Anyway, I digress. As stated before, I got an e-mail from the New York, New York hotel in Las Vegas. Two years ago I was a guest there, celebrating St. Patrick's Day in style- and now they want me back.
It's natural for The Vegas to miss me, I suppose. We have an intense, mutual love. We, (The Vegas and I) are soulmates.
While I've only been twice, and both times swore never to return whilst downing Dramamine at a McCarran terminal... I will most definitely make another trip to the high desert. This is because my word pretty much means nothing, and also because I LOVE THE VEGAS. It's arid and bright, glitzy and trashy at the same time, and no one looks down on you if you have a Tequila Sunrise at sunrise. Except for that bitch at the Coffee Bean. Who was she to judge me? I was on vacation! I told her that, too.
Vegas is Disneyland for non-churchgoing adults. Even homeless people are more friendly in The Vegas. One man told me I was a rose amongst thorns. I was walking with Jevon and Seany so he must have been one of those prophetic poor people, or else, how would he have known? Like a modern day Nostradamus...
When I'm in Vegas, I'm a different person. A better person, I daresay. I wake when I feel like it, I sleep when the drinks run out (which is never!) and I throw hundreds of dollars away in cute little noisy trashcans shaped like slot machines. I'm very nearly fun... most of the time.
Since I'm a seasoned Vegas visitor, I never make any of the beginner faux-paus I succumbed to during my first jaunt. Gone are the high heels that I regret as soon as I reach the hotel lobby. Well, they're not gone, but I put flats in my purse. Speaking of purses, I don't even bother taking an obnoxious little one that doesn't actually hold anything... where will I put my shoes and extra liquor? And a winter coat? Banished from my sight!- this is Vegas, not Pullman. Checked luggage? Pshaw. A carry-on will suffice.
We have a routine in Vegas. We check into the hotel and then dabble in the complimentary cocktails on our way to the room. If you've never had any complimentary cocktails when you've stayed with me, I might have consumed them without your knowledge (my apologies go out to Bonnie and Lawrence, in particular). Also, I may have had a drink on the plane, and maybe one at that Florentina's place at the Pasco airport. I'm a very uneasy flyer...
Once settled into the room, we break out the Kamchatka. I don't know if it's that we thought Vegas wouldn't have enough cheap liquor or that maybe we were worried they didn't carry our Pullman select brand... but on our inaugural trip we were packing. So now, it's tradition. Shots, shots, shots.
We then wander to the strip in wide-eyed wonder. I like to make an investment in one of those obnoxious yard-stick drinks right away, as I feel they pay for themselves almost immediately. Would I like a shot of Everclear for an extra dollar? Need you even ask...
During our last trip I opted for a football shaped drink, as it had a handle and I'm a bit dropsy. This was a good effort, but at the end of the night I spiked it to the ground, shattering the bottom. I don't remember why this happened.
In Vegas there are no liquor laws. I'm sure they have them, but I have yet to come across any. You can drink anywhere; sidewalks, streets, casinos, rooms, restaurants, pools... the possibilities are endless. There's no closing time. They actually sell Everclear. And, last but certainly not least, ladies drink for free almost everywhere. In Washington state the only way to get a free drink is if it's your birthday, or to make up for a service error. In The Vegas, so long as you don't have a penis, you're good. Even if you're not a lady, make friends with one. I grabbed more than one rum and coke for my Y-chromosome addled companions and I'm not even that nice of a person.
Typically our first night in Vegas is spent "drankin' forties on tha strip" and smoking cigarettes because, well, we're allowed to. You know, it seems I wrote "our" when I really meant, Jevon. Jevon's first night in Vegas is spent swilling 40 oz. malt liquor up and down the sidewalks all the while chain-smoking cigarettes and collecting those weird porn cards. It's as if he wants to play an adult-only version of Go Fish.
"Do you have any Tiffanie's?"
"Tiffany with a 'y', or Tiffani with an 'i'?"
"With an 'ie'."
"Nope. Go fish. For sluts."
Last time we stayed, Jevon woke up to discover his cigarettes missing. "Lawrence!" he said, astonished by their smoking prowess, "we smoked the whole pack last night!"
Lawrence shook his head. "No, you smoked the whole pack. You were lighting one with the end of another, bitch ass." I added that 'bitch ass' in, because for some reason I don't remember Lawrence's reply having any curse words in it... and we all know how unreasonable that is.
