: MR Q
Pretend you’ve never been to Marquee (at The Cosmopolitan in Las Vegas.) Adrenaline seeps into your veins as you step through the velvety partitions. You are surrounded by suits and legs bookended by ultra-mini dresses and stilettos. Just before the elevator doors opens, the operator mirrors the grins around him and says, “Have fun tonight!” Drink in hand, you make your way to the floor. In case you weren’t sure, a mural on a wall proclaims, “You’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Driving through the desert from Orange County to Vegas, we were treated to the rare spectacle of moonrise over the barren peaks. Less than 24 hours ago, I had gotten final confirmation that I had won Dancing Astronaut’s editorial contest to cover the New Year’s Eve weekend at Marquee. Because no road trip to Vegas would be complete without it, we stopped at In-N-Out, hoping some double-doubles would fortify us against the sub-40 Nevada chill. After making a real friend out of the internet friend we were crashing with, we hastily decked ourselves out and hopped back on the I-15 towards the piercing, gleaming lights of the strip. The most powerful spotlight on earth reaches out towards the infinite depths of space from the top of the Luxor pyramid; like moths to flame, we were irresistibly compelled.