Reflections on ... The Substance (2024)

 

/ Demi Moore in The Substance (2024) /

Hagsploitation truly is the horror sub-genre that keeps on giving. Sparked by the unexpected success of 1962’s What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? in the 1960s and 70s, maturing female stars of golden age Hollywood extended their careers by swallowing their pride, embracing their inner scream queen and plunging into exploitation shockers: think of Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Tallulah Bankhead, Olivia de Havilland, Agnes Moorehead and Shelley Winters starring in the likes of Strait-Jacket, Hush … Hush … Sweet Charlotte, Berserk, Lady in a Cage, Die! Die! My Darling, Dear Dead Delilah and especially the “question movies” Whoever Slew Auntie Roo?, What’s the Matter with Helen? and What Ever Happened to Aunt Alice? 

Roaring back from career doldrums (I last remember her playing Miley Cyrus’ mother in 2012), 61-year-old Demi Moore finds herself in a similar position in director Coralie Fargeat’s grisly and stylish satire The Substance. In a gutsy, exposed (in every sense) performance, Moore plays Elisabeth Sparkle, a middle-aged television celebrity abruptly fired by ageist and sexist network executive (Dennis Quaid, really chomping the scenery). Despondent, Elisabeth takes desperate measures to rejuvenate her “best self” with a mysterious unregulated black market scientific procedure called The Substance … and things swiftly unravel. 

Characterized by stunning art direction and a visceral sound design that emphasizes every repulsive squelching noise, The Substance ratchets up maximum dread and offers a goldmine of knowing movie references: Basket Case. Carrie. Death Becomes Her. The Elephant Man. The Shining. Every single David Cronenberg “body horror” flick but particularly The Fly. Thematically, it reminded me of two specific b-movies from the late 1950s: The Wasp Woman and The Leech Woman, in which the anti-heroine experiments with science (or voodoo) to restore youth and beauty with monstrous consequences (and – it must be noted - these films make their point with a fraction of The Substance’s budget and two hour-and 40-minute running time). 

The Substance is bound to be divisive. There was multiple “walk outs” when I saw it yesterday. Does it critique society's youth fixation or wind up reaffirming it? And has Fargeat lost control of the material by the ultra-gory splatter fest finale? However you cut it, it’s a wild ride and destined for cult status.

Reflections on ... The Weak and the Wicked (1954)

 

/ Pictured: Diana Dors and Glynis Johns in The Weak and the Wicked (1954) /

Recently watched: The Weak and the Wicked (1954) (re-titled Young and Willing for the North American market). Tagline: “Frank, raw-truth exposé of women’s prisons! The terrors … abuses … scandals!” 

Who doesn’t love a gritty women-in-prison exploitation movie? Give me a Caged (1950), Women’s Prison (1955), Betrayed Women (1955), Girls in Prison (1956), Women Without Men (1956) or Caged Heat (1974) and I am entranced! (The whole genre was brilliantly parodied by SCTV in 1977 in the essential sketch “Broads Behind Bars”). 

Compared to these lurid, hard-boiled American exemplars, the British variation The Weak and the Wicked undeniably feels buttoned-up, drab, downbeat and yes, tame, by comparison but it’s not without its merits. Glynis Johns stars as Jean Raymond, a posh upper-class woman (she wears prim little white gloves!) with a gambling addiction sentenced to prison on a trumped-up fraud charge. We watch as Jean and the other new arrivals file-in to be “processed” by the stern prison matrons: weighed, bathed (“strip!”), checked for lice and issued their frumpy uniforms. Once installed, Jean promptly befriends brassy peroxide blonde Betty Brown (the perennially sensational Diana Dors. Betty’s first words to Jean: “gizza fag!”). With each new female inmate Jean encounters, we get a flashback outlining her backstory (some are funny, some are tragic). British cinema aficionados should watch for Rachel Roberts, Sybil Thorndike, Irene Handl and Sid James in small roles. (I think it was contractually obligated for either James or Herbert Lom to appear in every single British film of the period). Director J Lee Thompson would reunite with Dors for yet another, better-known women-in-prison movie, Yield to the Night (inspired by the Ruth Ellis case) in 1956.

Reflections on ... The Deliverance (2024)

 

Recently watched: Netflix’s The Deliverance (2024). Tagline: “Every family has its demons.” 

