it was the 20th anniversary?

That’s not me on the bleacher cam but it could have been given I had my face in a up of beer most of the afternoon

Believe it or not, I did watch the game and we won! There were even exciting moments. Really! That’s not the beer talking.

Original article: Opening Day Denver 2013

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Welcome to Denver, land of the apocalyptic thinking whackjobs!

Well this is certainly unique. I’m not sure I would refer to these pieces as “graceful”. A few of my readers probably remember a television show called Night Gallery which would open with macabre paintings depicting or hinting at the short television plays about to unfold. It was always creepy, scary, or weird. I did a google search after I saw this painting for the first time. Maybe I should back up and explain the first time I saw it I was completely jet lagged, 36 hours from my origination and about 90 minutes from my own bed. I was too delirious to take a picture of it then and simply paused for a minute, muttered “What. The. Hell.” and stumbled to a cab. I assumed it was extra creepy because I had just flown halfway across the globe. Who wouldn’t hallucinate visions of flaming buildings, demon possessed subterranean people, a penguin in a glass box, and an angry turtle.  The little boy in the middle of the painting certainly reflects what most people do when they pass by. He is the mirror image of the onlooker:

“What the fuck does this mean?  And does this have anything to do with the weird ass blue horse with the laser beam eyes we passed on the way into the airport?” (don’t look that damn blue horse in the eyes because he will steal your soul.)

Ahem…but I digress and fall into herd thinking…

Do a google search: “murals at Denver International Airport” and take a look at the lunatic theories. They are so ridiculous they become even more surreal than the art.  You could spend hours on the conspiracy theory sites.  My favorite is aliens have been sighted working at the airport. Stupid buggers can’t read baggage stickers in English so it’s a miracle we get our luggage, right? To an entire city underground ready to engulf us as we become prisoners of the New World Order.  But don’t bother with the murals when you’re well rested.  They are just stupid and poorly rendered surreal art. They are much more entertaining if your sleep deprived.  Stoned would be interesting, too. And stoned is legal in Colorado now.

I scoffed at all this until the early morning I stumbled by this verse etched on a window overlooking our evil overlords next plan for the extermination of the human race the construction site.

Excuse me while I adjust my tin foil hat

Maybe the murals were just presupposing we were going to legalize pot so we would have something to look at in  our altered state. Maybe it’s a simple matter of having  something colorful and surreal to look at in our airport before we are extorted by baggage fees and patted down by strangers in blue police like uniforms.  

But most important: Can I carry on my tin foil hat?

Original article: Tin Foil Hat Territory in Denver

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I looked over in the general direction one of my escorts pointed and there was one of the night’s entertainers walking—no pacing—to and fro at the edge of the stage. Her stiletto-enhanced height was easily 6’5 but she wasn’t carrying it proudly. I was impressed she could pace so easily in her skyscraper slippers. I wasn’t impressed with her carriage. Sure, it’s not the usual thing a girl dreams of doing with her life: stripping in a third rate club in Vegas.  I wanted to give her a pep talk: “You could do worse: this is better than selling yourself on a street corner; it beats the shit out of slinging fast food, and we all have to shitty jobs from time to time to get by.  So straighten yourself up, hold your head up, and be the best stripper.  Don’t forget many women exploit and prostitute themselves in a myriad of ways sanctioned by churches and states.  Marrying strictly for money is another form of sex work”

Fortunately, my ribald company didn’t allow me to get completely inward and morose; deep and scintillating conversation went something like this:

“Jesus, she’s tall.”
“She’s not any taller than I am, and if I slouch like that. EVER. Kick my ass or something.”

“Is she going for the sexy librarian look?”
Mmmmm more like the pissed off domme.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Aren’t most dommes pissed off as a rule?”
“The idea is to NOT piss off your domme unless…you know…that’s how you like it.”

“I wouldn’t really know, I’m not a kinkster.”

What do you expect? We were three drinks into a long Vegas night; we had already covered the weather; these guys don’t read Austen so discussing the condition of the roads would be lost on them; and our political views were so adverse to one another the only thing that would accomplish was hurt feelings and tears (mine probably).  What else was there left to do but deconstruct strippers?  And trust me, these strippers were worthy of a sound deconstruction because um…to be perfectly honest they weren’t terribly cute. Or talented.

“What’s up with these chicks? Why aren’t they dancing? That’s fucking Katie Perry, Hell I can dance to that in high heels!”

“Whoa, Laura, so many talents! When’s amateur night?”
“More like Pitiful Old Lady Night if  I’m up there.”  I continued with my incredulous tirade,  “All they are doing is undulating against the pole and rolling around the floor. Is it me or is this incredibly boring?”   Shit, I hope they are more interesting in bed.  Was my unspoken end thought as I sucked back on my spendy rotgut bourbon and coke.

Sure they were young, beautiful and well rounded in some cases.  Fortunately, most of them were newbs and hadn’t started enhancing their breasts so we had the benefit of the real thing.  A few of the dancers made regrettable decisions in regards to size and shape. They looked like victims of Boobs R US or Joe Bob’s Big Box Boob Shop leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind silicone or saline bags were involved. Too bad none of them had well thought out augmentation. Like the woman I ogled on a Mexican beach a few weeks before.   Her surgical enhancement was a thing of beauty and art. It was to weep how perfect her breasts were. Completely straight women were praising them. The only reason I knew they weren’t completely her own was because NO ONE on this planet has natural breasts that perfect. I wanted to run up to the man sitting next to her; slip him a $500 peso note and a tearful thanks for making the world a more beautiful place for everyone.

