Weekend Recap: The Vegas

About a week ago, my man Vince (aka Vinny Chase) and I were talking about how lame our lives are. Nothing exciting ever happens anymore. We needed to change things up a bit. Actually, in context, I think Vince wanted to go pick a fight at a bar and spend the night in jail, so I suggested that he go some place with better alcohol – you know, increase his chances of winning. And then he said it, and our fate was sealed…

Vegas…

Ah, the city of brotherly love.  The city that never sleeps.  The big easy.  Vince assured me that at least one of these names was talking about Las Vegas, but then again, he also called it the big apple.  Immediately after making the suggestion, we made sure our homedog Ben, the third leg of our man-tripod, was in.  And then the planning began.

Next thing you knew, we were there.

Now, I was unable to arrive until Saturday morning, while the rest of our group arrived late Friday night.  Naturally, that’s a good piece of the story that I won’t be able to tell.  You’ll have to ask Ben, Vince, or maybe the lady serving energy drinks at the Cortez Casino (yeah, I’d never heard of it, either).

After a day of playing by the pool, being embarrassed by Ben at a putting contest (it was a high stakes game, with Ben’s future girlfriend at stake), and a stake dance-like segregation between the guys and girls, we were ready to hit the strip.  But not before we went to the mall, looked for some chick’s sister, and hung out with Carrot Top at a little Italian eatery.

But then, finally, we were ready to hit the strip.  And we hit it hard.  I immediately lost 20 bucks at a roulette table, and then we went out in search of Rockstars and h2o.  Ben and Vince had been up all night, so they were tired.  Our new friend Jordan hadn’t gotten much sleep, either.  I was ok, but that heat does drain you a bit.

While we were walking around, Ben nearly got himself into a fight with a shirtless vagrant who appeared to want to sell us some drugs.  This man, who I’d have to assume has gouged out at least six eyeballs in his time, assured Ben that he’d “f*** you up right here on the strip.”  But he didn’t.

Later. as we were enjoying our cold, non-alcoholic beverages, we were treated to a short story by a man I’d like to call Old James.  Old James, a down-on-his-luck drifter, thrilled us with a tale of the dangers of getting drunk and then getting caught by the fuzz with some blow in your pocket.  I didn’t understand a lot of what Old James said, but I did catch the phrase, “That’s bad.”  He repeated it about seven or eight times.  Then he asked us for $1.75.  Or maybe he asked us for a $1 or $.75.  I don’t think we’ll ever know.  He asked if our “sister,” Jordan, had the money.  James apparently doesn’t know that us white folks don’t refer to our women as sisters.  It kinda creeps us out.

I’d love to recount to you the rest of the night, but it’s kind of a blur.  We did meet up with Mandi and watch the water show at the Bellagio.  We did eat at the Cheesecake Factory.  We did wander around the stores at Caesar’s Palace for about three days.  We did go to Niketown.  The order and duration of these events is lost to me, and I don’t think my companions would be able to give you a more accurate story.

I do remember that we became what I like to call “stupid tired.”  Things were funny to us that we had no right to laugh at.  We’d de-evolved like William Hurt in Altered States.  I think I’d rather not remember the exact conversations we had.

Vince wanted to pull an all-nighter.  Ben had a little more sense than that.  Mandi wasn’t feeling well, and Jordan didn’t want to hang out with us anymore.  Our night in the Vegas was over.  I’m pretty sure it was better than the night I would’ve had otherwise (with no offense meant towards my dear, sweet family).

K