All you need is love

Before we blow this popsicle stand, I thought Matt, for sure, should check out Las Vegas. I figured he'd hate it, but every time someone hears we lived in L.A., what would he say when they asked, "Dude, did you go to Vegas?" In the interest of future cocktail party conversations that may or may not ever happen, I took him to Vegas.

I was right. He hated it. As we left the New York, New York casino to head back into the 105-degree heat, I looked up at his big, smoke-reddened eyes and asked, "Y'okay?" He replied, "Umm, that's a lot of ... stimulation."

Our main objective was the Cirque du Soleil LOVE show. Matt didn't hate that. In fact, I think he may have experienced something close to the rapture. Let me back up a second ...

I've been to about a half dozen Cirque shows. I called my friend Sunni after my first one and said, "Blech. No plot." She said, "You do know that 'cirque' refers to 'circus,' yes?" I said, "Well, er, duh. So Cats should be called Cirque du Cats. Yuck, no plot." (I, in fact, had not made the circus connection, in spite of seven years of studying French. I remember thinking, well, whatever, I never liked circuses, either. Poop and clowns. Awesome.)

In the years since, I've grown to appreciate the athleticism and dream-like quality of the Cirque du Soleil shows, though. Seriously, I'm not being a smart alec. With each one, I much better appreciate the sheer artistry of such a colossal production. I read somewhere that the designers want the audience to stop thinking and just feel. That's a great way to approach the Cirque.

But even without the mental "you'll love this" prep, LOVE would have blown my mind. The theater designers placed speakers in the backs of every seat, and the producers use the digitally remastered versions of 28 Beattles' songs. Imagine that, at full volume. I felt like the music was pouring out of my ears.

And guess what else? Plot! Images of Liverpool at the end of WWII and then the shocking slide right into the 60s counter-culture and yet another war. I'm not saying there was an actual story line to follow, but as the music, acrobatics, screens, images, dancing, and props popped and paraded everywhere I looked, my head latched  onto connection after connection with other texts, films, and images I'd seen and read. It was like swimming in the Internet.

Best, though, were the surprises (not the least of which was my cute husband softly singing along to every song): a grand piano filled with soap bubbles, a Volkswagen rabbit that "exploded" on stage, a pregnant ballerina, the moment a giant, white parachute descended on all of our fingertips.

We walked outside in a daze and nosed into a crowd to see the Mirage's 9:00 p.m. lava-show (I was so hot at this point, I thought my face might melt). I looked up at Matt again, and asked, "Do you think it's true? That all you need is love?"

He smiled. And took my hand. And thanked me for taking him to Las Vegas.