I couldn’t help but be reminded of this woman and her restraint as I watched these hapless young women prance, kneel, arch, and practice pole moves completely oblivious to the beat of the music; their breasts completely oblivious to gravity. What ever happened to strutting to music; slowly peeling off your clothing one item at a time;  giving a little shimmy here and there?  Hell, Natalie Wood taking off a single glove was sexier than the high-heeled groveling I witnessed that night in Vegas.  The artlessness of it all perplexed me and because I’m naturally curious I had to pose the question:

“So it’s been a few years since I’ve been to a strip club in the states. Do they not dance anymore? Is the whole swinging around a pool and inching across the floor considered entertaining?” My question was met with shrugs and monosyllabic declines of going to these places much.  (liars)

“Whaddya mean ‘in the states’? Do you make it a habit to go to strip joints when you travel.” Oh my goodness, who knew my buddy was so prim but he was—literally—suffering through this outing after my insistence I needed to “experience” a strip club in Vegas.  I think that like mega casino resorts, strip joints are such a Vegas thing.  I wanted to do “Vegas Things” that weekend. The seedier, the better.

“Maybe, maybe not.” I winked at him and silently admonished him. Don’t you read my blog? Duh, we went to the world’s most innocent strip joint in Mexico last year!

After the third dancer, I gave up even feigning interest and was chatting up my escorts.  Even their booyah conversations about guns was more interesting than the barely legal women not bothering to dance and succumbing to sudden and highly random butt seizures called the Harlem Shakes.  But we all jerked our heads to the stage when the announcer blared in his–suspiciously ironic sounding—unctuous  radio voice “Let’s hear it for Nikki* and the twins!” Instinctively, we knew this was Our Lady of the Slouchy Disposition. I swiveled my chair so quickly there was a breeze.

Nikki climbed the steps slowly, using an enviable super model walk  featuring one foot carefully placed directly in front of the other. She beamed curt and cutting glares into the audience.  She paced the stage as the—again danceable—music throbbed around her.  She was covered from neck to crotch in a semi-transparent fishnet body suit sort of thing with the tiniest skirt covering her nether region. Everything was left to the imagination, everything, that is, but her surly distain.  That was  telegraphed via her sharp but beautiful Slavic looking face. Her features were all prominent:  pointed nose, wide voluptuous mouth, heavy brow, and menacing eyes semi-hidden behind slender decidedly European framed glasses.  I was to be diminished by her glower. How dare I enjoy myself. How dare I enjoy the ludicrous presentation on the stage.  How. Dare. I. Enjoy. Anything. Ever.

Nikki the Nihilistic Stripper.

Does every club have one? You know like the the bad school girls, naughty nurses (GAH don’t get me started), French maids, sexy librarian?  Is Nihilism a new fetish?  Has the stripper world turned towards philosophy for new fetishes to form new routines?  Are the twins a counterpoint symbol for the futility of dualism in a lost world?

She dared us to look at her as she skulked from one side of the stage to another.  I wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be immolating a caged animal, or impatient mistress as she bisected the stage with her impossibly tall shoes.  Nikki was a tricky thing when she attempted to fool us with a light-hearted one handed, single footed twirl around the pool; lulling us to recall carefree childhood innocence. But then she reminded us who we were.

Who she is.

And that we sat in the middle of a dingy dark room the very symbol of the Universe.

After her twirl around the pool, she stood in front of the pole, her back pressing into it; slowing sliding up and down with perhaps the most half-assed wiggled I had witnessed.  It looked more like a bear scratching her back on a tree than “sexy time”.  Her chin proudly held high (finally, some self respect, thank YOU Nikki) as she looked over the audience, daring us to look her in the eye or in the chest. This was the big reveal.

The Twins.

But she didn’t coyly scoot the shoulders of her fishnet top down her arms; nor did she tantalize us with a peek at a nipple. Oh no, Nikki dared us to look at her breasts as they flopped out of the top of her leotard in a defiant purge of mammary glands.  I could hear her interior dialogue as she stood there slowly looking over the crowd, that generous mouth pursed in a line; her pendulous and very real old lady-ish breasts lolling on her slender torso: “Stupid people, is this all you have to do? Look at my breasts. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WHY ARE YOU HERE? WHY DO ANY OF US EXIST? IT. IS. ALL. SO. POINTLESS. THIS THING CALLED BEING. IT IS NOTHINGNESS. IT IS ALL NOTHINGNESS.”

Poor Nikki, I don’t think she meant for me to laugh at her existential angst. I think I was supposed to be a little shivery and turned on by her anger and defiance. I think I was supposed to feel challenged by her ire.  Challenged by the sheer power and largesse of “the twins”.  Challenged. The only challenge I felt was to not make an ass out of myself guffawing with laughter.  I just hope she doesn’t quit her day job at the library or in the philosophy department at UNLV because she wasn’t too great at the whole “exotic dancer” gig.

*I changed her name, it’s the least I could do.  A few years ago, I would have been alarmed by her distain for the audience and spun a story of subjugation, exploitation, with a dash of white slavery and human trafficking on the side. But this young woman was nobody’s fool.  Best of luck to you “Nikki”.

Original article: That Time I was a bad feminist in Vegas

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