Sunday we drove up to Las Vegas to see The Beatles “Love” Cirque du Soleil with Sarah-Architect and Jeremy Sr. Since Sr. was already in town for NAB, it was me, Stevel, and Sarah-Architect in the Golfie for the drive. All the way up to Vegas, Sarah-Architect and I shared our enthusiasm for the adventure (Steve contributed his ambivalence). Sarah-Architect had been to Vegas only once, and with family, so she was looking forward to an overnight of DEBAUCHERY. She had received a sign in the form of an unexpected $100 refund from her car insurance company and insisted repeatedly that we each put a quarter into the first slot machine we saw.

At the first slot machine, Stevel put in his dollar and won $37.50. WOOHOO! The first slot machine Sarah-Architect saw turned out to be broken.

I soon ditched my friends to shower and briefly enjoy our room in the MGM Grand West Wing. I just love this hotel, and a Sunday night stay is a great deal. Anyway, when I met up with Stevel and Sarah-Architect an hour later, they had had a couple of drinks; this exaggerated for them their senses of winning (Stevel had hit the slots-jackpot a few more times) and losing (Sarah-Architect was not “feeling the mojo”). We moved on to a DELICIOUS dinner at fin and then met up with Sr. for the show, which I cannot insist enough that you, dear reader, make an effort to get to Vegas to see. It was better than I could have imagined, and I could watch it again and again and again. Whether you love the Beatles, don’t care about the Beatles, love Vegas, loathe Vegas, whatever … you—whatever your age and entertainment bent—must see it!

On with our story …

After the show, we caffeinated and played some more slots. I won and lost and won and lost and came out ten bucks behind. Stevel slotted his way to low-roller happiness. Sarah-Architect lost almost half of her little refund.

In the morning, we breakfasted, said goodbyes to Sr., and hit the road in the Golfie. This time it was the four of us: Me, Stevel, Sarah-Architect, and Sarah-Architect’s streak of horrid luck:

12:30 p.m. We depart Vegas proper

12:45 p.m. We arrive at the outlet mall outside Vegas, where we spend nearly 30 minutes trying to figure out how to get from the parking lots to the stores we want to visit. In the stores, we find nothing—NOTHING!—to purchase. This is called An Omen.

1:45 p.m. The “Low Gas” light comes on, and the Golfie shrills its “LOW GAS!” indicator bell. Although we are passing the last of the exits on I-15 as we enter the desert, I pay it no mind. It’s 30 miles to Baker, and I know full well the Golfie can go up to 53 miles after the Low Gas indicator sounds.

1:45-2 p.m. It is strangley quiet inside the car.

2:00 p.m. Sarah-Architect says politely, “I don’t understand why we’re not getting gas.” This is called Foreshadowing. I say, “Are you both having anxiety about that? Is that why you’re so quiet? Because we are in great shape, no worries. I’ve got this.” This is called Hubris.

2:05 p.m. We encounter stopped traffic on I-15.

2:30 p.m. The backup continues. We are moving at an average speed of two miles an hour. There are no real exits until Baker. I have no idea how far “Low Gas” will take us in stop-and-idle traffic. Sarah-Architect has to pee bad enough that we are formulating plans for things she can pee in inside the car, there being no cover along the roadside in the desert.

3:30 p.m. We finally pass the former scene of an accident, which has been almost completely cleared from the road.

3:35 p.m. There is an exit with a ramshackle gas station, nothing else. Gas is $4.50 a gallon. This is called You Deserve It, Kristan. We buy 20 bucks worth. Sarah-Architect pees. I’m sure it’s not easy for her; she doesn’t use dirty potties. Or touch public doorknobs.

3:36-45 p.m. Sarah-Architect sanitizes her hands in the back seat with “Wet Ones.”

4 p.m. We arrive in Baker. We gas up affordably. Things are looking up. But speaking of looking up, we are sitting eating our greasy fried A&W burgers in a ramshackle fast-food joint with a gathering of toothless desert people when Sarah-Architect says she feels like something’s dripping on her. Milliseconds later, a gallon of brown water gushes from the ceiling an inch behind us. I jump up so fast I incur a serious bruise on my leg. We stand, stunned, looking at the brown pools on and around our seats. But we are so road-weary, we eventually just move to another table. Sarah-Architect throws away the top bun of her burger, in case it has been contaminated, and we finish eating. This is called Survival in the Desert. It is also called Acceptance that Luck is Beating the Crap Out of You Today.

4:25 p.m. We depart the A&W. I take a right onto the only road in Baker. I am watching for signs for which way I will need to go in order to get on I-15 SOUTH. But it turns out this road simply ENDS BY MERGING ONTO I-15 NORTH. We are headed back toward Vegas. This is called BITE ME, I-15 WITH YOUR LACKING DESERT EXITS!!!!

4:50 p.m. We pass Baker, again, now heading South.

5:20 p.m. We again encounter stopped traffic. Again, in the desert. Why does traffic want to stop in the desert? WHY!

5:20-6:05 p.m. We roll along at 4 miles an hour.

6:30 p.m. We finally encounter the outskirts of L.A. At least now the traffic issues HAVE A REASON.

7:30 p.m. We arrive in Santa Monica. A trip that should have taken a mere five hours has taken seven, not to mention its toll on our spirits, and the years it’s clipped off of the ends of our lives. We vow never to drive to Vegas again. This is called Crying on the Inside.