This kind of chatter is one of my favorite things about Vegas, or any vacation, really. I call it the 'morning recap'. Most hotels are equipped with nifty blackout curtains, and I relish every time I get to throw them open and greet the day. I love it so much that I go into the rooms of everyone I know and open their curtains for them. They don't seem to like when I do this, but, I don't care. Sun pours in, stomachs churn, and thoughts like, "Oh shit..." stumble around the minds of my loved ones. They usually complain, or yell... but deep down I know they're just as delighted as I. I force them to congregate in one room as we piece together the shitshow that was the night before. Questions like, "How did I get this large bruise on my hip?" turn into answers like, "Somewhere between The Flamingo and Paris you decided you could fly, and by the time we got to Planet Hollywood, you jumped off the steps and landed face-first on the sidewalk. I'm sorry for laughing and letting that porn-card flicker be the one to help you up..." (still sorry, Bon...)
The next day, or two, or three (our first Vegas experience was four nights... also known as twice as long as any person should be in Nevada) are spent poolside, or shopping, or gambling; all of which are coupled with, you guessed it: drinking. We make a point to visit Diablo's Cantina at least once, and also make time for a couple Washington Apple's prepared by a swarthy blackjack table waitress named Darla... Or Sheila... Or Ruth...
And, as traditions go... the night before we leave is usually when I go crazy.
The first time was at about 3:30 AM, 12 hours before we were set to board the plane back home. I was abandoned by the girls, who were smart enough to be asleep, and had taken refuge at a Mexican karaoke bar with Jevon, Lawrence and Omar. I was watching some guy do a magic trick in which he was turning fuzzy little balls into... other things while Omar was trying to wheel some girl by singing her Garth Brooks... or Enrique Iglesias... or Boyz II Men...
After the magic show commenced and our yardsticks were empty, the five of us (me, the boys, and some chick in a pink dress) headed home. Except, there was one problem... I couldn't figure out how to put my shoes on. Why I had them off, is also a mystery, but in the grand scheme of things neither here nor there. They were strappy sandals, and the clasp was, at that moment in time, beyond my comprehension and patience. I ended up looping the strap around my ankle and letting them flap all over the place as we made our way down the strip.
Nearing the crosswalk in front of our hotel, I noticed something. "The street's closed!" I yelled, starting to hyperventilate. "Why the fuck is the street closed!?!?" It was then, that I started to cry. Seriously.
Jevon and Lawrence, surprisingly serving as the voices of reason, encouraged me to follow them. "They're cleaning the street, we'll just go to MGM and walk across the skywalk."
"The skywalk?!?!" I wailed, continuing to bitch, bitch, bitch until we reached MGM. "Why are they cleaning the streets?" I asked. "Why can't we just walk across, to get to the hotel we paid for?" I grumbled. "Why are my shoes broken?" I sobbed.
At the skywalk entrance, Omar looked back at Jevon and Lawrence with a laugh. "Have fun with Booze..." he said, continuing on to his pink lady's hotel. Which, I believe, was the Tropicana... :/
Jevon asked if I wanted pizza. "No!" I spat. "I want to go home and never come back here!" I meant it, too. The next morning, when I was scheduled to finally ride the NY roller coaster, I couldn't... because of the bottle flu. I'd been waiting the whole trip for the roller coaster, and now I couldn't bear the thought of standing awkwardly, let alone careening gleefully. It was icing on the pissed off cake. On the flight home I swore up and down that I would never again vacation in the land of "the debauched and stupid."
6 months later, this time after a three night stay, I had that similar feeling of fear and loathing in Las Vegas. My companions were different, and the construction on Aria/Cosmo/whatever else had made considerable progress... but like clockwork, the night before our return home I was about ready to kill someone.
I didn't cry this time, instead deciding to sneer at anyone and everything. I was in bed and tucked in by the time Fred Armisen uttered, "And live, from New York, it's Saturday Night!" Seriously. It was when Ryan Reynolds hosted.
The next day, while waiting for our broken down plane, I got a text from Jevon. "I just took my jacket out of my suitcase to go outside and wait for my shuttle and like 15 of those naked girl cards fell out on the floor haha." I wrote back a few hours later with this, "Everytime I leave I'm like, "oh thank god i can't handle this anymore" and then I reflect and am like, "shit, i love that town!" I'll need 6 months to recup, but I'm excited as hell to go back."
Vegas is a hate it or love it kind of town, and I'm one of those people that simultaneously hates and loves things, ergo we are a match made in Heaven. I miss you Vegas. I love you. And I am sure I will see you again.
