Dinner and a show – Vegas-style

Rob and I aren’t very trendy people so it’s really no surprise that we are often late to the party.

We saw Billy Joel and Elton John in a duo concert well after their voices betrayed them and they both had voice-ins for the high notes. We saw Bob Newhart do a stand-up routine in Seattle several years ago in which the audience laughed largely out of respect and memories and did its best not to notice old Bob’s comedic timing was just a touch off. And then there were the Smothers Brothers in a tiny theater in a town most noted for its lumber mill. I still wonder if their agent got kudos or a pink slip for booking that venue.

It is very fitting, then, that Rob and I jumped on the chance and a plane to go see Mel Brooks in Las Vegas last week, just a few days after his 91st birthday.

I will admit it sounds rather decadent to hop a plane to jet to Las Vegas for dinner and show. But there’s something about 109 degrees of “but it’s a dry heat” that keep prices low. That and frequent flyer miles and hotel rewards club perks.

We arrived on Thursday night with just enough time to see the sunset and grab dinner before taking a little stroll around the hotel we were staying at. It’s a lovely place with lots of flowers and pretty red carpet and the wafting scent of potpourri doing its best to battle the hazy cloud of cigarette smoke hovering over the gambling tables. Truly, being in Vegas makes Philip Morris seem like a very wise investment. And Anheuser-Busch. And Spandex.

I noticed that as the sun goes down in Vegas, the dress hems go up. And flip flops are replaced by heels that must make orthopedic surgeons salivate. I quite enjoyed watching gaggles of young women in their 20s totter and sway in shoes they were determined to wear even if walking in them – elegantly or otherwise – proved elusive. We saw a number of these daredevils standing in line for various clubs. I can only imagine that once in the clubs, they continued to stand since dancing would be absurd and sitting would negate the hours of planning and shopping to look so perfectly Vegas Ready.

I only felt like a total creeper taking this photo.
Thankfully none of the gals seemed to mind...if they noticed at all.

I had visions of sitting by the pool the next day, under a shady palm tree or an umbrella. But scoping out Las Vegas Pool Culture, it appears one has to make reservations and pay not to get melanoma. Scoffing at the idea of paying for a cabana or an umbrella on top of the daily $39 Resort Fee (for “free” internet and access to the gym), Rob and I instead decided to take a nice stroll along The Strip before we needed to be back at the room to shower in time for dinner and Mel.

Although it was already over 100 degrees, lots of tourists in varying states of sunburn and sobriety were out and about. I was highly amused to get ogled and cat-called by a guy walking past us near the Flamingo. It’s been quite a few years since I got that reaction from anyone except Rob. Granted, the ogler had an empty in one hand and was most of the way through the beer in his other hand…and it wasn’t even noon yet…but a perimenopausal silver-haired gal in a Kohl’s dress has gotta take what she can get.

We finally flopped back in our room about 5 sweaty hours later. I was stunned to see this on my step tracker. I don’t think I have ever walked that far in one day. Go sturdy ACL! And no blisters!

Rather schizophrenic, my walking pattern.
Thursday was pretty amazing, too, thanks
to airports and large casinos.

A rest, a shower, and we were off to dinner at what might be my new favorite restaurant in Las Vegas. I love ‘40s music so sitting in a restaurant named for Old Blue Eyes, listening to his music, and savoring the very best veal parmesan I have ever had in my life (which isn’t saying much – it was only the second time I’ve ever ordered it) was a huge treat. I barely saved enough room for dessert. Barely.

So adorable.  So delicious.

And then it was time for Mel.

The crowd was predominantly bald or white-haired. Although we were slightly on the younger end of the demographic, we fit right in.

People around us knew the words to movie dialogue as film clips were played. Many folks laughed in anticipation of the iconic catch-phrase punchlines (”It’s good to be the King”). All agreed there is no way the deliciously politically incorrect Blazing Saddles could be made today. The movie is just. so. wrong. Accordingly, it’s my favorite Mel Brooks flick.

I had envisioned the show would be Mel, a chair, a beverage, and a microphone. I pretty much nailed it except for the addition of an emcee of sorts – a friend who produced a documentary about Mel Brooks. The friend did a great job being the straight man and prompting stories. Glorious, hysterical, historical stories of Old Hollywood.

As Mel told stories about his younger years and early struggles in show business, he dropped names like Sid Caesar and Ethel Merman and Jerry Lewis and Carl Reiner. But he didn’t drop them in a bragging way; he named them because those people were his story, his life. He was a part of a time and place that defined American humor for a generation, maybe two. A time when cultural rules were more defined and thus breaking them was more thrilling.

He shared little nuggets like the one scene that was dropped from Blazing Saddles because it was just too raunchy (not by today’s standards). And the fact that his voice is the howling cat sound effect in History of the World, Part I. And that Jerry Lewis might not have been the easiest person to deal with in Hollywood.

As Mel told stories, I was reminded of my father-in-law.

Like Mel, Rob’s dad has a great sense of comedic timing and knows how to stretch a story to build suspense. Like Rob’s dad, I could listen to Mel Brooks tell stories from his life for hours. Unlike Rob’s dad, Mel didn’t give me that chance. For as soon as Mel got rolling and I was fully settled into my theater chair, it was over. Mel’s entire time on stage was an hour, give or take. I thought for sure the “Goodnight folks!” was a joke, that it was just intermission or at least an encore would follow. But no. The lights came on. The show was over. Time to get my commemorative "Mel Brooks, The T-Shirt" swag and call it a night.

I suppose if the only complaint about a Vegas show is that it is too short, that’s a win. And I suppose expecting a 91-year-old to perform on stage for several hours is asking a bit. How awesome that Mel Brooks finally played Vegas and left his fans wanting more.

We weren’t late to this party after all.

We lingered in the theater long enough afterwards
to learn we could have paid $$$$ for VIP tickets
and had a chance to pose with Mel in person.
This work$.