Free Dancing Barefoot by Wil Wheaton

afternoon turns to evening, we split up, and plan to meet for dinner at this
     restaurant in the Barbary Coast called Drais, which Anne has heard is a great place to eat;
     very hip.

    There are books everywhere, the floors are hardwood, and the walls are painted red and
     yellow. The only light in the entire place comes from hundreds of candles which are in
     sconces, on tables and floating in bowls on bookshelves. Drais looks pretty cool, in a Pottery
     Barn sort of way.
    The dichotomy between waiters and customers is striking. The former are all young, clearly
     college students. The latter are all mid-life-crisis ponytails who are checking out my wife.
     Normally this sort of thing doesn’t bother me, but I don’t have a whole lot of patience for
     the annoying drunk businessman who is getting his courage up for the trip to the Moonlight
     Bunny Ranch later that night.
    I look at this guy who is trying to vibe Anne. While I ready an insult, he winks at
     me.
    Winks.
    Right at me.
    It is such a Smokey and the Bandit move, I can’t be bugged by him. I
     make a pistol with my thumb and forefinger and shoot him a wink of my own. Anne and I laugh as
     a cocktail waitress comes over. We order two Ketel One martinis, straight up. Mine with five
     olives, hers with a twist. We drink them slowly and talk about the kids, the convention and
     what we’re going to do when we get home. Life is good. We are young, in love, and having
     drinks in Vegas.
    Steph and Mykal arrive and we eat a wonderful (if grossly overpriced) meal, enjoying each
     other’s company. I truly love them both. Our waiter is inexperienced, and makes lots of
     mistakes, but he’s got a great sense of humor and we let it go, tipping him generously.
    When dinner is over, we head over to Bellagio, where we do some gambling.
    It’s prime time in Vegas: midnight on a Saturday. Call girls rub elbows with businessmen
     who smoke cigars and drink Bud in bottles. Newly-legal 21 year-olds attempt to count cards at
     a blackjack table. There is smoke, laughter and energy hovering over everything. We have a
     great time and when we finally fall into bed around 5 a.m., we feel happily exhausted.

    The taxi races at warp 15 down Las Vegas Boulevard. My life flashes before my eyes.
    It’s 8:15 on Sunday night, and we were supposed to be at Star Trek: The Experience at the
     Las Vegas Hilton by 7:30. Slanted Fedora has put together a party where the few people who
     have bought $1500 tickets to the con can rub elbows with the Star Trek guests, go on the ride,
     and take pictures on the Hilton’s version of the Enterprise bridge.
    When we get into this cab, I tell the driver,“ We need to be at the Hilton 45 minutes ago.
     If you can get us there quickly, there’s an extra five bucks in it for you.” I wink. I am so
     money.
    â€œAn extra five bucks?! You bet, sir!” He slams his foot to the floor, and the cab explodes
     into the street.
    Red lights? A good way to get the cars around us to slow down so we can pass them. The
     medians? Grass-covered passing lanes. Pedestrians? Luckily, we didn’t get to find out what
     they’d be, though I suspect that the word “bump” would be involved.
    We arrive at our destination, I pry Anne’s fingers out of my arm and leg, give the cabbie
     his promised fiver and head straight to the bar for a shot of whiskey to stop my shaking
     hands.

    Star Trek: The Experience is split up into three main areas: a restaurant which features
     Quark’s Bar, a replica of the DS9 Promenade which is filled with
     memorabilia and souvenirs, and the actual Star Trek “Experience” itself, which features an
     amazing trip right onto the bridge of the Enterprise D .
    The whole thing is built beneath a huge model of the Enterprise D that hangs from the ceiling in mid-flight.
    This is my first trip to Star Trek: The Experience, and I gasp involuntarily when I see my
     spaceship