"Let's go to Vegas," Kelly said. "There's a rollercoaster on top of the Stratosphere." And I said, "Viva!"

We're heading out tomorrow and returning on Sunday. I'll finally get to see the Double Down with beatnikside!

Note to self: martinis before rollercoaster = ill advised.

I love doing fun things on the spur of the moment. Kelly and I once were stressed out and tired, and I showed up at her house after work. "Let's do something," we decided. We went to the Santa Monica pier, hopped on the ferris wheel, rode the rollercoaster, did the funny little "how passionate are you?" tests for a quarter, and then grabbed dinner and a few beers. It sounds simple; really, it was simple. And it was the best time I'd had in quite a while.

Last time I went to Vegas with Kelly was for a Grateful Dead show in 1995. We watched hippies at the slots and marveled at the contrast of neon and earth child. We danced like... well, the way people danced at Grateful Dead shows. We got too hot and had to sit in the shade for a while. And then we drove home and reflected on how it had been a damn cool weekend.

Saturday, we threw some clothes into a bag, gathered some snacks, and headed towards Vegas. Have you ever noticed on longer trips that certain types of vehicles seem to have it out for you that day? Some days, Honda drivers all seem to want to box me in. Other days, people in enormous SUVs won't stop tailgating me, no matter which lane I'm in. Well, on this particular day, it was minivans. They kept trying to change lanes into me—not just trying to cut me off; I'm used to that. They were trying to move into my space when I was right next to them. There was braking and honking.

We stopped for gas somewhere past Barstow but before state line, and I glanced at the thermometer. "Does that really say 119 degrees?" I asked. I stared at it for a while, because I almost never see numbers that big on thermometers. While I was looking, the temperature changed to 120.

We arrived at around 6:30, checked into our hotel, and then headed out to meet up with beatnikside. We had drinks at the Fireside Lounge at the Peppermill. We had more drinks at the Double Down, where I was disappointed to learn that the mechanical horse—the kind they sometimes have outside grocery stores—wasn't operational. We chatted and put songs on the jukebox. Beatnik took a picture of me next to a sign that read, "Midgets are people too." We then decided it was Very Important to go dancing, so we shook around for a while and checked out other people who were shaking around. After all that exercise, we headed to the more mellow environment of the Hookah Lounge, which might very well be my favorite place in Vegas. If I lived in Vegas, I'd probably try to study there.

Things start to get slightly blurry at this point, because it was already ridiculously late, but the thing is, we were in Vegas, so onward! We had breakfast at the Texas (stop that rhyming, I mean it!), where Kelly and beatnik made fun of my tendency to be very precise about the way I butter my Belgian waffles. The Excessively Deferential Server seemed apologetic for giving us the bill, and she actually bowed to us. Beatnik told stories, and Kelly and I listened in awe. More drinks happened, and then not nearly enough sleep.

Sunday, I was a zombie. After struggling mightily to get out of bed and check out of the hotel before noon, I revived briefly and enjoyed some shopping over at Caesar's Palace, but I soon had no choice but to nap. One of beatnik's friends, who was shopping with us, kindly volunteered her place as a makeshift nap station. Without the nap, I don't think I would have been able to stay awake on the drive back—as I near thirty, I'm just not as resilient as I used to be—but with the nap and some caffeine, I was good to go. The drive back was uneventful. Traffic was light, and we made good time. Jeff was asleep when we returned, and soon, I snuggled in and joined him.

We never did make it to the rollercoaster on top of the Stratosphere. It was closed for maintenance. We didn't mind.

We used to go to Yosemite every summer when I was a kid. We always stayed in the campgrounds. At night, my little brother and I—and my older brother too, if he had come with us—would take out our flashlights and pretend they were light sabers. We made campfires at night and told ghost stories. There was one story about a kid named Elmer who got lost in the woods on one of his visits. Many of the other visitors also knew this story, and according to the legend, people were supposed to call out for Elmer to help him find his way back, so we did.

We looked at stars. I never could figure out how so many people seemed to be able to find constellations. The stars were bright and beautiful to me, but I found myself frustrated when I couldn't see what other people seemed to see with little difficulty. When we got tired, we climbed into our sleeping bags.

We always put a bowl of ammonia out at night to keep bears away. My mother told me that someone she had known years ago once put cold cream on before she went to sleep, but she forgot the bowl of ammonia. She woke up to discover that a bear was licking the cold cream off her face. I wondered why anyone would sleep with cold cream on her face—wouldn't it get all over the pillow, I wanted to know?—but I was sufficiently scared by the anecdote, and I never forgot about the bowl.

We usually had hot chocolate and cereal in the morning. My brother, mimicking the old Cheerios commercials, once said, "Cheerioooos, up your nooose." My mom had to extract the Cheerio from his nose with tweezers. Most of the time, we didn't have anything at all in our noses. We explored and we hiked. There was a big, square rock that my brother and I liked to climb. We bought little rocks and souvenirs from the gift shops. We hiked up one of the waterfalls—I wish I could remember which one—and got excited when we got close enough for the spray to hit our faces.

People told us about John Muir; I thought it was amazing that anyone could walk so very far, and I wondered if he ever got scared at night. When I was old enough to venture out by myself, I sometimes got on a tourbus and went through two or three cycles of the driver's route. I liked having some time alone, and the views were awe-inspiring. I wanted to stick my hand out the window, but the guides constantly reminded us not to, and I didn't want to be kicked off the bus.

There was a swimming pool we used to visit. It had an official name, but I don't know it, because to us, it was "Blue Pool." We used to buy frozen Three Musketeers bars and eat them on the deck. We never, ever waited to go back in the pool after we had eaten. I stayed in the pool for hours at a time, floating and seeing how long I could stay under water. When it was time to go, I used to duck my head back under the surface and pretend I hadn't heard my mom say we had to leave.

I've been thinking that I want to go back. It's been a very long time. The last time I was there was not long after the huge fire that hit there—I suppose it was in the early '90s? It shocked me to see so many charred trees. And now, I want to drive up there, sleeping bag in my trunk. I want to make a fire and call for Elmer, and I want to feel spray on my face as I walk near the waterfall.