Directed by the reliably juicy and lurid Lee Daniels (the filmmaker best known for Precious (2009) and The Paperboy (2012)), it begins as a gritty urban drama (complete with Lil’ Kim on the soundtrack) about poverty, abuse, alcoholism, and racism as we watch the troubled African American Jackson family (mother, three kids and grandmother) hoping for a fresh start by moving into a new home in blue collar Pittsburgh. But within no time, it becomes apparent the house is cursed, and The Deliverance shifts tone into berserk, traumatic down-and-dirty horror in the tradition of The Exorcist (1973) or Amityville Horror (1979). (Or more accurately, The Deliverance is like an update or variation of Abby, the 1974 Blaxploitation version of The Exorcist). All the demonic possession horror movie tropes are present and correct: possessed children scuttle up the walls. Characters suddenly adopt growling, guttural voices or speak in tongues or develop stigmata on their hands. A cross on the wall bursts into flame. When someone is sprinkled with holy water, they scream “It burns!” 

Is The Deliverance silly and cliched? Sure, and the reviews have been savage, but if you keep your expectations low it’s also a blast. And the acting is exceptional: Andra Day is ferocious as tough, beleaguered single mom Ebony Jackson, as is Mo’Nique as a no-nonsense social worker. But it’s Glenn Close - gamely sporting wig and make-up choices pitched somewhere between Tammy Faye Bakker and Rachel Dolezal - as flamboyant born again grandmother Alberta (her wildest role since playing J D Vance’s Mamaw in Hillbilly Elegy) who steals the whole thing. Alberta is the kind of part Shelley Winters or Susan Tyrrell once might have played and the way Close attacks it is pure, gleeful hagsploitation. My favourite scene: the three generations of Jackson women (grandmother, mother and granddaughter) braiding each other’s hair while watching 1967 camp classic Valley of the Dolls on TV and reciting the “Broadway doesn't go for booze and dope” dialogue off by heart. But weirdly, for such a cine-literate family, none of them seems to have watched The Exorcist!

Reflections on ... Faye (2024)

 

/ Pictured: portrait of Faye Dunaway by Helmut Newton for Vanity Fair magazine, 1987 /

Recently watched: Faye (2024), Laurent Bouzereau’s bittersweet HBO documentary about volcanic screen icon Faye Dunaway. 

It immediately disarms by emphasizing Dunaway’s scary diva reputation. Before we see her, we hear Dunaway imperiously snapping “Can we shoot? We need to shoot. I’m here now. C’mon. I really would like to shoot” then fretting “This is the worst seat in the world. I’m not happy with anything here … I need a glass of water, not a bottle.” This is followed by the notorious Johnny Carson clip of a desiccated and cantankerous Bette Davis raging she wouldn’t work with Dunaway again for a million dollars. And the revelation that co-star Jack Nicholson nicknamed her “Dread” (as in: “the dreaded Dunaway”).

From there, Faye provides context. Ambitious Southern farm girl Dorothy Faye Dunaway dragged herself up from humble beginnings through grit, talent and beauty (via old family photo albums we chart the emergence of her sensational cheekbones and hooded eyes), diligently studying her craft and toiling onstage until catching Hollywood’s attention. In her 1967 film debut The Happening, Dunaway is already weird and edgy (she was never a conventional ingénue). Faye scrutinizes Dunaway’s triumphs in New Hollywood classics like Bonnie & Clyde, Chinatown and Network but also her career disappointments (like Mommie Dearest – a previously verboten subject – and the aborted Maria Callas biopic, her passion project), personal tribulations (her father’s alcoholism, the death of her younger brother, her divorces, the adoption of her son Liam, the confession that Marcello Mastroianni was the love of her life. And – unexpectedly – her fixation with Blistex lip balm). 

Faye also reveals Dunaway’s battles with bipolar disorder and alcoholism. (I remember when Nina Simone was regularly described as “volatile” and “temperamental”. It wasn’t until after her death it was disclosed, she struggled with mental illness). The supportive Liam ponders, “If she wasn’t in so much pain, would she have been that good?” Dunaway is a mesmerizing actress – do we need her to also be "nice", “relatable” and “likeable”? As one of the featured talking heads replies when asked to summarize Dunaway in one word: “She’s complicated.”

Reflections on ... MaXXXine (2024)

Recently watched: MaXXXine (2024). Tagline: “She’s gonna be a star no matter what it takes!” 

