Our twin granddaughters live in Albuquerque. They’re 11 years old, just this side of puberty and corruptibility.
Over Christmas break we took them to Las Vegas to see “Love” at the Mirage—a Cirque du Soleil tsunami of kinetic exuberance splashed through a pulsating Beatles’ soundscape—from “Get Back” to “All You Need Is Love” plus 24 other songs. Ninety minutes of bliss.
We first experienced “Love” eight years ago. I was born again. Raptured. Taken away like Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
The moment the show ended, we said: We gotta bring Angie and Paula here someday.
We drove all day. We drove through blowing snow and freezing rain. We drove 575 miles, arriving just after sundown on the fourth day of Christmas.
VIVA LAS VEGAS, baby!
Nobody puts the MERRY in Christmas like Vegas. Sparkling lights, jingle jangle round the clock, and, of course, GAY APPAREL—drummers drumming, pipers piping, swans a-swimming, lords a-leaping, ladies dancing, shirtless Santa’s, spike-heeled angels, and, oh yeah, dreary souls wrapped in sleeping bags on sidewalks.
Joy to the world. Peace on earth. Goodwill to all.
A street corner preacher shouted through a bull horn. REPENT. YOU MUST BE BORN AGAIN.
It was a sermon no one would hear. No one came near. Why would we care? We’re walking on streets of gold, baby!
No one was saved.
Next morning we ate breakfast on the Strip. The girls spied a Coca-Cola retail store and rushed in. Ten thousand items blazoned with the company logo; likewise in the M&M’s, Hershey’s, and Reese’s stores. Their heads spun. Their eyes popped. Their wallets opened.
We strolled past Cartier, Dior, Gucci, Prada, Valentino, and more. The girls took it all in stride while I was wishing we’d all get born again. Born Amish. Quick! Before it’s too late.
I once had a crush on the Amish. Live simply that others may simply live. I wanted to. Still do. Sometimes.
We crossed a pedestrian bridge from one emporium to another. A bedraggled man played an accordion for tips. Yet another beggar.
Where do they all come from?
We bustled by.
Suddenly, Little P, the youngest of the twins and a fledging mandolin player, turned back. She pulled a dollar out of her wallet and laid it in the musician’s hat.
Yes, love is all you need.
And it’s way more than a show in Vegas.