Thoughts while driving down the 15:

I can’t decide which is sexier; the exclusive Vegas ‘Phantom’ production at The Phantom Theatre in The Venetian, or the fact my fiance owns the original mid-eighties Crawford-Brightman recording from Broadway, and can basically recite the whole thing.

Maybe it’s that I only found this out on the trip back. Had no idea during. How lucky am I to be able to share intricate details about my first favourite theatrical production with my lover and best friend? He really enjoyed it, too. The cast was pitch-perfect, and the production incredible. We were pretty floored.

So, in case you guys were wondering – it’s not gay, or pussy, or anything else you fear – to be a straight man enjoying musical theatre; especially with a woman. Won’t make you a pussy. If anything, it’ll get you some. Really. And Phantom is a fucking pussy magnet. We bitches love that shit! Why, you ask? Because it’s good. And the Vegas show is the best, most faithful and entertaining I’ve ever seen.

And, yes. The fact that I can actually share it with him makes it – and him – incredibly fucking sexy. Take a page. Stop being a homophobe and get some culture. Might even score. And we know that’s enough to motivate you. Asshole.

If you’re playing anything but BlackJack in Vegas, you’re practically giving the casino your money. If you’re playing slots or Roulette, you’re bending over and patiently waiting to get fucked by the house. Get a clue.

Nothing beats the Bellagio. Nothing. Still.

Steve Wynn is a fucking genius. Genius. But why he has to start building in Philadelphia beats the hell out of me.

The CityCentre is still a ridiculously overblown investment, and MGM is a more compulsive gambler than most schmucks in Vegas. But it IS pretty. And the card sculptures around the poker room, clearly inspired by John Tenniel’s original illustrations in ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ had me fangirling out. So did Phantom.

Anthony Crivello is all that and a bagga chips. Such a ham. Perfect.

My head is killing me.

The Rio is awesome. Three cheers for comps.

Mister P’s ass is sore from sitting on his wallet with so many hundreds. While hardly physically masochistic, I’ll wager that’s his favourite sort of discomfort.

Snowy mountains are so beautiful.

I hope my voice is going to be strong enough for ‘Think of Me’ at the Ash Camarazzi karaoke birthday bash. Vegas is too fucking cold to forget a jacket. Eh, got a few days. Only issue was the cadenza anyway. Should I go more Brightman or Holden? Damn, she was excellent. Best Christine I’ve seen yet. Too bad I have such a Rossum tone naturally. But with the version performed by Holden in Vegas, it just might be awesome. Guess I should practise when we get home. After more scripting, of course.

Venetian is lovely. It’s certainly no Bellagio, but I’d enjoy dining at The Grand Luxe Cafe more often. Maybe taking in some more sights.

Rose gold, definitely. Split shank. One for my engagement ring, one for my wedding band. Interlocking, faux puzzle style. Two stones, gallery set at each end. Moissanite. Duh. Not quite 2 carat. But more than 1.5.

Goddamn, the snow is beautiful. He thinks so, too.

I bet he’s glad he never took that job in Hesperia. There’s nothing here! It’s hardly worth coming out here to do a college lecture, too. Two hour drive? Thanks, but … No. Fuck off.

I hate migraines. Time to catch a nap.

Schumacher is pretty hit or miss. Loved the Vegas cast, but have to admit. Minnie Driver remains my favourite Carlotta.

Howard Stern is so great. Love his honesty. And wit.

‘Pretty mountainscape over there.’ Wow. God. It IS. Purple majesty, indeed. And frosted with glistening white. Summit disappearing against the sky. Wow.

Los Angeles. 66 miles out. Nice.

Man, I love Bellagio. Everything about it. And being carded! Wooo! Almost 30, bitches!

Ears popping. A lot. Ow.

Palazzo Suites are so nice. Too bad Prince doesn’t live there anymore. I can see why he stayed as long as he did.

Damn. I’m tired. He looks so fucking hot. I hate migraines.

Mmm. Snowy mountains.

More ear-popping. Stern. Sleepy. His hands feel nice. I love holding hands in the car. He’s such a great man. I am one lucky bitch.

L.A. about 50 miles out.

Wonder if I’ll go to Passive tomorrow. … Maybe.