Richard Simmons and Tales From the DMV

Vegas. Oh, Vegas. How do I love thee? I will not recount the ways here because 1)I'm still icing my black eye and it makes it difficult to type, and 2)I'm tired of getting sued for undisclosed reasons.
While Vegas may have once again laid claim to my dignity, I made it out in one piece. And then of course lost my driver's license. This is my story.

Jessica Gets SLIMMONS.

After quite possibly the worst afternoon of the summer (A 6-inch stack of papers to file, a lost driver's license, and a mounting irritation at the disappearance of the "Dad" comb, I almost cried at my desk before realizing that only humans have tear ducts. Once again, I was thwarted), a single text message from Caitlin provided a level of intrigue to my dreary day:

Be at my house at 5pm. Bring $12 and work out clothes.

Because I am a terrible sport, I prodded for details and after I learned there would be no running (an imperative stipulation for me to even consider going to her house) but rather dancing, I almost dropped the phone. We are going to see Richard, I thought.

Indeed, we did. We drove along in tense anticipation, Caitlin smiling wryly as I reprimanded myself for my lack of sparkly aerobic attire. The most I hoped for was a smile, perhaps a mid-Sweatin'-to-the-Oldies shriek in my direction; but no. Crossing the threshold into Slimmons like an illuminated abyss that blinded me but still aroused a deep sense of hope, Richard Simmons leaped from his chair to greet us each with a kiss on the cheek.

I was already sweatin'. And then came the oldies.

Now, let me spend a little time on Richard himself. His face was matte with flawless foundation, the crown of his head was a darker shade than his hair with the texture of what looked like astro-turf, and his shorts were just as short as you could ever hope them to be. As his lip gloss grazed my cheek in a warm welcome, I had to remind myself that this man is well into his 70s. And he was about to kick my ass.

After an hour and a half of prancing around a dance studio with women and men aged from early 20s to mid 60s, intense weight and core exercises, and an ongoing diva-feud between Richard and his assistant Sherri (the Rhoda to his Mary)it was time for cool-down breathing exercises. As Bette Midler's The Rose softly ended, Richard looked around with the earnestness of a guidance counselor and talked to us about rejection. It was a sweet, genuine moment with his fans and followers (which all of us were, if we hadn't been before) from the heart of a man so defined by his overcoming rejection that no one has ever looked at sparkly shirts and white high tops the same way.

I walked away from Slimmons feeling slimmon indeed, and a little bit better about the world that had thrown me such a shitty day in the first place.

The World According to the DMV

Really, there are times in a writer's life when she wishes things were more interesting. Often, the most mundane of tasks ends up wielding the greatest stories, complete with unusual and illicit details. Tasks such as, oh, I don't know, going to the DMV, where she sits for an hour waiting for a robot to call her name. She might even sit next to an old man, and it doesn't matter that she didn't look him in the eye; the tan socks secured under white orthopedic shoes and revealed by too-short cuffed pants give him away as being over 65. His breath only betrays him further; the smell of Ensure and Metamucil being unlocked after soaking for what seems like several decades is strong enough to identify him, and there is no escape from the scrutiny of the young.

And then she might get up, hearing her number called, and slip on the tile, causing a domino-effect tumble which rifles through the DMV, knocking old women down, tripping toddlers, and concussing scared adolescents who just came to take their driving tests. There might be blood, perhaps she sees teeth strewn on the floor, somewhere a fire alarm goes off and a man runs out holding a bag with a dollar-sign on it, screaming like a madman and stepping over the writhing bodies of the elderly who ask her humbly for a hand. But she can't give them a hand; she's being handcuffed and taken away in a police car, and all the while the woman at the counter helplessly holds up her number, waving her paperwork wistfully as the poor writer is gently ducked into the back seat of the squad car by an understanding yet firm police officer. She might lock eyes with the DMV woman, who files the paperwork away for another day, and she might think, Damn, I really don't want to have to come back next week. This might happen to her; but it certainly didn't happen to me.

Until next time!

I Love Billy Joel Just The Way He Is

What makes a musician great? Is it a voice smooth as butter, a bravado the likes of which could stop a raging bull in its tracks, fingers that run across an instrument with an unnatural yet erotic speed? If so, those looking for greatness--NAY, STUFF OF LEGEND--need look no further than Mr. William Joel.

Captain Jack Will Make You Sing And Bop In Your Car Whilst Others Look On In Both Confusion And Awe

A few months ago, for no particular reason, I had a craving to listen to Billy Joel's "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant" like a woman pregnant with musical tastes from the late 80's. Though YouTube has fulfilled our cultural need for instant gratification, I was anything but satisfied and within a few weeks had bought a 3-disc set of his best songs. My mother bought the same one; though it made for a car ride heavy with tension and withheld breath (I hope none of you ever endure the sheer discomfort of hearing Billy sing the word "masturbate" which then vibrates off the walls of the car which your mother is driving) I regret nothing. The highlight was most definitely the point at which "Only the Good Die Young" had reached an instrumental and my mother, who showers with her clothes on, turns to me smiling and still bopping her had back and forth and says, "You know, this is really not a very nice song." You tell em, Jackie.

Since then, the CD is on constant rotation in my car, and never fails to get my ponytail bouncing, my shoulders tensing up with the tempo, and my voice screeching loudly against the unmatched enthusiasm of the Joelster. And enthused he is; the man yells for no reason and at often inappropriate times. When "Captain Jack" is getting you high tonight, there is nothing less appealing than some dude yelling in your face about it and totally killing your buzz.

I've found there are few people more fun to imitate, whether you're at a fancy restaurant ordering drinks (I'll have a "BOTTLE A' RED! Or, if we have the fish a BOTTLE A' WHITE!") or reciting Shakespeare (Oh, Juliet, won't you "COME OUT COME OUT COME OUT COME OUT...You Catholic girls start much too late!") Billy is always ready to poke his head out and surprise you, effectively giving you a heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack.

