I worked half a day that Friday morning, sort of a half-assed advance penance for the mischief I intended
for the weekend. My flight was direct and smooth sailing. I tried to sleep a bit on the plane, but awoke as
we entered our final approach to Vegas, and the pilot pointed out the stunning vista of the Grand Canyon below.

Seen from the bird's eye, the canyons are a tortured and majestic landscape, in terracotta and purple and umber,
the undisputed evidence of thousands of years of rain, battering a buckled and cracked range of sandstone and
sedimentary rocks. Events overlap, and it is not always evident whether the massive upheaval of stones occurred
before or after the merciless battering of rain and river. Then, Lake Mead appears and it is an enormous expanse
of the deepest purest shades of aquamarine blue and turquoise green water. It is confined by Hoover Dam,
which appears as a huge wedge of shimmering white concrete engineering, bigger than life, even from the air.

We landed smoothly and I located my bags without much difficulty. It seems that nearly every air passenger has
one of those smallish black rolling bags these days. I was able to distinguish mine by the hemp and seaglass beads
tied to the zipper pull. The helpful airport personnel guided me to my shuttle, where, the logistics of my return
prearranged, I plopped into a seat and checked my voice mail.

There was a message from Bart! He kindly reminded me of the evening gathering at the Pink Taco, and let me know
that folks were looking for me over at the Gold Coast, as they were going to drive to the Hard Rock, and could take
me along. My grin could have lit up Las Vegas. Bart is such a sweetheart, and this was simple and direct evidence of
his perennial thoughtfulness. I was anxious to commence with the pillaging of Sin City, and was bouncing in my seat
like a hyperactive 7 year old. Fortunately for all concerned, I was not the last stop on the shuttle rounds, or I might
have blown a head gasket. I arrived at the Gold Coast at 5:45 p.m.

It took at least ten minutes to find the reception desk, which was cleverly hidden within the casino. The Gold Coast
is not a large casino, nor is it particularly labyrinthine. But it is under construction. The reception desk located, check in
was a breeze. I raced up to my room on the 6th floor, and phoned Bob from OK and Regan down on 4. They were
about to leave for the Hard Rock; I had just enough time to hurl myself in and out of the shower before they arrived.

Dripping wet and towel-clad, I probably scared the hell out of them when I opened the door. I dressed and we left
in Bob's faboo party van for the Hard Rock Café, Las Vegas. On the way, the guys turned me on to this bipolar
radio talk show host who plays devil's advocate with himself - very funny. The host had some redneck mama
foaming at the mouth - she was oblivious to her manipulation, like a betta, a Siamese fighting fish, flaring in anger
over and over again at its image in the mirror repeatedly presented by an amused owner.

I had visited Las Vegas before, but the new casinos still had me agog. My pulse was racing, as I had bounded from
plane to shower to van to event, with little time to reflect on the fact that I had only met a handful of Bartcoppers
face to face, and only once at that. The Hard Rock was packed; we made our way over to several tables of raucous
liberals, and was greeted like a long-lost cousin. My vague fears of rejection dissipated like smoke among this hive
of buzzing patriots, laboring (and at the moment, partying) for the common good.

Sucking on a beer, I began to make the better acquaintance of the assembled Bartcop enthusiasts, while trying not
to pick at their Mexican food plates. ("Hi, it is so nice to finally meet you. Are you gonna eat that?) The bus was
leaving only a few minutes after my arrival at the Hard Rock, so I contented myself with mints as we trooped on out
to the waiting tour bus. What a wonderful thing Bart had arranged for us. We traveled from casino to casino,
soaking in the neon sex luxury. On the bus, we chattered like a treeful of grackles while taking in the sights
of Las Vegas; the collective adrenaline of our group could have raised the Cheops.

Upon alighting from the bus, I continued in the company of Regan and Bob; we bummed around the Hard Rock
for a bit, and hooked up with a gentleman, George who made us the ultimate Vegas offer: "Hey, do you want to
see the sleazy side of Vegas?" Anticipating dinner and perhaps nekkid chicks with feathers on their heads, we were
all game. After a lengthy stint in Las Vegas traffic (or perhaps alien abduction explains our prolonged captivity)
we situated the van in a public parking near Fremont and alighted to roam.

