Keeping It Classy

by Steve Mitchell

So, in Las Vegas, I wore my kilt all day, Sunday.  That’s not so unusual.  I wear my kilt a lot, for no good reason, for any reason.

Here I am.  I’m not crazy about this photo of me; I look all self-conscious, waiting for Lucie to snap the snap.   But, anyhow:

Not many people know I'm as short as a Monopoly piece ...

Not many people know I’m as short as a Monopoly piece …


I wore my kilt casually.  I wore my comfy boots for walking (and we did walk – nearly 8 miles total on Sunday!)  I wore a long sleeved shirt because it was chilly outside.

It felt like I got more glances and double takes and outright stares than I do in Arizona, but it might only seem so because of the huge number of people flowing by at any time.  Lucie was more aware of it than I was.

A couple different casino sales type employees used the kilt as an in to chat me up and try to pull me over to their time-share booths.

A few people complimented the kilt.

Two different drunks gave me high-fives.

An elderly woman behind me, at the Bellagio, said, “Oh, no.  We don’t wear skirts here.”

But I was mostly ignored which is typical.

The oddest encounter was in the men’s room at a one of the many casinos we strolled through.

I’d picked a urinal at the far end of the largely empty restroom and, as I finished my business, I heard someone saunter up to my partition.

I straightened out my aprons and my sporran and turned to find a youngish, drunkish, touristy guy looking at me, half in his lane, half in mine.

That’s poor etiquette.

“What are you doing, Man?” I asked him.

“So, you’re a Scotsman,” he said in said in a British accent.

“No, I’m American.” I said.

And he laughed like I’d told the best joke ever then he turned to his own urinal.

I couldn’t even be angry.


The only, really, rude and bothersome encounter, came on Monday morning, near the elevators of the Bellagio.

I wasn’t wearing a kilt.

I was wearing a tee shirt (and pants!) and so was Lucie.

I didn’t hear him or see him, but Lucie told me as we entered the lobby from the elevator, an older man dressed like Thurston Howell looked at us then sniffed to his bejeweled companion, “Tee shirts!”


So, I guess it doesn’t matter what you wear.

Someone, somewhere, won’t like it.

And someone, somewhere, will feel compelled to say so, albeit in a cowardly, down-their-sleeve, behind-your-back, kind of way.

And when they do, they’ll betray their own lack of class.