It doesn’t get much better than high-tailing it to Vegas for your girlfriend’s sister’s wedding only to be excited for two things. One is the anticipation of being scalped by smut peddlers on the street. This is where you are given a flier or handy little card promising a local call girl can be “direct to your room in 20 minutes or less.”

Getting anywhere in 20 minutes or less would be quite a task for any Las Vegan, fighting everything from traffic, various parking fiascoes and irresponsible parents who drag their 5-year-olds onto casino floors. Therefore, this is a sign of true quality service — apparently, these girls work for the Sam Walton of pimps.

But I digress.

The second thing I was largely anticipating was stopping by the Bellagio hotel and casino (an honorary main character of 2001’s “Ocean’s Eleven”) and checking out the Andy Warhol celebrity portraits art exhibit.

This is one of those situations where a wide-eyed Iowan, such as myself, goes somewhere I’ve never been before, only to see places I’ve seen in movies and viewing works of art I’ve read about in textbooks or encyclopedias.

And after seeing these things, it sparked Marge Simpson’s oft-repeated exclamation, “I feel like such a nobody!”

It’s pretty easy to entertain a 20-year-old Iowa kid. After all, it’s cool to see the casinos, the crowds of people, and — my stars — all the lights.

But again, I digress.

For the well-worth-it $15, I was given a long contraption that looked a lot like my TV remote control and shoved into the art museum of the Bellagio.

After some much-deliberated thoughts on how to operate the thing, I punched in some numbers and listened to the wacky Liza Minnelli comment on each of the thirty-some celebrity paintings of Andy Warhol’s collection.

Given the lack of opportunities to view a substantial amount of art in Iowa, I hadn’t seen a lot of paintings up close. Only half-listening to the drunken slurs of Minnelli, whose name evoked the word “overrated” to a deadly height with her Oscar-winning performance in “Cabaret,” I paid more attention to the thick paint, obscure colors and overall coolness of each portrait the slippery-tongued star pointed out.

Nothing could have been more vomit-inducing than her commentary on her own portraits painted by Warhol. Minnelli, more giddy and smug than in any of her other audio plugs, kept making conscious remarks about her own ramblings.

Though all of his masterpieces were great in one way or another, some personal favorites were the multi-print Marilyn Monroe portraits, the silhouettes of Alfred Hitchcock, the dark, boxy John Lennon mug and a multi-print picture of Elizabeth Taylor, Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds, taken months before Fisher had divorced Reynolds and his subsequent marriage to Taylor.

My personal favorite of the collection was the double portraits of Chairman Mao Tse Tung of China. These dark paintings were characterized by thick brushstrokes of olive color — an odd correlation to the power this man held.

All the time I was listening to Minnelli’s insights, I couldn’t help but wonder if “La Femme,” the nude showgirl spectacular at my hotel, could be as artful as the Andy Warhol exhibit.

Then I wondered if “La Femme” starred any of the girls in the fliers I received while I was there.

There I go again with digression.

Personal tastes and first-time experiences of my own aside, experiencing art is something I strongly suggest taking advantage of whenever the opportunity arises.