n introduction.
Do you want to hear something funny? Something funny is that I actually worried about this entry, the 100th entry on Sarahhepola.com. I stalled on writing it, then threw together a jokey installment in which various sitcom stars of the Eighties appear and engage in "very special episode"-type behavior. Alexis P. Keaton dances with Ellen to Billy Vera and the Beaters' "What Would You Think." Mike Seaver finds Leonardo di Caprio sleeping in the closet. Dianne leaves Sam at the altar. Etcetera, etcetera. One problem was that, other than the mention of these familiar characters, I didn't really have much to say besides thank you for reading and soforth. So I had this sort of lame, cutesy little thing, coasting on nostalgia and silliness. That alone didn't kill it, but the other problem was that I couldn't finish it. Days passed, no inspiration came. So here's the deal: rather than post some very special 100th installment, littered with cameos from Eighties sitcom stars, I'll just carry on as usual. This is a story about Las Vegas. Thank you for reading, and soforth. [Enter Tony Danza.] Now who's the boss?

We arrive in Las Vegas with questions.
Where do they get all the water?
Whose idea was this city anyway?
And where do you think 'Showgirls' was filmed?
We stay at the Luxor, the black pyramid that shoots a white shaft of light into the sky. We like to think it's classy. The other hotels are whoring themselves -- the neon, the fountains, the eager mise-en-scenes -- but our hotel quietly announces its elegance. It is a place for the sophisticated traveler, the traveling sophisticate.
Aaron blows $250 gambling. I stuff myself at the buffet.
We walk up and down the Strip, wander through the high-end hotels. But after the Bellagio, the most expensive casino ever, nothing is really the same.
"I feel like the Bellagio spoiled us," says Aaron. "Nothing compares."
It's true. The Bellagio is like a transmission from another planet, a planet where rivers run with chocolate and clouds are made of marshmallow creme. I can't get over the beauty of the flowers. Aaron can't get over the beauty of the waitresses. After that, we turn up our noses at the indoor canals of the Venetian (too dinky), we roll our eyes at the pirate ship scenario outside Treasure Island (so tacky) and yawn at the Roman statues of Caesar's Palace (the Eighties). There is only one way to shock us.
Westward Ho.
Years ago, a friend from work stayed at the Westward Ho, and returned wearing a T-shirt I have privately coveted for years. I want that T-shirt. So we walk down to the Nickelrama end of the Strip, where Circus Circus and the Stardust and the Frontier call out to us with their proud, well-spangled signs. Indoor bull riding, merry-go-rounds, Wayne Newton: Casinos were simple then.
There are no T-shirts at Westward Ho. There are T-shirts, but they are not good T-shirts, and they don't say Westward Ho. But in the Westward Ho lounge, if we hurry, we can catch a free performance by Lamar Harris, "The Hat Man."
"Do you want to stay?" Aaron asks.
I do, but I don't want him to have to. It sounds like it might be painful.
"Cause we can stay if you want."
The stage is covered with hat racks, and the hat racks are stacked high with hats. Cowboy hats and golfing hats and crazy novelty hats made of styrofoam, way too big for any one head.
"It's just that he's the Hat Man," I tell Aaron.
"We'll stay."
Lamar "the Hat Man" Harris doesn't actually wear the hats. They are more backdrop. He plays guitar and takes requests. He does that thing where he points at audience members during key parts, like during a part about a pretty woman he points to the woman sitting alone in the front row. Short, severe hair with little curlies in the back. She smiles at him and smokes. I get pretty excited when I think of requesting Kenny Rogers "The Gambler" -- cause we're in a casino, you see -- but when I request it, I can tell it's as original as singing "Summer Nights" at a karaoke bar. That's okay. The Hat Man loves that song, and so do I.
"Where you from, Sarah?" he asks me when I request the song.
"Austin, Texas, sir."
And wouldn't you know it? The Hat Man is from Austin too. Lived there for 10 years. That's where he got his name, Lamar, after a street there. This launches him on a rambling, perhaps alcohol-fueled reverie about Leslie, the Austin transvestite who once ran for mayor. His voice drones and dwindles, as if he might just be talking to himself, until an old man in the audience finally says, "Enough already." The Hat Man starts another song. At the chorus he says, "C'mon Sarah from Austin, sing it with me!" Only I don't know the words, so I do the thing where I sing the word right after he's said it.
The Hat Man has been performing every night for six years.
After the show, everyone leaves the bar except the woman in the front row. She lingers around while the Hat Man takes his hat racks off the stage. She thinks she might want to buy a CD. It all seems suddenly heartbreaking.
Back out on the Strip, there is a strange menace. People are drunk. They kick trash down the street, ogle the women with low-cut tops. It's like Spring Break.
"Is there a law in Las Vegas that says that if you're a woman, you have to dress like a slut?" Aaron asks.
"This city is sponsored by Wet Seal," I say.
"I went to dinner, right?" a guy is yelling into his cell phone. "I went to dinner, and I left the bitches with the bill!" He is howling about this. "I left the bitches with the bill!"
It is an ugly hour.
The next morning, we have to get Aaron to the airport. I drink a quick coffee, sitting underneath the huge talking camels in the lobby. I'm not hungover, but I feel hungover. A kind of grit. Like there's something to apologize for. It's a strange way to end our trip together here in Vegas, which we acknowledge, but then also acknowledge that it was fun, a strange but necessary indulgence. We acknowledge that the week was good, say kind things to one another, the awkward wrap-up. But we both know it worked out pretty perfect, this week of me and Aaron.
I drop him off at the airport, and then I'm on the road alone again. Next stop: Flagstaff.