MaXXXine, of course, represents the hotly anticipated concluding chapter of the juicy elevated horror trilogy beginning with X (2022) and the prequel Pearl (2022) by director Ti West and leading lady Mia Goth. I’ve been yearning to see this one for what felt like an eternity. Its trailer (soundtracked by the Laura Branigan classic “Self-Control”) was so tantalizing it tormented me! We watched MaXXXine last weekend (its opening weekend) and it was - OK! I felt like I was willing it to be better. Of the three films, MaXXXine is definitely the slightest and flimsiest entry. Maybe my expectations were unrealistically high and the remarkable Pearl (which I consider a modern masterwork) set an impossibly high bar for this follow-up. 

Anyway, there is still much to enjoy. Set in 1985 Los Angeles, MaXXXine unfolds against a backdrop of satanic panic paranoia, the rise of Tipper Gore’s censorious Parents Music Resource Centre, Ronald Reagan’s presidency and the Night Stalker’s reign of terror. Goth returns as driven, burning-with-ambition porn starlet Maxine Minx. Now 33, she knows it’s now or never if she’s ever going to transition from skin flicks into legit cinema (well, a low-budget slasher movie entitled Puritan II in this case). “In this industry, women age like bread not wine” she laments. But just as stardom finally seems within Maxine’s grasp, her friends start getting gruesomely picked-off one by one by a serial killer … 

MaXXXine boasts an authentically scuzzy, grungy discount bin VHS vibe. The soundtrack pumps with 80s tunes (ZZ Top. Frankie Goes to Hollywood. “Obsession” by Animotion. Kim Carnes’ “Bette Davis Eyes.” John Parr’s theme tune to St Elmo’s Fire. And yes, Laura Branigan). Aficionados of 1980s trash cinema will revel in West’s references to the likes of Savage Streets (1984), Brian De Palma’s Body Double (1984), Vice Academy (1989), Angel (1984) and Avenging Angel (1985). Goth is a riveting, singular presence and one of THE great actresses currently working (The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw aptly called her the Judy Garland of horror). MaXXXine is a pulpy, grisly down-and-dirty summer thriller – just don’t expect another Pearl!

Next Lobotomy Room Film Club ... Satan in High Heels (1962) on 20 June 2024

 

This month, the FREE Lobotomy Room cinema club presents Satan in High Heels (1962)! 20 June 2024 at Fontaine’s bar! 

Hard-boiled and stylish, Satan in High Heels represents the acme of early sixties sexploitation cinema NOT made by Russ Meyer. Characterized by exceptionally good acting, atmospheric film noir black-and-white cinematography and an urgent jazz soundtrack, Satan was filmed in just 21 days with an estimated budget of less than $100,000 – and is a taut 89-minute journey into deep sleaze! 

/ Above: jazz chanteuse, actress and pin-up queen Meg Myles as Stacey / 

Weary of her hard-scrabble two-bit existence bumping-and-grinding in the carnival, scheming, manipulative and utterly amoral fairground burlesque dancer Stacey Kane (Meg Myles) ditches her useless junkie husband and flees to New York to re-invent herself as a singer. Cynically employing sex and a smile, the redheaded vixen inveigles her way into a gig crooning at the upscale Greenwich Village nightclub managed by fiercely chic and jaded lesbian proprietress Pepe (the reliably intense Grayson Hall). Stacey promptly becomes the mistress of wealthy married businessman Arnold Kenyon, but – to considerably complicate things – she also pursues Kenyon’s feckless beatnik son Laurence! As the poster’s tagline leers “The father … the son … the husband … the lover … they all had her … but she had them – right where the heat was hottest!” 

/ Stacey sparring with Pepe. With her butch tailored tweed suits, ascots and long cigarette holder, the fierce Grayson Hall is a consummate scene stealer and a great LGBTQ role model. So Satan makes an ideal choice for Pride Month! /

Aside from some fleeting glimpses of side boob in a gratuitous skinny-dipping scene, no actual nudity is on display. But Satan’s producer Leonard Burtman’s background was in the realm of fetish porn magazines and that sensibility is amply reflected onscreen in the emphasis on Stacey’s spike-heeled Spring-o-Lator mules and the kinky black leather dominatrix ensemble she wears (complete with jodhpurs and riding crop) growling the climactic musical number “The Female of the Species” (sample lyric: "I'm the kind of woman/ Not hard to understand / I'm the kind that cracks the whip / And takes the upper hand"). Everyone snarls their tough-as-nails dialogue, chain-smokes and knocks-back hard liquor. (You could play a fun drinking game taking a sip every time a character onscreen does, but it would risk projectile vomiting). 

