Christine McKellar

A trauma nurse friend of mine for over twenty years spoke about her job tonight. God knows what she has seen over the years that she’s never talked about. She loves her job. She just never goes into the gory details. She must have a heart and a spirit the size of the moon, the sun and the stars to internalize the horrors she has seen over the years.

But, tonight she had to speak it. She had to tell what she had been a witness to, what she had to participate in out of duty- the amputation of both arms of a twenty-three-year old male. This college student hadn’t been in a car or an industrial accident. He was simply “partying, dude” with his buddies over spring break.

After several days of nonstop drinking and who knows what else, this young man’s friends decided it would be really funny to leave him kneeling, passed out in front of the toilet. They even shut the lid on his head and folded arms to add to the humor. Unfortunately, he stayed passed out and they stayed stoned for over fourteen hours. When the young man was taken to the hospital, my friend, the doctors and staff were absolutely horrified: the tissue and blood vessels in his arms had necrotized—both arms had to be removed from above the elbow. Those familiar with amputation realize that one saving grace under such dire circumstances is to be able to keep a joint for prosthetic mobility—but not for this unfortunate Spring Break reveler.

“When I saw his (severed) arm on the table it made me sick,” my friend told me, with tears in her eyes and a quaver in her voice: This from the most stoic and devoted of nurses. This stupidity, this carelessness, this lack of adult discernment and this excuse to lose all moral and civilized restraint that has become Spring Break, is what made her sick.

The young man without arms is likely going to die—he’s in kidney failure on top of everything else. All in honor of an out-of-control college spring break that has become a monstrosity, a travesty of the once hallowed religious holiday that was the inspiration for this special week in the first place. Spring break was intended for students to go home to be with their families over Easter. To celebrate a resurrection with love and joy! And Easter hats and gloves! The sweet poignant scent of fresh-cut lilies on altars. The childish delight of hunting for gaily decorated eggs, the family dinner of ham and potatoes.

A rare few go home on Spring Break (yes, it used to be called Easter Break, but that was before the title offended certain parties). Too many students spend the week drinking, drugging and fornicating. One must respect that last word: It so conjures up the mindless thrusting and grunting of unconscionable (party) animals. Spring Break is about rape. It’s about boating accidents at popular lakes and beaches. It’s all about morally and socially unacceptable and shameful behavior. How many parents will see their topless daughters bumping, grinding and giving tongue on national TV this season? And watch their sons cursing, slobbering and being abusive.

Far too many. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to bring Easter back to this season. But, even an Easter miracle won’t bring that young man’s arms back. A miracle would be that his kidneys survive. And if they don’t? Then may a merciful God have pity on his partying soul.

Day Two: It’s only day two of my low-cholesterol diet and I’ve already cheated. Yesterday at lunch I simply had to put a slice of Swiss cheese on my skinny chicken sandwich. I was so hungry after my half-bowl of purple breakfast oatmeal that I found I’d eaten half of the slice of cheese before it even got to the top of the sandwich. I also used Italian dressing instead of mustard.
Adding gluttony to my sins, I garnished my midday meal with exactly eight avocado-flavored tortilla chips. I followed lunch with fresh fruit; apple slices and pineapple, which gave me a serious case of the hiccups. (I tried to eat a strawberry but my mouth puckered so badly I needed a spoon to open it up again.)

After tennis last night I stopped at Trader Joe’s to find a decent (cheap) bottle of red wine. I was hungry again so, of course, I loaded my cart with a lot of unnecessary, but fat free items: Including “guiltless brownies”; for my son, I rationalized. I also picked up a bottle of Trader Joe’s colon cleanse. A close friend had assured me a good old-fashioned cleansing would also help lower my cholesterol. The checkout person held the bottle up and announced it was one of TJ’s best sellers. How nice to know I have company.

