Sin City Confidential or. . . .Sneezing Las Vegas

We spent last weekend in Las Vegas following Gonzaga University's men and women's basketball teams at the West Coast Conference tournament. I decided, on a whim, to document our adventures with my new smart phone rather than the point-and-shoot.

I'm always game for a technology challenge.

In hindsight, I think my decision to use the cell phone camera was fueled in part by delirium, courtesy of whopper head cold that took possession of my ears, nose, throat and all sinus cavities approximately 12 hours before we were wheels-up to Vegas.

Timing, as they say, is everything.

Here are a few highlights as seen through my virus-clouded eyes. (Most are straight-out-of-the-phone. Overall, not crazy about the quality but what happens in Vegas, well, happens in Vegas no matter what camera you're using.)

The Las Vegas airport, McCarran International, is the only one I've ever been in that comes equipped with slot machines. Lots o' slots. Even though I've been through this airport more than a dozen times, it still cracks me up.

I mean, why would you plant yourself in front of an electronic money sucker when you can peruse gift shops hawking "My Mom Went to Vegas and All She Brought Me Was This Stupid T-Shirt" in every bilious color of the Bad-taste Rainbow -- or search for a botulism-infested chicken salad sandwich with a "Purchase by" date of Dec. 31, 1946, for your next in-flight meal.

There is a wide array of entertainment choices in Las Vegas.

Sorry, boys. We're going to see Cirque du Soleil.

(And, I was NOT quivering with lust when snapping this fuzzy foto -- I was actually swaying like a Vegas palm tree in a dust storm thanks to airplane sinuses.)

Once we got to the hotel/casino, I made three new friends right away -- Matt-Matt-and-Mike-from-Denver-Denver-California (or some combination there of) -- at a blackjack table. We were all Gonzaga graduates -- separated by about 35 years, conservatively speaking.

They were Hipsters. I was snot. I mean NOT. Nevertheless, we bonded.

Every time we crossed paths during the weekend, I was greeted with loud, heartfelt, but slightly tipsy, "Hello, Mrs. Be-eeeeeeee-eeeeeee-eeeee'z!"

I couldn't take a picture of them because you can't take pictures in a casino gaming area, but I did bring home a suitcase filled with smoke-saturated clothing, thanks, for the most part, to a single cigar, roughly the size of the Hindenburg, that Matt One was smoking.

I'm getting a little whiff of it now. And that's after two loads of wash. Thanks, Matt-Matt-and-Mike, for the memories.

We found ourselves in The Bellagio (probably one of the most beautiful hotel in Vegas) for a performance of Cirque du Soleil's "O."

This would be the theater lobby -- and the theater itself.

This would be a Cirque du Soleil performer.

I could SO do this if I wanted to.

Somewhere along the way it's okay to say, "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas any more."

In between basketball games (yes, we managed to squeeze four into the weekend) there was The Pool. Once I got over the fear that the glare from my brilliant winter-white legs and arms would severely burn the retinas of fellow loungers, this heat-starved citizen of Bermtopia could not get enough of it.

Never underestimate the curative power of  a Vegas pool.
Or a Vegas gin and tonic.

There is nothing quite like a college basketball tournament. The students! The games! The fans!

Yes, that's a tuba player in the hotel lobby.

More hipsters. I. was. a. hipster. magnet.
I think it was my red nose.

And then it was time to say good-bye to the bright lights of Vegas. Oh, we'll be back. Hopefully, cold-free next time.

P.S. And in case you're wondering how to stop the spread of contagion. . . .

Genius.