Power Pig

September 22, 2026

I was in Las Vegas for a couple of days in August. It was my first time there, but my husband visited many times with his parents growing up. I had fun touring his memories. (Although I am told, exhaustively, that it just isn't the same.)

It was like being inside of a toaster. I don't think I've been somewhere so hot that was also not remotely humid. As a person who is usually cold, I thought I might enjoy that. I didn't. I'm realizing that I belong where I am, safely within the confines of Dfa humid continental.

I'm interested in the desert landscape, but we didn't have time for much exploration. My main vantage point was from the airplane window. Interesting to see how abruptly the city cuts off into nothingness. It gave me the same semi-trapped feeling I've had every time I've visited an island.

The Strip took up most of my attention. Sweat-drenched men trying to slap flyers for strip clubs and wax museums into your hands. Feathered women waving people down for photos. Fake monks chasing you up the sidewalk with mass-produced beaded bracelets.

There is something captivating about people on the sidewalk begging tourists to spend money with them while the tourists rush off to gleefully spend money somewhere else.

To be honest, I thought there'd be more lights. I stopped on our way to drink too many whiskey Cokes to take this photo:

Yeah, there are lights. But are there enough lights? It looks different in the movies. Maybe I just didn't have the right vantage point. I had to hurry along because one of the feathered women kept inching closer while aggressively complimenting my shirt.

I don't mind a little bit of grime. I kinda like it. We went inside the Venetian for a minute to escape the heat, and I loved the tacky-ass cloud ceiling designed to make you forget time exists as you gamble away your life savings. Something something simulacrum.

Anyway, we weren't there to gamble (though we did a little: I lost $9 in a slot machine that I only stopped at because it was called Power Pig). We were there to satisfy my childhood fantasy of seeing the Backstreet Boys. I'm doing my little wish fulfillment tour before we all perish. Fuck it.

(I do wonder if I would have been so keen to see them if I'd had a chance as a kid. My parents paid for my sister to see Kid Rock at ten years old. Kid Rock who inspired fourth graders everywhere with "All the crackheads, the critics, the cynics, and all my heroes at the methadone clinic."

And yet I had to spend my own adult money to hear "Shape of My Heart." It becomes more clear every day that she was the favorite child.)

Whatever. It was fun. You can't tell me "Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely" isn't worth flying 1,200 miles to see live. You just can't.

The show was at the Sphere, and the visuals leaned hard into the Millennium vibes. I enjoyed having the goofy Y2K graphics blasted into my face. One thing I miss about the late 90s is how obsessed we all were with aliens.

And even the spudly songs had hilarious visuals. Here's what they showed during "Siberia":

We left the next day. It took nine times longer to get home than it did to get there. Not literally, but it felt that way. I can't tell you how much I hate flying. I can get over the loss of dignity and comfort. But I have a lot of anxiety around meeting my fiery end in a plane crash.

Suddenly everything becomes an omen. "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" played as we waited to board. We are going to die. A gate agent called me an angel for some reason as we were boarding. A prophecy? At least I'm going to heaven, I guess. But ultimately I would prefer not to magical-think my way into the afterlife every single time.

Fourteen years later, we landed. We dragged ourselves home, and I unpacked my Vegas souvenir: a flocked zebra figurine from a gumball machine. I wanted a bird, but the zebra is good too. My kind of gambling.