The Fremont Experience is a new sensation for me, and a most impressive spectacle. I strongly recommend it to
all Vegas visitors. A gazillion small lo res tv tubes arrayed on a canopy convering the entire block of casinos.
And when it goes, oh my gosh. We were entranced by the Doors cranking amidst the flames of "Light My Fire"
and the psychedelic Jimi Hendrix' "Purple Haze." But, with pResident Dub Bush's recent blatherings in mind,
we screamed in delight when "Won't Get Fooled Again" filled our eyes and ears with red, white and blues.

I'll move myself and my family aside
If we happen to be left half alive
I'll get all my papers and smile at the sky
Though I know that the hypnotized never lie
Do ya?

(YAAAAHHHH!!!)

That was me screaming in glee, for the contextual reference and the impeccable memory just formed.

There's nothing in the streets
Looks any different to me
And the slogans are replaced, by-the-bye
And the parting on the left
Are now parting on the right
And the beards have all grown longer overnight

I'll tip my hat to the new constitution
Take a bow for the new revolution
Smile and grin at the change all around
Pick up my guitar and play
Just like yesterday
Then I'll get on my knees and pray
We don't get fooled again
Don't get fooled again
No, no!

We finally decided on dinner at Tony Roma's. Deeelicious steaks and shrimps, cold beer and good discussion.
In my opinion, dining rarely gets better than that. George had a very interesting institutional knowledge of Vegas,
and a handy hip flask full of fine tequila. We ran into RC on the street, wearing a most excellent and memorable
t-shirt, and a crazy grin. Thoughout the weekend, random encounters with fellow Bartcoppers spiked my
weekend with shots of pure delight.

Everyone was just tremendous; each and every Bartcop afficianado I would be proud to call friend.
I was accused by a pal of walking about with a moony look on my face Saturday. I am certain it was true...
I was adoring each and every one of you.

My final memories of Friday night were of watching military aircraft on Discovery channel, my tired brain trying
to comprehend the differences in stressors on the landing equipment of F-14s and F-15s. I was more than a little
blissed out upon awaking Saturday morning; Las Vegas was proving to be a banquet of intellectual and sensory joys. Obviously, the intellectual fare was imported for the weekend. But you gotta love a state that attempts to bust
the chains of Victoriana.

Saturday morning, I had a quiet solitary breakfast at the stupendous buffet at the Gold Coast. A couple of grizzled
veteran gamblers at the table next to me engaged me in a discussion on the merits of Elvis; I was happy to inform them
about the new single release of "A Little Less Conversation." I puttered about the casino, and scoped out the gift shop.

The Gold Coast Gift Shop is a hospitality anomaly. I was fairly desperate for a disposable razor (one of the items I
had forgotten to pack) and discovered that they were available at the gift shop at a reasonable price. Upon further
shopping, I realized that nearly everything in the gift shop was priced as it would have been at my corner grocery
store at home. I shelved this factoid for future reference, purchased some vodka and tonic, and returned to my
room to set up a small bar-like area.

My reasoning for this foray into alcoholic behavior was this: either I could loiter about the casino, idly plunking cash
into slot machines in the hopes that one of the overworked waitresses would visit me, for truly, that did seem to be
the motivating factor for most of the players. Play for free drinks. It seemed to me to be more economical (given my
normally wretched finances) that I just cover my own dang drinks, and play if I felt like it, when I felt like it, for
however long that I pleased.

