Be true to your skool

If you are a college basketball person, you're well aware that the NCAA's Tournament Week is in its waning days and hours.

Hearts are broken, heroes are made, tickets are punched, dance cards are crushed. These conference tournaments largely determines who goes on to The Dance -- aka, the national college basketball championship. Oh, the humanity.

My date and I are Zags -- as in Gonzaga University. The Bulldogs. They are not strangers to the NCAA tournament. Past teams have gotten there via the West Coast Conference tournament as its champion. And, I believe they've gotten there via a wild card slot maybe once or twice. Being a WCC champion is preferable. And each time it's magical.

This year's championship game was Tuesday -- against my our arch nemesis: Brigham Young University. They handed us a very regrettable loss at home last month. Bermtopia and its many outposts across the world, eg, The Beav, very nearly imploded in grief. But not quite.

An email from my college pal Oms was just the call to action needed. She had spied an alumni game day meet-up on Facebook. It was happening at a sports bar in downtown Portland's Pearl District.

Bona. fide. It was on Facebook.

Did I want to meet up? she asked. Hell yes.

Yep. That's us.

We arrived within 10 minutes of each other -- jauntily bedecked in our 100% cotton GU T-shirts.

No fellow alums.

No worries. We got down to it, eschewing our usual 60-something-ladylike glasses of wine for an IPA and pilsner because THAT's what real Bulldogs do. We succumbed to a hummus plate, however. (I refuse to discuss the "totchas,"  which involved tater tots, melted cheese and salsa. Some things that happen on the road, stay on the road. And on the hips.)

We appropriated a couple comfy sofas in front of a fire place with strategically placed big-screen TVs. The bar keep assured us that all TVs except one (a hold-out to hockey. . . really?) would carry the GU game.

And awaited the alumni meet-up.

About 5 minutes before tip-off, a fresh-faced young man in a GU T-shirt wandered in.

Class of 2014! mechanical engineer! Oms and I, of course, looked like we could be his mother and a doting auntie.

(I should point out here that it would be genetically impossible for either of us to be a mechanical engineer's mother and doting auntie: We were, after all, liberal arts majors.)

Dan, the mechanical engineer, recovered nicely after meeting the mother and doting auntie he never knew he had, ordered a brewski and hummus plate, and offered to scout out the basement bar for more Zags.

Sure enough, the gang was downstairs. In all their 20- to 30-something glory. Nevertheless, they embraced the possibility that a couple of 60-something ladies could pull on their 100-percent-cotton-Bulldog-embellished T-shirts and show up at a sports bar for game day.

We were Zags! We cheered! We booed! There were door prizes! We didn't win! But the Bulldogs did! And kicked BYU's butt!

Best of all, The Kids let us stick around to play Trivial Pursuit after the game.

Oms and I nailed the 2015 Westminster Kennel Club dog show question. And came up with a few countries intersected by the Equator. You're welcome!

In all, Mom's Night the Gonzaga alumni meet-up was a rip-roaring success.

And did I mention, the basement bar was awesome?

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.