While broiling the pork chops (thin sliced) I decided to whip up the brownies. All it takes is 2/3 cup non-fat plain or vanilla yogurt, a spoon, a bowl and a pan. I was more than dismayed to discover that the TJ’s Greek non-fat yogurt is as thick as wallpaper paste. It wouldn’t blend. Seething with frustration and a lack of my former daily dose of cholesterol, I tossed in a real egg, a dash of canola oil and some of my non-fat fortified milk.

Dinner was splendid. I downed four of the colon cleanse capsules as an appetizer. I sipped on a glass of pinot noir throughout the meal. Once the last morsel of chop and southwestern corn vanished from my plate, I fell asleep midway through a conversation with my son.

Today (after four days of utter food and alcohol debauchery in Del Mar, CA) I began a new lifestyle. I refuse to use the word diet. “Diet” in the United States generally conjures images of obese or weighty persons losing excess pounds. How paradoxical since in Third World countries one might easily say, “their diet consists of water, grub worms, and any available vegetation.” Short of moving to a Third World country to get my cholesterol (288) under control, I’m choosing an alternative lifestyle.

This however, does not include prescription statin drugs like Lipitor or Crestor. One of the (seriously) adverse side effects to these statins is muscular pain and weakness. As I explained to my doctor, whether due to my three times a week tennis, previous sports injuries or just my age, I always have muscular pains. With that in mind, I’ve decided to give healthful eating a go in order to lower my cholesterol.

This is going to be nightmare. Right off the bat, I’m not nor have ever been much of a fruit eater. Give me chocolate or cheese for dessert anytime. Fruit makes me pucker big time. I can hardly stand eating chicken, either. I’ve cooked so damn much of it over the years raising a family that the sight of a juicy thick white (slimy) breast finds me whipping out a butcher knife in order to chop the offending tissue into little non-threatening pieces. I couldn’t even tolerate the smell of turkey for years after my father’s death one Thanksgiving.

I’m fruit and poultry challenged, which is going to make my cholesterol-free lifestyle a real test of endurance: A test that has already begun. My breakfast consisted of a bowl of Quaker Oats with blueberries. Normally, I would have a half slice of wheat toast with organic peanut butter.

Today I tossed a handful of frozen berries into dry oatmeal, covered the mix with non-fat Smart Balance Omega 3 and Vitamin E enhanced milk, and put it in the microwave for two minutes. Nothing happened.

I took it out, stirred the lukewarm (and now a nasty purple) mixture and put it back in for another two minutes. (I think the frozen berries were the problem.) I then watched in horror as the porridge began to go through a slow-motion, lava-like eruption over the sides of the bowl and onto the microwave platter. Breakfast was served.

It’s taken me forty-five minutes to eat a little over half a bowl of the sticky, plum-colored goopy mess sitting here on my desk. Lunch is going to consist of a very finely sliced chicken breast on Orowheat thin-sliced multi grain sandwich bread (mustard, no mayo—oh spare me!) and a half-cup of assorted fruit.

If I’m still alive by dinner, I’ll broil a small pork chop and steam a medley of vegetables, accompanied by a glass of red wine (guaranteed to put me nearly into a coma) instead of my usual vodka martini or two.

Day One has only just begun.

Tucked away between the Hilton Theater and the Sports Book at the Las Vegas Hilton is the Tempo Lounge. Reminiscent of the 80’s with its tubular Plexiglas go-go-girl stations that are suspended over certain tables, it’s only natural this intimate venue features Moore and Gendal on Tuesday nights and weekends. The pop-and-rock duo keeps the audience on their feet. Llyda Moore and Mark Gendal interact with their fans and create an atmosphere that feels more like a private party than a casino lounge act.

A familiar figure on Ladies Night, Tuesdays, and on the weekends, is *Don Sueño. The attractive, trim and mature gentleman looks like any dapper entrepreneur, until–perhaps on a silent cue–Moore and Gendal break out a Michael Jackson or Prince standard. The dance floor clears. The low-key regular springs into a crowd-pleasing dance routine that leaves men green with envy and women calling for more.