I plopped a few pennies into a penny slot machine. Within an hour, I had won about $30. I cashed out, ran back to
the gift shop and bought a pair of pretty red pave baguette cubic zirconia and white gold earrings with my winnings.
Pleased that I had assaulted the casino and come away the better for it, I began to roam around looking for the group.
Bob from OK thoughtfully offered me a ride over to Kathy K and Houston's lunch gathering at Ellis Island. There, I
munched on potato skins and tried to follow the multiple threads of conversation, all fascinating strands of liberal and
personal facts. Afterwards, a group of us decided to tour the casinos on foot. While this may have been my ultimate
downfall, I wouldn't have done a thing differently. Houston, Bob, George E., Regan, Kathy and I visited (not necessarily
in this order) Bally's, Aladdin, Paris, Caesars Palace and the Bellagio.  We goggled at the sights and exchanged
familiarities with each other. Kathy K and I plotted to adapt certain decor treatments we saw to our personal abodes,
a la Trading Spaces. Particularly fun, we invaded a novelty shop where we were able to chuckle over slogan magnets, mechanical hamsters and rubber dog poo (ah, the ties that bind.) Bob from OK, who is a prince among men, treated us
all to drinks at the Bellagio, where we watched the dancing fountains, choreographed to "Singing in the Rain." It was the
perfect advent to a perfect evening. Noticing that the evening was fast approaching, we raced/hobbled back to Bob's
van and rode back to the Gold Coast in order to prepare to boogie down at the Rio.

At this point, I had noticed that nearly everything in my wardrobe was black. I would like to point out that it is very
difficult for me to dress festively and flash enough for a special occasion in Vegas without looking like a Mardi Gras float.
After selecting and discarding various outfits of vary levels of demurity, I opted to hang fire and wear the lycra miniskirt
and snakeskin trimmed stretch top, all black, of course. I had some completely cool heels to wear, but here, my fashion devices blew up in my face. The 10 miles jaunt on the pavement of Vegas had left my feet blistered and swollen. I had
exactly 2 pairs of shoes in my luggage, and the 4" heels were my sole option. They were excellent for kicking myself in
the butt as I walked slowly over to the Rio, wondering what insanity had caused me to pack the fool things. Crossing
the street, I worried about being taken for a working girl. But then again, I was. Just not that sort of work.

I entered the lobby of the Rio and began to process the instructions Bart had given us for finding the fete. As I walked
around looking for the right set of elevators, I noticed an attractive and formally dressed woman, carefully scrutizing
several sheets of 8.5 x 11 paper. I hazarded a guess: "Would you happen to be looking for ..er.. the party?" She was
quite amazed, and confessed that yes, she and her husband were Bartcoppers looking for the party of the century.
Tina and Jay are amazing, marvelous, erudite people, and I am honored to have spent time with them. We made
our way upstairs and entered a suite packed full of the coolest people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.

My acquaintances of the day were all there, and I mingled about in hopes of meeting everyone else. That was
probably unrealistic, but it was fun trying. Kevin Cunningham favored me with an autographed BFEE family tree;
he is at once incredibly talented and astonishingly humble. I met a cohort from Austin, who I have hopes of
hooking up with again. (Andy, gimme a shout!) I had the rare pleasure of a face to face chat with Nick from the UK.
I took full advantage of Bart's cunning in setting up $38 unlimited Chinaco; that stuff is extremely smooth.

Sidebar:
I probably consumed half a bottle of the stuff, and awoke Sunday morning in time for the gasbags,
without so much a nasty taste in my mouth. Bart does not exaggerate when he sings the praises
of Chinaco - it is proof of divinity, or at least of artistry in booze form.

I blathered a bit in MIRC, and relinquished the floor. I consumed possibly the most expensive fajita taco ever,
but it was well-placed and timely offered, and that really made it a good investment. I was delighted to meet
Mr. Baconslab, who lights up the room with his personality. BartcopLVers e.g. are the best of humanity;
I felt lucky to enjoy such excellent company. To all I met, I urge, let's keep up communication.
To all those I did not meet: let's hook up someday. It was over all too soon.

We flocked down to the roulette wheel; conducted like a raffle, the spin yielded good money to a beautful
redhead whose name escapes me. I was completely happy for her. A group of us migrated to the Rio's
coffee shop for apertif. During our midnight snack, we frantically swapped notions for another Bartfest.

