I’m back from the hellish cesspool of Las Vegas. I usually like walking around the strip and gawking, but I realized something this time around: I’d never been there in the summer. It was as oppressive as Orwell’s Ministry of Love.
My talk and signings at the ALA (American Library Association) went swimmingly, and hanging out with my betters in the library world is always fun.
Happily, adding librarians to a situation improves everything, because the situation was in desperate need of improvement.
The casino was hideous. The hotel was the nicest I’ve stayed in, but the casino…It was a bropocalypse of sideways hats and smoking and strutting guys talking out the corner of they mouths like the studs they were. I heard one guy saying to his homeboy, “And then man, she told me that every girl in that room said I was a ten, and then but like I didn’t know, I didn’t hear about it until I left. And bro, they all thought I was a ten, and I didn’t even get to make a play, because I didn’t know they thought I was a ten, and so but like the…”
But the true diadem in the tiara of my experience came from someone who occasionally wears a tiara on TV. I got onto an elevator Saturday morning to find Tyra Banks in there with a guy who sort of looked like Gordon Ramsey, but wasn’t. She immediately turned the mirrors, possibly to avoid being recognized and spoken to.That I sympathize with, I’m sure she gets an obscene amount of unwanted (????) attention.
There were some slurpy kiss noises.
I saw her head turn. She was looking at the elevator button.
She said, in a very extreme baby talk voice:
“I’m super sad because I wish dis elevatuh was going to da spa, but iss not.” And she sounded very sad.
I don’t know anything about Tyra Banks and I hope she’s a wonderful person. She was tall, and I believe we felt some solidarity in that.
However, baby talk in adults is always the wrong choice. Take heed.