Born into a military family in Palm Springs, young Sueño travelled the world with his parents, until fate and a natural ability to dance led him in the mid-eighties to become a male stripper at a nightclub in El Paso, Texas.

“I was twenty-five, recently divorced, and working as a bouncer in a strip club,” says Sueño, who has a third-degree black belt. “One night the girls insisted I go with them after hours to a certain club. There was a dance contest and the grand prize was a thousand dollar.”

The girls, who’d been witness to Sueño’s natural dance ability, assured him there was no doubt he would walk away with the grand prize. The only drawback was that he had to strip down to a “t-back”; the equivalent of a g-string (but enhanced, no doubt). Sueño’s love of dancing (and no shame about baring his butt) set a new and very lucrative career into motion.

“There I was boogying on stage with my stripper-girl fan club to the right. And, there to the left was my ex-wife in total shock. Her girlfriends were going wild.” Sueño won the contest and became a regular stripper at the club. He immediately began earning three grand a week–cash. An unexpected perk, aside from the generous tips, was “lots and lots and lots of sex.” He laughs. “I wasn’t a prostitute or a gigolo. I didn’t charge any of the women.”

Sueño’s career expanded when a customer at the club insisted he contact her friend who owned a strip-o-gram company that he wanted to sell. Sueño was reluctant to give up his night job, but he did. He took over the company and within three years he was grossing $400,000.00 annually. He drew the attention of another entrepreneur and literally cashed the business out for a million dollars.

Sueño followed more mundane career choices later on. He lives in Las Vegas now, and, ironically, has left his stripping days behind. “I’ve looked into it here. All the dancers strip down to the nude. It’s a personal choice to me not to do that.” He adds that male strippers have become the equivalent of gigolo’s and prostitutes.

“When I was doing the strip-o-grams, I would have bridesmaids ask if I would come back on behalf of the bride.” At first, Sueño couldn’t wrap his mind around it. “These women were already engaged.” However, it became so common that at last, he relented.

“Were you thinking a bride shouldn’t be left with regret?” I ask. “That she should have a last hurrah?”

“I never took any money,” is all s Sueño says.

“Were there any personal relationships that sprang from the many sexual encounters that went along with your profession?” I pursue the subject.

“None.”

Sueño is single these days. He goes out to dance several nights a week at the Tempo Lounge. He insists he is not and never has been a gigolo or a prostitute. Even today, his dance moves draw the attention of scores of women. “I have lots of phone numbers from women across the nation asking me to keep in touch.”

Historically, a common story among female strippers is, “I only do this so I can feed my kids!” (Think Demi Moore in “Striptease”). Sueño claims he was a stripper because he loves to dance, he loved the money, and he certainly appreciated the mega-sex. There is sincerity in his voice and no trace of apology.

In the age where a female adult porn star can become a bestselling author, (“Jenna Jameson’s Memoir, How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale, Debuts at No. 9 on The New York Times Best Seller List.”) I wonder if the still sexy Don Sueño regrets indulging his passion but maintaining his personal integrity.

Guess I’ll have to hit the Las Vegas Hilton on a Tuesday night to find out.

* The dancer has asked this writer to use a pseudonym for personal reasons.

Now that spring will soon be upon us, flowers bursting into bloom and baby birds chirping in their nests, it brings to mind an experience I had last summer. When one considers all the dire warnings about West Nile Disease being found in dead robins, doves, and crows, at the time, I wish I’d been firmer in my resolve to listen to that inner voice of mine. But noooo. When I saw a gangly baby bird bobbing helplessly about in the raw afternoon heat in my front yard, I only semi-listened to the voice in my head saying “leave it to mother nature.” Yeah, I listened all the way to the market, while I silently prayed that the big little fellow would be gone when I returned.

