Vegas Revisited

It’s was end of the workday, and a friend and I were engaged in some chit chat killing time the day before the most gluttonous of celebrations, Thanksgiving . Somehow the conversation turned to Las Vegas (and anyone who knows me can tell you many of my conversations turn to Las Vegas as it is my favorite getaway), and I began to recount to my friend one of my most memorable trips to Sin City. It occurred several months before my impending nuptials, and represented a quasi-bachelor party, even though it was never so-named by the three other guys that accompanied me on the trip. The three guys, who I worked with at the time were “G”, “A” and “H”. The first two of the three were married, and the third had a girlfriend. In reflecting back now on this trip I suspect this Las Vegas trip was as much as an escape for them as it was supposed to be a celebration of my time-limited freedom. My coworkers had probably intended for the trip to be a weekend filled with excessive booze, raucous behavior, loose slot machines and even looser women. What I remember of the trip instead of the planned weekend of utter debauchery was the worst gambling experience of all my Vegas trips (I lost $1000, which was no paltry sum for an individual making only $8 an hour, and included several unplanned stops at the ATM for gambling budget refills. My luck was so miserable on that particular trip that if I had played Russian Roulette with a gun with only one bullet in 100 chambers, I would have assuredly had my head turned into a canoe with the first pull of the trigger.), and several comedic experiences.

I. Hittin’ Da Club

On our first night in Vegas we decided to visit a den of pulse pounding music, free-flowing, albeit high priced, alcoholic beverages and sweaty swaying bodies that is the Las Vegas Nightclub. For some inexplicable reason we had decided to go to a club that was on the opposite end of the Strip. Anyone who has gone to Las Vegas on a weekend can attest to the deplorable conditions of transportation in the city when one attempts to travel down Las Vegas Boulevard on a Friday night. After nearly an hour of stress-inducing stop and go traffic to travel approximately 2 miles, we had arrived at our destination. We sauntered up to the club and took our place in a moderate length line behind the sacred velvet rope that separates the haves from the have nots. We stood in line for approximately 30 minutes and steadily made our ascent towards “club entrant” status. When we were only a few people from the entrance, we noted a sign describing the required dress code for this establishment. We noticed we had no serious violations until we reached the line that read in ominous fashion “No Tennis Shoes”. Now wait a minute, you are telling me the nightclub, which some would argue is the epitome of questionable moral behavior, and whose unspoken motto is "drink like a fish ‘til you puke, grope random strangers and use the bathroom stalls for other than their intended purposes", has standards regarding my podiatric coverings and because I am wearing a pair of tennis shoes I am relegated to the status of degenerate social pariah? This was the most outlandish thing I had ever heard of. It should be noted that my friends and I have never performed together in any formal musical ensemble, but the chorus of harmonized expletives that flowed from our lips in utter protest to this absurd rule would have made even the most seasoned choral director proud. As two of the four of us were in violation of this rule, we had no choice but to exit the line. That evening we chose to seek other entertainment (covered in detail in the following “chapter”), but vowed to return to the nightclub the following night with appropriate footwear. We found ourselves at the same nightclub the following evening, after making the same hour long drive that we had made the night before. As we moved forward towards the entrance, we made a grisly discovery that we had not noticed the evening before. There, on the dress code sign, approximately two lines below the tennis shoe prohibition, was anothe rule we obviously had not read because we had stopped reading after realizing our tennis shoes would bar our entrance to the club, was the line: Collared Shirts Required for Men. Was this an F’in nightclub or a yacht club? We were perhaps even angrier than the night before, however my fury began to diminish as a I realized I was a non-violator as I had on a collared shirt, as did “A”. The decision was made at this point that as we had made such a diligent effort two nights in a row to go to this nightclub, we would not admit defeat, and instead “A” and I would stay at the club, while “G” and “H” went back to the hotel (yes, an hour away) to obtain appropriate shirts. So “A” and I eventually made it into the club approximately five minutes later, and eagerly awaited the return of our inappropriately attired compatriots. A little background is needed at this point regarding “H” and the conditions under which he was allowed to come on this particular adventure. “H” had a girlfriend at the time who in no way would have approved of a sin-filled trip to Las Vegas, particularly without her presence there to survey his every move. At the time, “H” was a member of the local community college’s band where he so expertly played the trumpet. “H” made his way to Vegas with us under the guise of performing with the college band out of town. To make his ruse as believable as possible to his significant other, “H” brought the tuxedo he wore during band performances, as well as his trumpet. After nearly two hours of waiting, “H” and “G” returned. It took more restraint than I thought was humanly possible to muster not to bust out laughing. “H” had brought along a collared shirt on the trip, but “G” had not, and instead of forking over a few dollars to buy one in a casino gift shop, strutting in comes “G” in “H’s” tuxedo shirt, pants and jacket as if it is the most normal thing in the world. Not only was the wearing of the tuxedo outrageous in its own right, but it became even more comical given that “G” outweighed “H’ by a good 50 pounds resulting a tuxedo whose poor infrastructure of threads, stitches, buttons and zippers were being stretched to their breaking point. “G‘s” tuxedo was so ill-fitted that he had the look of the loneliest guy in high school who, on the day of the prom, had finally convinced his second cousin to be his date to the dance and had to rent the only tuxedo left at the rental shop sans alterations. The majority of the evening was relatively uneventful, outside of yours truly watching “A” (who I remind you was married) dance dangerously close to a female at least ten years his junior, and then engaging in a passionate kiss with said young vixen. My observation of this unsavory act forced me into a moral quandary of whether or not to rat out this cad to his unknowing wife, and as our trip took place before the “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas” campaign I had no sage-like wisdom on which to rely to resolve my ethical dilemma. In the end, I never did tell Mrs. “A” about her husband’s 20-minute moment of indiscretion (you may now boo me).