I sincerely hope that this convocation of people continues to assemble under similar circumstances. There need not
be a "special celebrity guest". The pleasure of this groups' company is more than sufficient cause for me to come.
While we discussed Julio's suggestion of a Bartcruise, I was struck by the clear consensus of the table -- the desire
of our group to meet again. Mr. Alvarez and his family were an inspiration; they had traveled so far, were so generous
of their time, and were willing to come back again. Tommy Mack proved to be a great liberal cheerleader, and a
stimulating conversationalist; I look forward to hearing more from him. His friend Dan revealed himself to be the
ultimate soccer factotem. (While there is much I don't know about soccer, I now am confident of a knowledgeable
source on all things sportslike.) I got the benefit of Perkel's most evil leer, (ha ha) and hope to incorporate it into
my own repertoire of expressions. George B. generously offered to share his dinner with me, but I was in less
danger of starvation than I was of being lamed by my own fashion folly. I badgered the resident Marine to escort
me back to the Gold Coast, I was barefoot by now, the wretched albeit cool shoes carried rather than carrying me.

Back in my room, I was not at all ready to sleep, but desperately needed a change of situation. Chinaco proved to
be the gift that keeps giving; I was maintaining a nice buzz, and was not at all sleepy. I ditched the undergarments,
donned drawstring pants and tank top, loafed and mentally processed the evening's events. Happily, my conflict
whether to party or hibernate resolved, when the party came to me. A desperately handsome man (who will remain
herein unnamed) surprised me and presented himself at my door. (Yes, invited.) We watched TV and talked into
the night, and consummated the evening appropriately. It was not possible to wipe the grin from my face thereafter.
I felt lucky and blessed by the Gods of Democracy and Liberalism (not to mention Libertine Behavior.)

Morning, I phoned my mom in Austin to check on things. We have a Sunday morning ritual of watching the morning
punditry together. Mom is at least as big of a yellow dog as I am. She wanted to hear all about the weekend, and I
obliged her with the highlights. At length, I rousted Bob and Regan for breakfast before their departure. I had planned
to stay til Monday, but hadn't any game plan for the day. We had another terrific meal at the Ports O'Call;  I had
blintzes, fruit and coffee, and avoided getting the chafing dish of bacon stuck on my head. Did I mention that Bob
from OK is the bomb-diggity? He is. (Check out clickandlearn.com) As they departed, I had the chance to
admire Stentor's hot little old Alpha-Romeo - originally the same color of orange that I used to feng-shui my
family room, someday, that fine little car will be shiny, fast, black and fit to grace a gallery.

Traditionally, I hate Sundays, I just do. the day is usually stuck in the hoary netherworld, neither holiday nor work day.
Just 24 hours of anticipation of the unpleasantries usually attendant Mondays. This Sunday found me in a pleasant,
goofy mood. I was too hung over to remember many of the things I should have done, for instance, perusing the
artworks at the Bellagio. I roamed aimlessly, somewhat painfully around the various casinos, alone. As the afternoon
wore on, I determined to badger George E. into amusing me. We met for dinner, and passed some pleasant hours
discussing shared interests; Democrat politics, cats, our homes, and Mystery Science Theater 3000 (a favorite indulgence
of mine.) George is a perfect gentleman and very good company. I would have liked to have been able to discover
some really dreadful cinema sci-fi with him. But sleep was finally stalking me; despite his welcome company, I nearly
passed out before his eyes. I retired early, the anxiety of an early morning flight was beginning to nag at my brain.

The early morning return to the airport was ridiculously easy, my driver was a social and sympathetic grandmother.
We agreed that work sucks and it would be a lot of fun to win the lottery. It was as much intellectualizing as I could
manage at the unholy hour of 5 a.m. I managed to again draw the white bean of transportation and avoided the
post 911 cavity search.

As Southwest Airlines carried me efficiently back to Austin, Texas,
I wondered if it was too soon to begin planning for Bartfest III.
My conclusion: Naaah.