I am vexed.
This is because I leave for Las Vegas in less than 24 hours and I can’t find a single Hawaiian shirt and I seem to have misplaced my copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
I have never been to Las Vegas. All I know of Sin City, I’ve learned from popular culture. So I am pretty confident I know what this weekend has in store for me: it will involve a giant white whale of a Cadillac, a live tiger, a plot to take down a casino, three double cherries and a bucket full of dimes, at some point someone must get married by an Elvis impersonator, and I’m sure I’ll end up donning a C.S.I. jumpsuit. If I’m lucky I may even get to be chased through a casino kitchen by some sausage-fingered, neck-less hulk of a security guard who will then threaten to break my knuckles or something. And of course there will be Sinatra. That goes without saying. (Perhaps I should also bring a fedora.)
One thing is for sure, if I go the entire weekend without finding myself in possession of a showgirl’s headdress, then the whole thing will have been a bust.