Vegas Baby, Vegas (Part II)
If Thursday night in Vegas was crazy, Friday night was what I would call “krunk.” Every so often, I do it up right. Food, wine, dessert, liquor, lounges, cigars, bars, clubs…pass out. And when I have one of those evenings, I like to kick it off with a great steak and a good bottle of California Cabernet, it just sets the right tone for the evening. After a full day of meetings, I was able to catch up on some sleep in the evening before our dinner reservations at the SW Steakhouse at the Wynn. While the steak was very good, it wasn’t in my top five filet’s of all time…definitely in the top 10 though. [In case you’re curious my top 5 filet list (in order) is as follows: Flemming’s - Houston, TX, Del Frico’s – NYC, Craftsteak – NYC, The Hitching Post – Buelton, CA (yes, the one in Sideways), and Manuel’s – Orlando, FL]. By the way, they sat our party of eight next to Magic Johnson and Cookie. It was kind of cool seeing Magic, even though he was directly responsible for contributing to roughly half of my traumatic memories as a child (yes, I am a Celtics fan).
After dinner, the plan was to head back to The Palms where we were going to start the evening at Ghost Bar, hit the club “Rain,” and take it from there. That’s when I get the following text message from a co-worker of mine:
“We have a table and two bottles of vodka @ Light @ Bellagio. Please come by b/c we can’t possibly drink it all. We are right by the dance floor. Show your business card to the host at the door and you’re set.”
Um, OK…twist my arm. Jump in a cab and 10 minutes later we’re at Bellagio’s trendy, albeit slightly pretentious club. Long line to get in? What line? Here’s the business card. “Good evening Mr. Drunk Guy, I’ll be your host tonight, please let me know if you need anything. I’ll show you to your table.” That’s right, bitch, you’ll show me to my table
After a short escalator ride upstairs, we’re taken to a booth directly next to the DJ and the dance floor. I see my friend with her boyfriend and a couple of girls…already drunk and dancing their asses off to Dr. Dre’s “California Love”. At the table are two comped bottles of Grey Goose, four mixers, an assortment of cut lemon and lime wedges a bucket of ice, and a short Asian waitress with fake boobs that are way too big for her tiny frame. Sometimes life just doesn’t suck. Game on.
You know that feeling you get when you’re just having a perfect day? This is very much what was going on with me last night. I had a great dinner with good friends and now we were getting the V.I.P. treatment at one of the hottest clubs in Vegas. Of course this kind of evening always lends itself to copious alcohol consumption and last night was no exception. OK, I’ll be honest, we were drinking our faces off.
My co-worker’s boyfriend ends up getting sick and spewing on the floor next to the table about an hour after we arrived. Nice one, amateur. They are cashed, their friends are out too…later geeks, more booze for me. And then there were six.
One thing about me that most people are surprised to find out is that I love getting my dance on. I’m actually one of the few white boys that can keep a rhythm. Natalie told me that once when I was freaking her.
[Sidebar: by the way, do you even remember Natalie? The dancer turned pop singer that had like one big hit a couple of years ago and then faded into obscurity? I’m friends with her. There’s your random Drunk Guy fact for the day.]
That said, I’m not a big “club guy.” I’m not opposed to going to clubs, but I just don’t very often because I hate dealing with all the bullshit that comes with the club scene; namely, long lines, $50 covers, over-priced drinks, and douchebags with attitudes. Last night was obviously the exception to that because I only had to deal with one of the above…unfortunately, douchebags are everywhere.
So the night is moving along, I’m on a good 6 or 7 vodka-cranberries (not to mention all the wine I had at dinner) and turning the dance floor out with a few of my co-workers. Suddenly, Greg (the guy trying to pick up the hooker from the night before) grabs my arm, swings me around and sets me face to face with this thin, 5’10 brunette girl named Stacy…or Lacy or Macy or Gracie…I really couldn’t tell because the damned music was too loud. No sooner than I say hello, does “Stacy” have her tongue down my throat and is freaking the hell out of me on the dance floor, “it’s nice to meet you too.”
My first thought is, “sweet, welcome to Vegas,” then I start thinking that one of two things is going on here; either (1) Greg’s picked up another hooker and this happens to be her “friend” or (2) these girls are legit and Greg is just trying to have me distract Lacy, so he can hook up with her friend.
Then it hits me, why has Greg so “graciously” set me up with this particular girl instead of her friend (I still analyze everything, even when I’m hammered)? So I pull back from the freak I’m getting on with this girl so I can get a good look at her. It’s at this point that I realize that Gracie could have very well been related to the 1950’s TV star “Mr. Ed.” Yeah, she was quite horsy in the face or as I like to say: she had a great body and the face to protect it. Thanks Greg, you scumbag.
I quickly let Stacy know that I need to use the restroom and that “I’ll be right back.” Riiiiiight. I head straight back to the table for another drink.
As
As I’m ordering a Macallen 12 with two ice cubes at the Wynn, a co-worker pulls out a cigar, hands it to me and says, “this stick goes for $100, one of my wife’s friends set me a box…enjoy.” Are you kidding me? Anyone that knows anything about cigars knows that you have to look pretty hard to find one that costs more than $30. I don’t know what made this stick worth a c-note, but it was fucking great, especially with a single malt Scotch. Actually, it was the perfect end to an evening of ridiculous exuberance.
I ended up rolling into my hotel at
Cheers,
NYCDG
posted by NYC Drunk Guy at 8:03 PM
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