II.  The Obligatory Strip Club Visit

After the first nightclub attempt was a total debacle, not to mention a complete waste of time, of course we went to a strip club. Don’t roll your eyes at me in that holier than thou way. In fact, it actually was not a strip club…it was a gentlemen’s club. It said so write on the front of the building. And I ask you what is more gentlemanly than objectifying a woman that is gyrating around a pole while you stick dirty dollar bills in small patches of material that cover her nether regions? Many of you will not believe this, but the idea for the strip club was being pushed exclusively by the other three guys. I definitely enjoy the curvaceous outline of the female form, but when given the choice, the casino wins hands down in the competition for my bankroll. Sure, those horrendous displays of gaudiness they call mega resorts were not built on winners, and more often than not you leave Las Vegas with a dejected look on your face like someone just kicked your dog, but at least there is a chance of winning. With those twisted temptresses of the gentlemen’s club , no matter how much money you put in you know there is not going to be any type of “payoff”. We ended up going to a well-known venue for our male bonding excursion. The upside was that we got in free, but of course upon entering we sat down and purchased our required over-priced, watered-down drinks made with shoddy liquor. At least the establishment could maintain some level of integrity and honesty (as much as is possible for a house of lap grinding) and put straight forward signage on the marquee that reads: “ Free admission with the purchase of two $15 dollar drinks made with one part Alberston’s brand vodka and four parts dirty tap water.” After watching a couple of dancers, I began to wander around the place wondering if all they had was half-naked women, or if they had something else fun like, you know it, video poker machines. I found some machines at the bar, and slid in a $20 bill. I then began the left, middle, right gazing that one is accustomed to seeing at a professional tennis match , but instead of watching two competitive gladiators on Center Court at Wimbledon, my watchful eye shifted from my group of friends (who I just knew at some point were going to pull the old take off and leave me there prank otherwise known as the “we thought you were right behind us”), to my video poker game that was greedily wrestling away my $20 from me fifty cents at a time with absolutely no mercy, and finally on to the crowd of money hungry “performing artists” that were willing to nuzzle up with even the slimiest, perviest, most unfortunate looking guys if the price was right who I wanted absolutely no part of. As the last of my $20 was eaten by the video poker machine, and I began to think I would have been better off buying another $15 dirty water vodka tonic, I noticed “G” going towards a back room with one of the dancers for a private showing. Time passed slowly at this point as I was quite ready to leave, and I figured after our friend got his private dance we could move along with our evening. However, ten minutes passed, then another, and another. I was now beginning to worry that “G” has crossed the sacred stripper line, had touched the girl in some inappropriate way the bouncer did not take kindly to, and was lying in the back alley pummeled to the ground in a heap with a large gash in the side of his head. After what I estimated to be approximately 40-45, our friend proudly strutted from the back room, and we made our way out. As we made our way back to our hotel, past the saddened face of an obvious underage young man who was pouring out a case of beer, one beer at a time, as a police officer watched on, “G” regaled “A” and “H” with his tawdry tale of titillating temptation. I ignored the story for the most part, however did overhear “G” telling how the exclusive “VIP room” as he called it, did not have a chair for his purchased pleasure performance, but rather had a bed on which he lay while Vixen, Sierra, Diamond, Bubbles or whatever her name was, writhed all over his body. My only thought was of the numerous microscopic creatures on the unwashed bed linens that were probably dancing along with the beat of the DJ’s chosen music. “G” at least had some restraint, and did not make up some exaggerated manly chest-pounding story about how the poor dancer was at the mercy of his powerful testosterone laden body and absolutely ravaged him, breaking the most sacred of taboos in stripper world, “thou shalt not bang the customer.” “G” informed us that all clothing stayed in place, and that it was basically a recumbent lap dance. What came next almost made me speechless. “G” revealed that his 45 minutes of heaven (not sure if he was referring to his state of bliss during the performance or if maybe that was her name) had cost him $250 dollars in dance fees. I am not saying that I support prostitution, but holy heck’n fire, we could have driven to the neighboring county and visited a house of ill repute for only a little more money. “G’s” willingness to drop this kind of money for the kind of service he received was tantamount to buying a $10 Snicker’s bar, tearing off the wrapper, rubbing it on your face a little and then throwing it in the trash without taking a bite. Of course, in my mind, I just saw 25, $10 bets on the blackjack table that had just been thrown away . A true tragedy. To each his own I guess.