He was still there 20 minutes later (and it felt twenty degrees hotter). I drove right past him and steeled my resolve to ignore his dilemma from the coolness of my air-conditioned home. This determination lasted about five minutes after the groceries were put away. Visions of long ago sparrow rescues flew through my head as I got a cup and a straw. I reasoned that surely it wouldn’t upset the balance of nature if I gave the displaced fledgling a few sips of cool water.

“This is one big and scrawny baby bird,” I couldn’t help but think, as he wobbled on his really long legs and opened his really big baby beak to eagerly swallow a few droplets. His determination to drink swept my resolve away as swiftly as the water that slid down his gullet: I decided to move him over to a shady hedge. I knew better than to leave a human scent on my new little friend. I went inside to grab a towel; not paying the slightest attention to the three or four really HUGE black birds sitting on my neighbor’s lawn.

Nor did I notice immediately upon my return that the little crowd across the street had now grown—not into a gaggle—but into what is clinically termed a murder of crows: A murder of Alfred Hitchcock proportions and intent. Suddenly, like a pandemic they rose. Cawing raucously and flapping huge wings— they attacked. If it weren’t for the towel I tossed over my head as I sprinted toward my house, I shudder to think what the outcome might have been. I could feel their wings beating on me. One of them almost followed me right through the front door. If he had, one or the other of us, I can guarantee, would surely have ended up dead.

Sadly, it was the baby crow that was dead the following morning. Yet, for two days those adult crows stalked me. They perched on my porch lampposts. They made feints at me when I went out for the morning newspaper. They even went after me on my back patio. From what I understand through a friend whose brother is an ornithologist, they were mad because I had; a) interfered with a potential communal cannibalistic dinner, or b) the chick’s parents were a part of the murder.

The moral of this tale? Leave those chicks alone. Not only could they be carrying a nasty little virus, you might also end up losing an eye. Sometimes, trying to be nice can just be murder.

I kissed Elvis Saturday night—twice. I also sat at the same table as Marilyn Monroe and Frank Sinatra. Tom Jones was within touching distance. No, kissing Elvis wasn’t an erotic dream. Nor were the other stars figments of my fevered imagination. Rather, the kissing was a photo op at a particularly fun media event at Smith & Wolensky’s on the Strip that was hosted by www.bookitinvegas.com., and complemented by the celebrity impersonators.

2010 is only a few weeks old and yet I’ve been with Elvis twice this year. The first time was in Palm Springs over New Year’s Eve weekend. How strange to flee Vegas for the holiday, only to find Elvis on the patio of a popular Mexican restaurant. However, truth be told, dancing with that particular Elvis was nothin’ like being kissed by the one last night.

Elvis Presley was a bit B.C. (Before Christine) I never did see him perform—I had no real desire to when I was in my teens. I distinctly remember the day Elvis died: Most likely because it was the same day as a first date with a soon to become very significant boyfriend.

When I moved to Vegas in the early 80’s it was apparent I had moved to the land of the Elvi. Impersonators too numerous to mention abounded on The Strip. Then, the Flying Elvi debuted in the movie Honeymoon in Vegas in the early nineties. The ten parachuting Presley’s were a hit before they even touched the ground.

I hired an Elvis for my former husband’s surprise 5-0. I wasn’t aware at the time of how many different Elvi one could choose from. I was asked if I wanted a very young Elvis, a slim Elvis, or a later-as-in-heavier-version. No dummy me; I picked the youngest and hottest—very much like the Elvis who kissed me. My spouse, an avid fan, had no idea when he answered the front door that he’d be greeted by Elvis singing, “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog!”

There is more to Las Vegas than gambling and Elvi. The night before The Kiss (es), I attended a soiree in honor of Society of Seven and Jasmine Trias at The Gold Coast Hotel and Casino. The showroom was packed with an enthusiastic audience of friends, stars and media persons. The Hawaiian variety act combines comedy sketches and impersonations with lively music and dance; standards, Top 40, and Broadway. Trias, of American Idol fame, is a talented and lovely addition.

