Let's see... where were we? Ah, yes... just leaving the pool. One thing I did neglect to write about were some very cool people from North of the border during the day at the pool. Oddly enough, they live about an hour and a half from those of us in sunny Rah-cha-cha (that's Rochester for you non-native New Yorkers). Lots of fun drinking with those lovely ladies, and they were kind enough to give me a cigarette or two after the child from hell soaked mine into a soggy pile of tobacco mush. Little fucker.
Anyway, you have to love the Canadian ladies. How can you not love them when the legal drinking age is 19 up there? I remember countless breaks during college when we'd head North of the border for booze and ballet. If you don't know what I mean by ballet... oh, never mind. You wouldn't understand. Suffice it to say that they were cool and a lot of fun to hang out with. They're only about an hour and a half away, so maybe someday our paths will cross again. I'd like that.
Another thing that I neglected to write was the fact that I had minimal sunscreen on during this whole 5 hour poolside escapade. Now, that does not bode well for a person with skin similar to that of Casper the Friendly Ghost. What's the best way to put this... hmmm. I got it. I got fucking cooked. My shoulders, neck, forehead, nose and top of my head resembled something like an overcooked piece of bacon. I didn't realize the full effect until later, after my nap... read on.
Well, after my nap, it was once again time to hit the showers, get prettied up and head to the club. The shower was a new experience in pain. It was like someone took a big vat of bacon grease and dumped it over my head at close range. The shower was reminiscent of being 13 years old, living at my parent's house, and having my sister flush the toilet in one of the other bathrooms... only this time I couldn't kick her ass after I got out. Every time I tried to step into the stream of water, it was just miserable. But I digress. You'll hear more about that later. Or, since I believe that a couple of our Canadian friends may be reading this, I'll say, "you'll hear more aboot that later."
Tonight the target was Rain at The Palms. We caught the limo around 10:30, and then it was go time.
We had about 20 minutes or so to kill before we were actually slated to go into the club. Apparently it doesn't open until 11. While we were standing around the entrance, this woman sitting at a slot machine just started a conversation out of nowhere with Dave and me. Her opening line was, get this... "me and my friend just had dinner with Robin Leach. She's just picking up a couple things for him and she'll be right back." Uh huh. No, seriously, I believe you. As we stood listening to her mindless bullshit, it becomes all to obvious to this writer that this woman is what Nevada is famous for; bright lights. No, wait... I mean she was a hooker. I kind of pull Dave aside and say, "dude... this broad is a fucking hooker." "Really? Are you sure?" he asks. My response is one that doesn't take him long to figure out. "Have you ever done this well with a woman in your life?" That question is followed up by a look from Dave that says, "you have got to be fucking kidding me." I say, "it's been a pleasure" and start to walk away. Without missing a beat, she grabs Dave's shirt, gives him her number and says, "if you guys want me to tuck you in, give me a call... just don't make it too late because I have a few places I need to be." Uh, yeah, Dave... I'm sure she's a hooker.
On a lighter note, we rolled into Rain about 11:00, walking right past a line of about a thousand people that had obviously been waiting there for a couple hours at least. It's times like these when I could kiss Russ. Thanks to him, we don't do lines, and we don't wait for service. God bless Russ.
Rain is pretty cool. When we walked in, there was this fog-like thing going on. You couldn't really see clearly to the other side of the club. The light show was absolutely ridiculous, and bursts of flame shot from the ceiling. Sounds pretty fucking cool, right? Yeah, not so much when everything from your shoulders up is burned beyond recognition and you're standing below a blast from that flame cannon or whatever the hell you want to call it. I found that out the hard way. Note to self; when sun burned beyond belief, don't stand below something that shoots giant flames directly over your head within 5 feet. It really, really, really hurts. For the remainder of the evening, I will stay securely within the safe confines of the VIP area. You run into fewer assholes that way anyway.
Regardless, a little while later, the California girls and the Canadian girls showed up. Cool... friendly faces without access to flamethrowers; always a welcome addition to any party. At some point during the night... guessing it was somewhere between the second and third bottle of vodka, I remembered that I can dance. The previous life strikes again. Amazing what a whole lot of booze can do towards forgetting the excruciating pain of a Nevada desert sunburn.
