I did not know what to expect when I walked into the Mirage’s Danny Gans Theatre… and when I found an older crowd dancing in their seats and clapping to pre-show songs such as YMCA and Love Train… I was skeptical to say the least.
As song impersonator, Danny Gans is a definite powerhouse, imitating the likes of Frank Sinatra, Maroon 5, Otis Redding, Dave Matthews, Rod Stewart, James Taylor and even Kenny Chesney. Not only did he nail the tone and pitch of each artist’s songs, but he transformed his body language to perfectly mock each performer’s onstage persona. He provided a movie preview of each performer, and afterwards, I wanted to go out and see all of their concerts. The adeptness in which he quickly transformed from one personality to the next was impressive to say the least. Performing the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” with each stanza belonging to a different personality had the audience’s jaws on the floor. Going from Wayne Newton to Larry the Cable Guy to Woody Allen in under three breaths cannot be an easy feat.
Gans also provided needed comedy relief throughout the show by mimicking the likes of Johnny Carson, Jeff Foxworthy, Michael Jackson and Elvis. My friend sitting next to me was in tears by the end of his Redneck jokes and my cheeks were definitely aching from laughing. The only downer on the entire night, in my opinion, was his decision to perform his own song after a lengthy, personal and religious-toned story as well as his choice to end the evening with Broadway musical selections, which I have little knowledge of or appreciation for.
Gans is slated to move to the Wynn shortly, and I would be interested to seeing his new act. However, his “last” shows at the Mirage, locals tell me, will surely be a stunner as well.
Loving: Fresh and Easy Neighborhood Market. If you are broke, single and extremely busy, this grocery store is amazing: Healthy, tasty, ready to go meals for a couple of bucks.
Loathing: My new apartment complex blatantly lied to me regarding wireless internet. So now I have to walk all the way to Starbucks if I want internet access and even then, I only am allowed two hours of wi-fi a day. And I live on a mountain, so it’s truly an uphill hike of on the way home. It’s been hell.
I was liberally swerving across the barely visible dashed lines on the two lane highway. My cell phone dropped from my ear and my startled dog perked up at the sudden sideward movement. I gained control of the SVU, hands gripping the wheel at ten and two like a fifteen year old with a learner’s permit, and I persevered. There was no way I could make it another 230 miles to the hotel I had booked in Denver. The freezing ran finally gave way to snow, and as I merged onto I-76, there was only one other brave soul on the road in front of me, calming my irrational fear that no one would notice if I suddenly veered off the highway and into the abyss of the western Nebraska night. The suburban ahead of me paved the way through the accumulating snow in the dead middle of the road, at speeds of twenty to thirty miles per hour. Visibility was complete shit, and there was not a damn light in site. As I continued on for an hour desperately pleading with some greater power to keep my wheels on the road, my parents negotiated a refund on my Denver hotel and found me somewhere to stay 130 miles outside the city. As I wearingly pulled into Sterling, Colorado after fourteen hours of driving, exit ramp signs excitedly warned me against picking up hitchhikers: There was a nearby correctional facility.
The following morning I made it back to the highway at first light, finding dismantled cars in the grassy median like beer cans carelessly strewn in every direction after a frat party. I mentally thanked my parents for convincing me to get off the road and was surprised to find dry weather after the newspaper had forecasted a 70% of hell. I soon approached the purple horizon of mountains and I found myself repeating in my head, “People drive through the Rocky Mountains everyday. I. Will. Be. Fine.” I climbed slowly up the mountainside and into a tunnel, transporting me through the insides of the massive rock. I blinked away the brightness of the tunnel’s end and found one of the most breathtaking sites I have ever seen: The peaks were swimming in a sea of evergreens, blushing with the first kiss of snow. I gawked at the vision before me as I zigzagged down the mountainside, flying at uncontrollable speeds past braking semi-trucks. One turn gave way to another, each sight more spectacular than the last.
“This is how horror movies start,” kept running through my mind as I glanced up at the sign: “No Services Next 197 Miles.” I opened my cell phone with my steering wheel hand as I drove: “No Service.” Well, shit. The only other cars on the road had all stopped off in Bryce Canyon and I didn’t see any oncoming headlights. The irrational fear that I would silently veer off the mountain and into the abyss of the southern Utah night began to steadily creep back into my mind as my car began to scale the foothills of the mountains.
Somehow, somewhere in Nebraska, the road’s obstacles had waged a war on my confident independence, amplifying my insecurities: A certifiably insane notion as soon as you make it into civilization or even gain a bar of cell phone reception. Trying to explain the sensation to others just makes people look at you like you’re on ‘shrooms trying to illustrate the exquisiteness of Berber-colored carpet. So when I finally curved around a mountainside to find Vegas shining brightly below me, I had been behind the wheel for 16 hours, bringing my grand total to over 30 hours of driving in two days. I rolled into my new life exhausted, with a lap full of Cheez-It crumbs and dog fur. As I unpacked my car the next day, I collected the hundred or so CD’s I had scattered about, knowing now that each song would always bring me back to the open desert highway, the sight of the sun shining through Utah’s famous archways, the frosted purple peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and the euphoric feeling as a valley of lights welcomed me to fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada.