Talent blankets this city like a carpet. Where but in Vegas could you ask Robert Goulet (alas, the gentleman is gone) to karaoke at a party? Or play tennis with Gladys Knight at the local sports club? For each radiant star there are scores who just can’t seem to make the big lights for whatever reasons. But they can be found in casino lounges, at conventions, and at private parties. They can be found entertaining (and sometimes kissing) a suddenly ardent, and starry-eyed fan.

After my two-week hiatus over the holidays, I found myself catching up on some of the local/state news. Why was I not surprised to discover the following gems which were posted on the Las Vegas Review Journal.com news blog regarding the divorce of the Governor of Nevada, Jim Gibbons, and his wife (the mother of his children) of twenty-three years, First Lady Dawn Gibbons?

She looks like somethin’ the cat drug in… wrote on December 29, 2009 05:57 PM: The wrinkled silk bow on Dawn’s blouse is a nice touch. Did she sleep in her clothes? Why does she always look like somethin’ the cat drug in? It also looks like her blouse got splattered with a couple of grease spots from her George Foreman. Could one of her close friends please tell this sob sister to get a life?

The above comment and all that follow (it doesn’t take a forensic specialist to see these posts must have been written by the same person—one of the Luv Guv’s “lady” friends? Or one of the pack of lusty hangers on who must steal a nibble or two from the Guv’s overflowing love platter) shows me that whoever wrote this (these) nasty little note(s) must be well aware that throughout her tenure the First Lady of Nevada was evicted not only from the governor’s mansion but from her own home as well. Our First Lady was forced to live in a butler’s cottage SANS your basic utilities such as refrigerator and stove/oven (enter George F).

The hectic pace of her non-stop service to the state of Nevada and her cramped quarters bespeaks more the question of—how did the First Lady stay sane and committed to her fellow Nevadans while being publicly humiliated by her husband, plus having to live with the strain of a divorce? Not to mention, I can only imagine on her few allotted visits to her own home for basic necessities the First Lady surely must have found some of her husband’s “necessities”. Viagra and soiled panties comes into my mind.

Can we please have a first lady without a club foot? wrote on December 29, 2009 05:50 PM: Wow, this guy looks like a dork on crack.(Ref: a truly character-revealing photo of the Guv) Jim, you’re too old and too fat for those glasses. Roy Orbison was cool, you’re not. Here our little quipster takes a dig that reads more like a little wardrobe advice at the Luv Guv—who by the way is a TOTAL dork, IS old and IS fat, and is generally believed to be an avid adulterer. He’s also facing a lawsuit from cocktail waitress, Chrissy Mazzeo, who has accused Gibbons of battery, false imprisonment and orchestrating a cover-up in October 2006 when the then-congressman wouldn’t take no for an answer at a Las Vegas restaurant. Our brilliantly witty RJ blogger goes on to say in the same breath:

By the way Jimbo, can you try to find a wife who doesn’t have a club foot? Try to make sure the next Mrs. Gibbons has two normal lower extremities and an IQ above 60? More importantly, can you try to find a woman who doesn’t dress like a drag queen on a budget. Yes, the state is in financial crisis but the First Lady shouldn’t have to buy her wardrobe on sale at Walmart…

Having met the First Lady of Nevada personally, dude or dudette, let me point something out to you. That’s not a club foot. Those are her balls getting in the way. Who do you think has been implementing national drug prevention programs and performing most of the gubernatorial duties in Nevada? The Governor doesn’t have time to govern with his lawsuits and dalliances.

You don’t like Dawn Gibbons’ wardrobe, either? You should try living on the minuscule budget she had. Hey, it was the Luv Guv who had to reimburse the state/taxpayers for his 800-plus amorous sext messages to a “lady friend” on the state’s cell phone bill. Remember, the First Lady, the mother of this man’s children, had to live in the servant’s quarters during her sadly limited term of service. Ole Luvvy is still going to have to defend himself against the charges of the cocktail waitress he (allegedly, snicker) tried to maul in a parking garage.