/ Watch also for simpering ultra-kitsch sex bomb Sabrina (the British Jayne Mansfield) playing herself as Stacey’s bitter burlesque rival. She’s gloriously awful! /

Lobotomy Room is the FREE monthly film club devoted to Bad Movies for Bad People! Third Thursday night of every month downstairs at Fontaine’s cocktail lounge in Dalston. Numbers are limited, so reserve your seat via Fontaine’s website.via Fontaine’s website. Alternatively, phone 07718000546 or email bookings@fontaines.bar. The film starts at 8:30 pm. Doors to the basement Bamboo Lounge open at 8:00 pm. To ensure everyone is seated and cocktails are ordered on time, please arrive by 8:15 pm at the latest. Full putrid details on Facebook event page. Facebook event page. 

Las Vegas Grind! My Scene Report for Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekend Thursday 18 April – Sunday 21 April 2024

 

This April I went to the annual Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekend festival at The Orleans Hotel and Casino for the first time since 2019. (This gap was mainly down to factors like coronavirus and being made redundant / starting new jobs over the years. I’ve been regularly attending on and off since something like 2003). I was reuniting with and splitting a room again with my old friend Kevin from California (the artist formerly known as Kevin from New Orleans), plus some newbies / VLV virgins: my friends Louise (henceforth referred to by my nickname for her “Weezie”) and London-based German couple Knut and Anne-Kathrin (the In-Kraut!). Anyway, here is my unexpurgated account – disgustingly frank and revoltingly candid! 

I arrived evening of Wednesday 17 April and caught up with Kevin over the first of many (many) beers at The Alligator bar of The Orleans. 

Thursday (day one): 

/ Kevin and I at The Golden Tiki /

Kevin and I went to The Golden Tiki that afternoon for Mai Tais. (Well, Kevin had his customary Three Dots and a Dash). Gratifyingly, The Golden Tiki was heaving (all the tables were already reserved, so we drank at the bar). Great to see that this amazing venue is clearly thriving. 

/ Above: decor at The Golden Tiki / 

/ Reunion with Rich at Sweet Pea's Hooch'n'Smooch Thursday afternoon. Photos by Sheilah  /

Then: the Viva Las Vegas LGBTQIA+ meet up between 6 pm – 7:30 pm featuring drag queen DJ Lady Laverne all the way from Brighton! This was the queerest most out-and-proud VLV to date. The event has always featured its share of old-school butch / femme lesbian couples (my favourite kind!), but I’d never seen more trans and non-binary folk before. (Interestingly, I’ve also never seen more therapy dogs before). The LGBTQIA+ mixer was a triumph, and the hetero attendees were mostly totally blasé about it. In the words of Divine as Edna Turnblad in Hairspray: “The times, they’re a-changin’. And the answer is blowin’ in the wind.” 

/ Patrick, Sweetpea and Andre at the LGBTQIA mixer /

Both Anne-Kathrin and Knut, and Weezie arrived and found us at the mixer. The party had well and truly started!   

/ Knut, Anne-Kathrin and Weezie. By the way, this trio nor Kevin had ever met before, so it was so great watching them all instantly become friends! /

Musical highlight: The Spuny Boys – rockabilly heartthrobs from France. 

Friday (day two): 

Friday morning a group of jaded international thrill-seekers went in search of some vintage smut and sin-sational adult situations. I mean, of course, Anne-Kathrin, Knut, Kevin and me! But don't worry - it was educational! We visited the Burlesque Hall of Fame Museum for a guided tour. My only disappointment: my priority was to genuflect before a sacred relic (their permanent collection contains a pink velvet heart-shaped settee salvaged from Jayne Mansfield’s Pink Palace!). BUT they regularly rotate the items exhibited and Jayne’s settee wasn’t on display when we visited! (Also, the guide said visitors kept wanting to sit on it). 