And also, there few people so deluded as this self-proclaimed badass; I'm not sure why Billy thinks he runs with a "dangerous crowd" but it seems that laughing a bit too loud is hardly dangerous, though perhaps a bit inconvenient for the neighborhood's elderly (who, in fairness, probably do think that ol' Billy is a hoodlum). I mean, we may be right and he might be crazy, but his "dangerous crowd" consists mainly of Elton John; the man might be a lot of things but dangerous is not one of them. I think if you were to look in a thesaurus for synonyms of "dangerous," I can guarantee you will find two names noticeably absent from that list.

So many musicians are overlooked by our generation, as we become more and more fascinated by synthesizers and songs which undoubtedly contain lyrics such as "save me from myself," "I hate your girlfriend," or "I want to have sex with you in a public place." We have forgotten what it's like to have a few broken cords assuring us that "I love you just the way you are," and outdated saxophone solos emphasizing how much "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints."

There are few things more satisfying than rediscovering a deep love for music, no matter how ashamed you might be to roll down the window at a stoplight while it's blasting from your back speakers. I will not be embarrassed if you see me flailing around like the Muppets' Swedish Chef in my car singing about Billy Joel dancing with his hand in his pants (his words, not mine). I only ask that you please refrain from telling your friends.

Besides, "Piano Man" is probably the most wonderful song to slur into a microphone* during Karaoke Night at your local bar.

ALLLLLRIGHT!

*which smells like a beer; on the plus side, people sit at the bar and put bread in your jar while asking "Man, what are you doing here?"

What Happens in Vegas May Cause Mild Burning Sensation

When a young woman comes of age, she wants nothing more than to wear unreasonable shoes and unforgiving miniskirts all in an effort to attract men who are willing to buy her brightly colored drinks with large pieces of fruit in them. She is often successful, with feathery eyelashes batting with seductive grace, a smile so alluring and secretive it attracts even the most stoic of observers, and a gently curved figure which sways like reeds blowing in the summer breeze.

And then there is her bumbling friend haggling with the bartender over the price of a Long Island Iced Tea and squealing too loudly with joy as "Gold Digger" starts to play on the dance floor.
This is the tale of that friend.

Jessica Hits Vegas; Fails At Gambling, Wins at Life


We left for Vegas at 1:00pm on a Friday. A swerving car ride and several texts to Kelly bearing my Last Will and Testament later, we arrived at 9:30pm. Needless to say, I was ready to drink until I no longer felt the very real presence of danger. Strangely, the opposite happened.

We set off in a celebratory mood, Julia only minutes before turning 21, and as we happily bounced from the Tropicana to the Excalibur and on to the Mandalay Bay, we smiled at all of Las Vegas, which had not claimed victory over us, not yet. We entered into Rum Jungle, for the first time with all legitimate IDs, and quickly realized that not only were we the youngest people there, we were also the most interesting. Several overpriced drinks and newly acquired friends later, we dispersed into the night, a starless sky polluted by the immense sparkle of the city shrouding over us like a dark blanket promising safety in its warmth.

The next morning, with details a bit hazy, I woke up in my party dress, my ID poking out of my bra and the distinct taste of Cheez-Its lingering in my mouth. The collective summary of the group's night consisted of waking up in a Burger King bathroom stall and wandering onstage at a theater still open from that night's production of The Lion King. We awoke in generally good spirits.

A Day at the Pool Is No Day at the Beach

Defined by a failed attempt at going to Rehab (a pool party at the Hardrock Hotel), and a scorching sun only escaped by submerging into the pool at the Tropicana, the day passed in softly cooling breezes and drinks the size (and shape) of footballs. Eventually I went up to the room and missed out on all the exciting details of the illicit pool party downstairs; hence, you suffer a lack of fanciful imagery and inappropriate behavior.

We eventually dragged ourselves out of the hotel room to head over to XS at the Wynn and then to Tao at the Venetian, generously providing our cab drivers with endless water cooler material (assuming that somewhere there is a cab company that has a water cooler specifically for the purpose of comparing drunken idiot stories).

The Practice of Tao

If you love the atmosphere of an Asian brothel but don't have the money to fly across the globe, or want to dance at a club but don't want to be able to move, look no further than the Tao at the Venetian! Women dancing violently in lingerie? Check. Naked women bathing each other in decorative bathtubs and fanning each other with giant feathers in bed? No problem! Ridiculously small and overpriced drinks? Absolutely! Aside from the coolest bathrooms I've ever set foot in (glass that fogs over when you lock it! Crazy!) and a very kind bartender who made me a stronger drink for free (thanks, Ernie!), Tao was simultaneously overwhelming and underwhelming. So I guess I was just whelmed.

My feet, however, were in searing pain and I was asked on more than one occasion to put my shoes back on. Deciding to ignore that request, I was kicked out faster than Jazz at the Banks' household (AHHHH!) and we set off down the strip in search of beer pong. And beer pong we did.

After a friendly game of pong (which I lost with gusto), and no money left for a cab, we decided to walk the few miles back to the Tropicana. This resulted in a splinter in my bare foot, black soles for days, more than one person exclaiming "Girl, you need to put your shoes on," and eventually Veronica and I wearing poor Alex and Tim's shoes, respectively. We looked like toddlers in big man's shoes and they looked like unusually young pedophiles. It was worth it.

The car ride home was a breeze and as I watched Las Vegas disappear into the heat like the most brilliant of mirages, I whispered a goodnight and not a goodbye; We will meet again someday, Las Vegas, someday.

Oh, I'm going in two weeks? Well. That worked out nicely.