Is she missing a couple of teeth? wrote on December 29, 2009 06:03 PM: I blew up the pic of Dawn getting a hug from a well wisher. Not pretty. It looks like she’s missing a couple of teeth. When is the Legislature going to address the severe shortage of dentists in northern Nevada?

Now, that is simply getting reeeeeaaaallllly petty. Send me a picture of you, Anonymous Character Assassin, and let me blow that up. But, I wouldn’t look at the magnified amplified spaces between your sharp fangs. I’d look into your eyes to see exactly what kind of a mean, spiteful and ignorant soul lies therein. Dawn Gibbons, who has graciously kept her mouth shut throughout this whole mess, has publicly been likened to as “an enraged ferret.” A quote from her husband that has been gleefully repeated by certain press here in Las Vegas.

There are ferrets here, indeed. There are the ferrets in law enforcement that covered up and withheld evidence in the original Chrissy Mazzeo/Luv Guv scandal. There is the ferret that has been using the Governor’s mansion and a family home for secret trysts. There are the ferrets that eagerly drink the wine and feast at the trough of adultery. There are ferrets like you who lambast, insult and denigrate innocent people from the security of anonymous postings where you can vent your poisonous and perhaps envious? spleen.

Jim Gibbons didn’t just lose a devoted and loyal wife when those papers were signed. Nevada lost a devoted and loyal governor-in-residence—even if she did have to live her tenure in the butler’s quarters.

The brouhaha over Tiger Woods too numerous to count infidelities just goes to show…the bigger they are the harder the kersplat. I imagine many men are envious. Not only of Tiger’s activity but his access. Parking lots? Insta-dial sex? Even the Woods’ master bedroom (but not the matrimonial bed) was fair play.

There are plenty of hole-in-one jokes going around the internet, ad nauseum. What I want to address here is not the obvious; Tiger’s sex addiction, lack of discretion, and no trace whatsoever of moral responsibility—hell, no morals period.

What irks me is those women. Those playthings. Those vacuous, vapid, tainted, painted, clinically puffed up unlicensed prostitutes. Allow me the luxury of coining a new tag–Tiger’s sex TOYLETTES are really nothing more than flushable, disposable repositories for not just the man’s sperm (or—condom, please– lack thereof). They’re the sewer into which he spews his over-the-top and unhealthy need for mindless, emotionless sex.

From all reports, we’re not talking about classic, intelligent beauties (like Elin). We’re talking Hooters waitresses and most likely ex-truck stop hookers—or the likes of which who can be summoned for all night car-sex in a church parking lot. Or the media ho’s. The ones who brag and bask in the spotlight of sleeping with (countless) famous men.

I know I’m considered a bit of a prude. I’m not into recreational sex—nor do I allow anyone to stick their tongue in my mouth unless I know their pedigree. New Year’s Eve included. (A little statistic: over 70% of American adults have had some type of STD. Nice.) However, even the most liberated of women should have some self-respect. Respect for their body parts that, like it or not, were designed primarily for procreation not recreation.

I think it’s safe to assume that EVERYONE in the civilized world is aware that Tiger is a married man and a father. I doubt that any of his toylettes gave a thought to his wife and two children—to the sanctity of the marriage. Is it the perfume, jewelry and designer wear that so intoxicates these shameless fill-ins?

Or, is it the notoriety of being able to tell future bedfellows that they too can sink a birdie where the mighty Tiger once had been. Certainly, not one of these toylettes thought they had a chance as a permanent or gilded fixture in Tiger Woods life.

On some level they must know they are nothing more than, pardon my vernacular, port-o-pussies in the grand scheme of things.

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Ah, to be a master of the vine. Las Vegas boasts two home boys (both alums of Las Vegas high schools) who are highly respected wine connoisseurs; Master Sommelier Kevin Vogt and foodie/golf wineau, Les Kincaid. I was fortunate to see both men last night at the 2009 Tasting Panel Tour at miX lounge in THEHotel, Las Vegas.