III.  Nighttime Injuries and Sunrise Revelations

You know that surreal feeling you have after an excessive amount of alcohol consumption, and despite having been asleep for several hours, you wake up and are still drunk, resulting in immediately devolving into extreme panic mode believing you have done serious brain damage and caused a permanent state of inebriation ? Well, I had that exact feeling as I awoke at approximately 4 a.m. after our evening at the nightclub. Needing to utilize the facilities, I stumbled from the bed towards the bathroom in a drunken stupor , and only took a few steps before kicking the edge of the bed resulting in me losing my balance and slamming my knee into the ground causing a relatively minor, although very painful, abrasion to my knee. (It was not until several years later that I had the revolutionary idea that would have saved me from an unnecessary injury. What is this amazing invention you ask? I present to you Bed Floor: the ultimate in hotel patron safety. I am sure there are many of you out there who have been traveling out of town, consumed one too many Mai Tai’s/ Cosmopolitans/Martinis/Alabama Slammers/Heinekens/shots of rubbing alcohol for those in a desperate position, and having returned to your hotel room in a deteriorated state, lost your balance taking a full force face plant into the carpet resulting in a giant rug burn on your forehead leading to your traveling companions referring to you as Mikhail Gorbachev for the duration of your trip. Bed Floor is a complete renovation of traditional hotel room decoration, and involves the removal of all existing furniture of the hotel room that could possibly lead to injury and the placement of a giant mattress in the room that covers the entire pre-existing floor reducing the likelihood of injury from a fall by nearly 100%. I understand that this idea has barriers, mainly the issue that walking on a mattress can be very difficult requiring serious balance and concentration for even a sober individual, thereby making it almost impossible to stand for an intoxicated person. Rest assured that members of our research and development team are engineering a mattress that is firm enough to balance and walk normally upon, and using a combination of back-up car crash sensor and Sleep Number bed technology, can sense an individual losing their balance and their body moving at a high rate of speed towards impact resulting in the mattress instantaneously becoming as soft as a mother’s bosom to cushion and cradle an individual’s falling body. Investment opportunities for Bed Floor are still available. Interested venture capitalists can submit their investment amounts and bank account information at www.bed floor.com) After a relatively satisfying night of sleep, minus the knee injury, I awoke and began to discover some of the crazy behavior that alcohol can cause. On the table in the room sat a potted plant that I now remembered “G” stealing from the decorative table which sat outside the bank of elevators. As I further began to regain my faculties I noticed that the television was on at a somewhat high volume, and had apparently been left on throughout the night as the other members of the traveling party were fast asleep. I feverishly searched for the remote control to silence the television, and after nearly a minute of searching, I found the remote submerged in a pool of melted ice in a half full ice bucket. Needless to say, the remote had lost its functioning capability, and I was required to turn off the televising manually, which I had not been forced to do since approximately 1986 when I was ten years old and had one of the classic old school televisions with the dial that was used to change the channel and a knob to control the power. Just great, a charge to my credit card for a broken television remote (which actually never ended up happening thank goodness). Throughout the next hour, the sleeping beauties that shared the room with me began to wake up, one by one, and we packed up our belongings for the long ride home. At that point, I noticed in the entryway on the floor that our bill had been slipped under the door. My eyes immediately zeroed in on the fact that one of the deviant members of the group had ordered themselves some adult entertainment on the television the previous evening after our return from the nightclub. I was not going to be paying for this and demanded to know who had ordered it so that I could be reimbursed. “H” immediately acknowledged he had ordered it and said he would take care of it. He then picked up the phone, called the front desk, and brazenly informed the female desk clerk that his children had accidentally ordered an adult movie, and without so much as a crackle in his voice that would give away his obvious fabrication, asked that it be taken off the bill. Despite the fact this clerk had probably heard this story countless times before from every guy whose irate wife/girlfriend had noticed the ordering of “Goodwill Humping” on the invoice, this more than kind clerk agreed to remove the charge from the bill. I never returned to Las Vegas with this group of friends, but despite my many other trips to Sin City, this was by far the most memorable of them all.  OK, maybe second most memorable right behind the Vegas trip where I was cited and released for lewd acts with a Madame Tussaud's wax museum figure at the Venitian Hotel, but that's another post altogether.