/ Above: treasures from the Burlesque Hall of Fame including Tempest Storm's glittery g-string (yes, you can see my gormless reflection) and Dita Von Teese's champagne glass prop from 2000 (surprisingly tiny!) /

/ What I'd hoped to see but wasn't on display ... Jayne Mansfield's heart-shaped velvet settee from the Pink Palace / 

Afterward, Weezie joined us at Frankie’s Tiki Room, one of my favourite bars in the entire world. Let’s face it, for the most part the United Kingdom just doesn’t “get” Tiki culture – it’s an entirely American phenomenon – so you must soak up and luxuriate in the authentic deal when you get the opportunity. A real plus: Frankie’s creaky barely functioning but excellent jukebox is stuffed with exotica, surf instrumental and punk selections. When I die, scatter my ashes at Frankie’s Tiki Room! 

/ Bad Girls Go to Hell! Anne-Kathrin and Weezie at Frankie's /

/ Bathroom selfie at Frankie's /

/ Above: Weezie and I giving major “We’ve been watching you across the bar and would like to buy you a drink” /

/ Kevin, me and Knut /

/ Leaving Frankie's, tipsy and blinking in the sunlight / 

Back at The Orleans, Kevin, Weezie and I hung out briefly at the pool. (The Bloody Marys at the pool bar are a must and have miraculous reviving properties). 

/ Poolside with Weezie and Kevin (and their perfectly coordinated Tiki ensembles) /

THEN: I had the bright idea of revisiting Big Elvis at Harrah’s. I explained to Weezie, Knut and Anne-Kathrin that seeing Big Elvis perform was an essential authentic Vegas ritual and rite of passage and that he had to be experienced at least once. I have many deliriously happy memories of Big Elvis over the years but wow, I was horrified by the price of drinks at Harrah’s these days ($12 for domestic beers. Knut’s bill came to $65). A major rip-off. And while Big Elvis himself was in soaring voice, he seemed totally “checked out” and delivered an abbreviated set. Previously I would advise anyone that seeing Big Elvis is de rigueur when visiting Vegas. Now – and it pains me to say this – I’d say approach with caution. 

/ Below: Elvis Presley and Ann-Margret - reunited! Only kidding: Weezie and Big Elvis having a moment /

Musical highlights: Crazy Joe. The Viva Rhythm and Blues Show: the whole showcase made me swoon, but everyone was completely blown away by flamboyant flaming creature Les Greene. Pouting, wailing and gyrating in a pink zoot suit with two-toned hair and a septum piercing, Greene effortlessly evoked the essence of young Little Richard in his prime (he tore through two numbers: “Baby Face” and Richard’s “Tutti Fruiti”). A star was born and regardless of gender or sexual preference, everyone had an instant crush on him! Then: Omar Romero. I regret not seeing James Intveld at midnight. 

Saturday (day three): 

Weezie joined me at the Copper Whisk Café at The Orleans (she was staying at the nearby Gold Coast) and washed down her steak and eggs with a potent Bloody Mary. (Which she raved about). 

Then: the car show. Like all self-respecting rockabilly kittens, Weezie and Anne-Kathrin shielded themselves from the blazing sun with parasols. Didn’t spot any stars. Cassandra Peterson (aka Elvira Mistress of the Dark) was a frequent presence at the car show in previous years signing autographs and selling merchandise (catching a glimpse of her is always a religious experience!). And of course, the late, great flame-haired burlesque queen Tempest Storm. But: I learned later that both modern striptease showgirl deluxe Dita von Teese AND effervescent Drag Race contestant and YouTuber Jaymes Mansfield attended the car show, just not while we were there, damn it! Or we somehow missed them! 

/ My role at the car show was to capture Weezie looking sultry next to vintage cars /

 / The owner of this 1955 Ford Crown Victoria Skyliner (in Tropical Rose) was a total mensch and happy to let people actually climb behind the wheel for photos. (Trust me, this is unheard of!). Needless to say, we took advantage /

More time at the pool. The “official” pool party is considered the Sunday, but we skipped the crowds and long queues and treated Saturday as the pool party – and it was sun-kissed bliss! A striking lesbian couple won the “Couples Swimsuit Contest” (see below and check out the brunette's killer batwing-shaped Vampira sunglasses) and no one batted an eye (like I said, the queerest VLV yet). Surf band The Hula Girls provided the soundtrack. 