I met Kevin over ten years ago at Emeril Lagasse’s restaurant in the MGM Hotel. We spent a memorable evening after hours one night in a private wine-tasting with my (then) husband and the general manager of a family property and his wife. At the time, Kevin was one of only a mere handful of members of the Court of Master Wine Sommeliers (CMW). To date there are 176 members of CMW in the world.

As well-versed as Kevin is in the rarified atmosphere of world-class vintages, he has a pleasant, unflappable demeanor that ranks him as highly as the fine wine and spirits he recommends. Kevin is master sommelier and wine director for Emeril Lagasse. You can find him at Delmonico Steakhouse in the Venetian Hotel.

Les Kincaid should clone himself. The avid wineau is also an avid chef, golfer and radio talk show host. I met Les and his wife, Tammy, on a Monterey press junket two years ago. Our group had dinner and paired wine tastings at some of Monterey’s finest restaurants and vineyards. We traveled in style: limousines and vintage (of course) autos. It was a treat to have Les at the table, just as it was a treat to have him patiently walk me and my guest through the array of tastings at miX.

Les indeed has a certain glow about him when talking about one of the loves of his life. There is nary a hint of condescension in his dialogue, either. Just like the Chateau Michele cabernet last night, a conversation with Les leaves you with a smooth finish and no acidic aftertaste.

When it comes to food, wine and golf, Les is definitely more. Listen to his syndicated wine radio broadcast every Thursday, from 7- 8 PM PST on CRNI.net. Discover for yourself non-intimidating and delicious recipes on Les’ website, www.leskincaid.com And get some good golf tips while you’re at it.

(This blog is also posted on www.opensalon.com)

I knew there was something different about comedy impressionist, Frank Caliendo, at the Monte Carlo last night. It wasn’t until my sidekick, Helen, pointed it out to me that I got it: the dude never once dropped the F-bomb, nor did he make any sleazy sexual remarks during his debut. He kept the audience’s full attention—and produced barrels of laughter. While he lost me a few times during his sports spiels, the overall consensus afterwards was a hearty thumbs up.

Fellow ”Salonista” Kathy Knechtges recently posted a comment on one of my blogs: “I note how often sex takes the place of talent in the arts now.” Girlfriend, you hit the proverbial nail with a golden hammer. And nowhere does sex sell like in Las Vegas. Quite frankly (hee, hee), neither Mr. Caliendo nor his head-lining peers need to bother with the subject. From billboards and marquees to taxi cabs and handout literature; breasts, thighs and provocative posing are rampant in Sin City.

Despite the fact that my perky twenties are a shadow in a distant past, I still want to be sexy too! It’s in my genes (well, last night it was in my skintight faux snakeskin pants). There are degrees to which I’ll let certain unenhanced body parts kind of hang out. There are musical rhythms and beats that make my hips and limbs take on a life of their own. Yet there is a certain decorum I maintain that I seriously doubt has come just with “age”. I think it comes with plain old unadorned common sense.

Helen and I went hotel-hopping after Caliendo’s show last night. I went, like, Lady Gag-Ya over most of the ensembles the mainstream girls were wearing. One little Asian gal’s attire pretty well sums it up. A skimpy bustier ( yup, fake breasts) over a miniscule pair of jean cut-(and I say WAY cut) off shortie-short-shorts, complemented (oh, simmer DOWN, Christine!) by black lace panty-ho’s (I need a shrink), and CFM black pointy boots.

In all fairness, I have to ask myself, “Do I envy these young women their youthful glow? Their zero-gravity status?” No. I lament their lack of modesty and good taste. I lament their lack of self-esteem. And I wish to God those two sexy young things at our table-top at the Monte Carlo could have heard the comments the equally-as-young two reptiles in suits made behind their backs. I seriously wanted to bitch-slap all four of them.