Now, the bad part about dancing with a whole lot of booze and a drink in your hand is that you obviously become prone to dropping the aforementioned drink in your hand. I dropped one, the girl I was dancing with dropped one or two... but you should see what happens when you drop a drink in the VIP section. About three bouncers come in and surround the mess, then one radios to some guy with a mop, and they clean the whole thing up in about 15 seconds. The bad thing is that you're pretty much expected to tip the guy that's taking care of your table each time you fuck up and drop a glass. Needless to say, at $20 a shot, I was a whole bunch more careful with my beverages going forward.
I think we wound up leaving around 2:00 or somewhere in there, and we caught another limo back to the Flamingo. Now, I can't tell you exactly what happened in that limo, but I can tell you that I engaged in some rather racy and unscrupulous behavior with all the windows down and a car full of people while rolling down Las Vegas Boulevard at about 2:15 AM Pacific Standard Time. Let's just say that fantasy #784 has since been crossed off my list.
Anyway, to close the night, we made it back up to the suite again with a bunch of girls... and nothing happened.
On to day 4... if you've stayed with me this long, I give you a lot of credit. None of my first three wives did. Kidding... it's actually 5. Freaking alimony is killing me.
I woke up Saturday, again right about the crack of noon, and awoke to find this on the couch out in the suite. Poor Dave... there's only three beds in the rooms adjoining the suite. Dave was #4, and it was his first trip... for the duration of the trip, these are his sleeping quarters. Well, for at least most of the trip.
The main room of the suite was in general disarray... guess that's what happens when you have some people back. Luckily, I had the presence of mind to grab a quick picture of the evidence.
I'm sure that the housekeeping staff just loved us. We were on the 25th floor, so I also felt compelled to grab a couple of shots of the view. They didn't turn out as well as I had hoped, but you get the idea.
Did I mention that I'm afraid of heights? No? Well, I am. For the duration of the trip, I had to stay a couple feet back or I got that feeling that you get when you tip back in a chair but just at the last second you catch yourself. When I'm this high up, I get that feeling all the time.
Well, Saturday... day 4. Today was the day that the California girls were boarding a plane and heading back to the land of fake boobs and made for TV movies. Yeah, I'm jealous. Anyway, I got the call after I roused myself from my alcohol induced slumber, and agreed to meet the three of them over at Harrah's Carnival Court. I got a quick and painful shower, and headed down in the elevator when it dawned on me... the Preakness is today. I gotta get a bet in. That horse Barbaro has never lost, and there are two other strong favorites. My bet is a no-brainer, right? Yeah, that's what I thought too. I bet a $120 trifecta, and bet $50 on Barbaro to win. No brainer. Got that done... off to Harrah's.
I love Harrah's. The bartenders there are about the best in the world. Well, the best that I've ever seen at least. These guys are throwing bottles and doing tricks that make those two clowns in Cocktail look like the average schmuck you see behind three feet of mahogany in your favorite dive bar. If you haven't seen it, here's a couple shots... I mean pictures.
Yes, that is a flying bottle of tequila that he's about to catch... it's not a picture on the wall. Pretty cool.
The other reason why I love Harrah's is that they always have great bands. Today, they had an 80's cover band. A ton of great songs, and the band certainly looked the part. I got a couple shots of them too. Here you go.
Anyway, I'm going to try to hustle here. I've got about 15 minutes before I have to go try to act like an athlete.
Actually, instead of rushing this and writing mindless dribble, I'll finish it up tomorrow. I think I owe you, my loyal readers, that much.
Tomorrow I'll finish up the day at Harrah's & Margaritaville, the night at Body English in the Hard Rock, and a bunch more pics. Yes, I've saved the best for last, but for now... gotta run.
Until next time...
R
5 comments:
Whose the half naked hottie on the couch?
It's someone that knows how to spell "Who's." You see, in the English language, the apostrophe typically replaces a letter that would make up a second word, as in, "who is," the apostrophe replaces the "i" and forms a contraction. You're welcome. See how easy that was?
Yeah! Not nearly as easy as getting you to make out with Bridezilla from Calif. Whatf***ingever! Is THAT in the English Dictionary?
I believe that "Whatf***ing ever" is in the dictionary. I think it's under "P."
R
IF you look under "P" you'll find good, kind and crazy about you. You'll also find confused and hurt.
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