Last night I saw Blue Man Group for the second time. Tickets were $95. That's a lot of money and I'm not sure spending it to see a performance for the second time was worth it. However I'm not too keen on spending similar amounts of money to see Danny Gans, Wayne Newton or, ulp, Celine Dion.
There's always Cirque Du Soleil. They have a show at every casino on the strip. Even the Motel 6 has their own version called Cirque Du Six. I've seen it. They get six day laborers to wear ill-fitting full body leotards and writhe over one another in time to the Titanic soundtrack. I'm pretty sure their stage converts to a free breakfast bar each morning.
Last night I talked with a guy, who looked to be in his early twenties, who was on his way to Phoenix for his new six-figure corporate job in the agriculture industry. Actually I'm pretty sure every word out of this person's mouth was an exaggeration or a lie. We were sitting at the bar so we could get our food faster and get to our show. That meant I'd set myself up for yet another communal dining experience. Except this time I didn't want to talk to this guy. I wanted to eat my hamburger and go watch some Blue Men spurt Twinkies out of their chests. But I listened to him go on about selling hundreds of BMWs, the pre-mature end of his military career, how creepy Roswell, New Mexico is and how he could get us into some exclusive club after the show.
Blue Man Group was good. I'm happy that my sister-in-laws loaded me up with Blueman merchandise for my birthday last year. I've got the T-shirt, a snazzy watch and a cool desk clock. Now that I've seen the Blue Men for a second time I'm officially a groupie. Only I don't think I'll be trying to get backstage by offering the roadies sexual favors.
They don't have roadies.
More on Las Vegas later. . .