/ Note: I've had that striped nautical t-shirt for years and this trip, applying sunscreen to my neck stained it with yellow streaks. Did anyone else not know that sunscreen stained clothes? /

Musical highlight: The Hexxers. Both Weezie and I were flagging and had to have a nap. Afterward, we were both groggy and irritable – until rampaging savage voodoo-tinged Californian garage punk band The Hexxers blew away the cobwebs. The Hexxers were like a shot of adrenaline. They are awesome! Followed by Deke’s Guitar Geek Show. 

Sunday (day four): 

Breakfast at the no-frills old-school Ellis Island restaurant, followed by drinks at Champagne’s Café. I’ve always been curious about this dive bar after reading about it in my 2003 Time Out travel guide and – after all these years – finally managed to visit it. And Champagne’s was worth the wait! It dates to the 1960s and has been virtually untouched since (thank God!). It boasts dim lights, a black ceiling, brown tufted Naugahyde booths, red flock wallpaper straight out of a brothel, a portrait of Marilyn Monroe and insanely inexpensive (and good) cocktails, knocked up by Arlene, one of the world’s best bartenders. And she doesn’t just sling drinks: Arlene is Champagne’s ambassador and welcoming committee, happy to talk you through the place’s history, including its ties to the Rat Pack and the mafia! (She gave us a quick tour of the framed portraits of mobsters on the wall). The music was underwhelming (generic 1980s classic “drivetime” rock like Richard Marx and Bryan Adams), but the accommodating Arlene let Kevin take over the soundtrack with his own playlist. It took me a while to realize what Kevin is up to while fiddling with his phone. Once early Ike and Tina Turner and 60s girl groups started blasting, I finally asked, “Are you controlling the music?” Our cab driver (and Knut and Anne-Kathrin’s) warned that Champagne’s is in a dangerous neighbourhood – so you probably won’t want to linger or explore the surrounding environs! 

/ That classic mid-twentieth century sign! /

/ Girls Gone Wild! Weezie and Anne-Kathrin at Champagne's Cafe /

Then: beers at the graffiti-covered ne plus ultra of punk dive bars Double Down Saloon. I hadn’t been there in years and thankfully, it was exactly how I remembered it. There’s a reason the sign outside (accurately) declares “happiest place on Earth.” Double Down and Frankie’s Tiki Room are both owned by the same person. Whoever you are, I could kiss you. Hell, I’ll gladly fellate you. Weezie sampled the signature house drink “Ass Juice” and even bought its special accompanying toilet-shaped glass. I vaguely remember Ass Juice being red (the Time Out guide describes it as “a sweet, blood-red concoction of mysterious origin”) and it tasting primarily of Jägermeister. They must have tweaked the recipe: now it’s pink and taste like schnapps. I think I like it better now. 

Back at The Orleans, the musical highlights were Dave and Deke Combo’s Hillbilly Fest and Sebastien Bordeaux.  Disappointingly, the usually excellent Big Sandy & The Flyrite Boys’ set was all mid-tempo and ballad-heavy and we bailed after a few songs. 

/ That girl's got roaches in her hair! Kevin snapped this shot of this stunning woman and her perfect (homemade) recreation of Tracy Turnblad's "cockroach" dress from Hairspray (1988). Surely THE outfit of the whole weekend /

Then: things promptly unraveled. Unbelievably, The Orlean’s ballrooms where the bands were playing ran out of beer! Then the bars downstairs stopped honouring the VLV drink special offers - or closed completely!  It was an anticlimactic end to the weekend. There were a few things that felt “off” this year. I suspect the organisers of Viva Las Vegas have downsized and streamlined things post-COVID, which I don’t begrudge. I was undeniably crushed that Ambassador of Americana Charles Phoenix’s retro slideshow is not on the agenda anymore (for me, he’s always been synonymous with VLV). But the real problems were with the management of The Orleans (not the hardworking staff). They clearly need to raise their game if they want to keep hosting Viva Las Vegas. And while they’re at it, bring back my favourite Californian Benedict to the Copper Whisk Café breakfast menu (it’s Eggs Benedict with the ham swapped for avocado)! Monday was a downer, but then it always is. We had to be checked out of our rooms by 11 am but my flight wasn’t until that night. Weezie and I had planned to hang out by The Orleans pool they’ve tightened security and now the pool is only accessible to guests with an “active” room key – which counted me out. Even though I’d just spent hundreds of dollars to stay there, the pool was now out of bounds! 

Anyway – in conclusion, Viva Las Vegas 2024 itself was a triumph and we’re already contemplating our return in 2025!