If you’re reading this article, I’ve survived night 5.

Okay, let’s back up.

Breakfast this morning again was on the road. We left the comfort of the gorgeous Hotel Monaco Denver, packed up Bruce, tossed ourselves into trusty ol’ Beryl, and hit the interstate in our finest attire (it was a jogging pants day). Colorado turned into Nebraska today, and the scenery was. That’s all. The scenery just was. The weather has held out, it was actually very warm to tepid today, and we arrived in Omaha in nine and a half hours with a nice sheen, looking ripe as a plum in the sun.

Okay, let’s just back up a hot minute because I just said the word “Omaha”. The original plan everyone, was to hit Kansas City. The two cities have a similar population of  around 400,000, and driving to Omaha shaves off over an hour from Denver, and over an hour to our next destination. So Nebraska it was. And Nebraska it is. And. Here…..we are…..

I’m gonna give you a valuable tip and you’re going to do what I say you hear me? When arriving into Omaha, and looking for a place to stay, don’t go budget. Cheese and crackers, spend a little extra, get a nice hotel, and avoid the Econolodge, or you may just be scared the things in your car may or may not be there in the morning, and have to say “hi” to the hooker next door every time you pass her in the hallway. Mom, close your ears and eyes.

And off we were. Dinner at a craft brew pub which was good and bad, whatever, and then “straight” to the gay bars. Round one, ding ding, was The Max. And you know what? I’m gonna’ come back to this. We stopped in for a drink and went to Flixx (which would be the perfect name for a lesbian bar but is in fact NOT) for a drink. So, two sides to Flixx, where once a month they have a “no girl” night on one side, so TOODALOO Faye. Well, not exactly. Here’s how it went down. We all went to one side and had a drink in a great room that seemed like a cross between someones living room and a diner, in a good way, and then we sent Steve to the other side for some serious contra (“don’t hurry back, do some recon“). A millisecond of a split moment later he waltzes back to tell us that it’s “fetish cowboy night” on the other side, which really should be exciting for him considering his eternal quest to live on a ranch in the western sun, but in fact turned out to be six people that all turned when he walked into a dark room, and then literally started yelling at him to come back when he decided to sachet away.

After a quick mini stop at DC’s, the country bar that had zero people in it, we went back to The Max. Sit down. Let’s talk.

The Max is the ultimate gay bar and everything anyone would ever want in a club. With five separate rooms and an oasis of a patio, some loungey, some dancey, this friggin’ club sprawls on like the Wyoming countryside itself. The music was anything anyone would want to dance to, the drinks were cheap, the sheer square footage of the place was incomprehensible, which only leaves one question. Why? No really. Come to Omaha, walk around the “city”, hey, even duck down to the Old Market area which is actually really pretty, and then you tell me why Omaha, of all cities, has the ultimately designed and executed gay club in the country of good ol’ U. S. of A. Tell me. Please. Someone comment below and enlighten me because I’m scratching my clueless head as we speak. Bruce doesn’t know either. He’s pointing paws and shrugging shoulders.

Okay. That’s all. Next stop, big city, if, in fact, the parking garage 10 minutes away that we ACTUALLY decided to put Beryl in still houses every wordly belonging we possess.