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The Harder They Come, The Harder They Fall, One and All

So.  I wasn’t going to post while in Vegas, but I’ve got too much stuff to talk about.  So here I am.

Saturday was endless – we were up at 4:00 a.m. EDT to catch our 6:40 flight.  (If it had occurred to me that Beloved, as a frequent flier, has all sorts of “premium” and “platinum” status and can bypass all sorts of lines in airports, we’d have slept until at least until 4:30.)  We flew from Cleveland to Minneapolis, then from Minneapolis to Las Vegas, arriving at 10:40 a.m.  Which means we’d been up for 9 hours.

We then rented a car and drove out to Darling Daughter’s Elks lodge, since we couldn’t check into our hotel for another 4 hours and met all of her friends there – as well as her beau, Mr. Fix It (he supposedly can fix anything).  After a few hours, we checked into our hotel, then took Darling Daughter and Mr. Fix It to dinner, then we went back to our room to pick up our tickets to see Jimmy Cliff, who was performing at our hotel.

We were about 45 minutes late for the concert at that point, and Beloved and I had been up and running for nearly 20 hours straight.  As we rode the elevator down, it stopped a couple of floors below us and a young Caucasian man in a Jimmy Cliff t-shirt and a camera slung around his neck got on, accompanied by a small, thin African-American man with a goatee and the shiniest gold shoes we’d ever seen.

Beloved cracks, “Oh, good – we’re late to the show, but so is Jimmy Cliff.”

We all chuckle.  We all know Jimmy’s already down there – these guys are photographers for the show or some such.

We go down to the concert – a very nice venue at the “beach” and wave pool at the Mandalay Bay – and catch the very last of the opening act.  They leave the stage, and preparations for the main show begin.  The band files out and a very elaborate introduction begins when Darling Daughter and Beloved look at each other and both say, “Wouldn’t it be funny if the guy in the elevator really was Jimmy Cliff?”

And out on stage bounced a small, thin African-American guy with a goatee and the shiniest gold shoes you ever saw.

I don’t think it would be inappropriate to say that we all began to squeal like a bunch of teeny-bopper fan girls at that point.  Well, except for poor Mr. Fix It, who probably wondered what the hell he’s gotten himself into with this family.





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