but all I can do is staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaare

Long time no see, kids.

We have much to discuss, so let’s dispense with the pleasantries and get down to the nitty gritty:

Vegas.

Booya.

Vegas was, as always, expensive and fun and hot as fuck. My plane landed at about 2:00 AM Saturday morning after (of course) numerous delays. The flight itself was uneventful, except that I tried to start a fight with some yuppie reading Tuesdays with Morrie. Some call me a “literary snob”, but I prefer the term “relentless & inescapable wordzealot”. If there’s anything I hate about airplanes and airports, its looking up from my copy of A Clockwork Orange to see that I’m surrounded by 50 assholes reading some Dan Brown piece of shit. DEAN KOONTZ IS A TOOL, and let me tell you how whatever book of his you’re reading ends: the mysterious monsters are stopped by the heroes and the evil corporate/political entity is brought to its knees. I hope I ruined it for you, now go buy six copies of The Sun Also Rises to atone for your sins.

My illustrious and inimitable companions, Peter, Paul, and Chris, picked my ass up from the airport and we returned to our room overlooking the pool at Excalibur post-haste. Dated and tacky, gaudy and soulless, the fabulous Excalibur Hotel and Casino is everything I love about Vegas. After pounding a bottle of Crown fresh from it’s little velvet bag, we hopped a cab down to Fremont street and Ye Olde Downtown. It was dead. For being a city which supposedly never sleeps, it was pretty ridiculously empty, so we drank some more and went home at about 5. Booya.

The next day, after stumbling around under the searing, heartless Nevada sun for a few hours in search of shoes for Chris, we ended up back at the pool drinking giant plastic footballs of margaritas. I pounded mine and passed out, baking in the sun, while the rest of the kids gallavanted around the pool oggling the womenfolk.

Speaking of which, damn, ladies. Damn. The “lookers” were out in force this weekend, and although our impoverished asses were not exactly what the typical high-maintenance Vegas ho is looking for, we cast our fair share of wide-eyed glances and appreciative sighs anyway.

Somehow we made it back to the room, although the rest of the day is a blur until we headed out the The Club.

Tonight’s lucky venue? Light, at the Bellagio; a very high class and overtly expensive club, designed specifically to keep riffraff like us out and the elite in. Fuck it, we’re going anyway. We armed ourselves with yard long margaritas, dead-sexy outfits, and the proverbial “A” game, then headed off.

How was it? In a word:

“Fuck.”

We got there early, and watched for two hours as they let groups of reserved VIPs and cute girls in while we and a host of other hopefuls waited pathetically outside. It sucked the big one. Fuck it, let’s go to Ra.

We were not disappointed at Ra, thankfully. After paying off some shady fucker who had stolen one of Ra’s handstamps, we skipped the line and went in the “returning” entrance without any trouble. Inside, well, inside was just good times.

It was as if J the C himself had come down and said, “I am the lamb of the Lord, and in my wisdom and compassion, have come to beseech you all: boogie!”

And boogie we did.

For those of you unaware of the strange and otherworldly ways of The Club, let me describe the some of the types of people who exist within the bounds of its hallowed halls:

1) The Hyper-Predatory Douchebag Hornball, or “Predadouchbalag”:

For whatever reason, a large percentage of the male population feels that the appropriate way to approach a lady for some dancing is to stomp in and flop all over her lecherously, grinning like a priest on a school bus, spilling drinks and stepping on feet. As loathsome as this “strategy” may seem, the only reason I can fathom that it exists is that it works, at least in rare cases. Perhaps one time in a hundred, a girl likes being the zebra carcass to the man’s hyena. Don’t ask me why; the point is that once again, it’s your fault, ladies.

The vast majority of sausage in this club was employing this strategy, to little or no avail. Assholes.

2) The Boyfriend

Intensely territorial, these men follow around their ladies staring down all who approach. Watch out for them, they are an unpredictable and despicable breed. I was fronted on twice by these assholes that night, without discernable cause. I am a good guy, a worthy protagonist, so back off. The moral of the story? boyfriends are fuckwads.

3) The Girl

The one, the only, the objective. The goal. The purpose. The judge, the jury, the executioner. Mysterious and unfathomable, treacherous and foreign, who the fuck knows what’s going on with these people. Not me, certainly.

4) Us

BOOYA. That’s right. The Gentlemenplayas. The high class bastards with the winning smiles and the fancy moves. So fresh and, of course, so clean.

We danced, and we drank, we enjoyed ourselves… and then, with a sort of Field of Dreams miraculousness, the ladies came to us. Somewhere around 1:30, an earth-shattering paradigm shift occurred; we were no longer the seekers, we were the sought. That bachelorette party drifting meaningfully over in our direction, those two Chinese girls smiled a little wider and came over to dance and be merry. Suddenly, my compatriots and I were nigh overrun with attention, and I remember grinning heartily as I stared off into the pack of baleful, red-eyed lechers waiting at the walls. Take that, scum.

In light of this monumentous event (hopefully just a taste of paradigm shiftiness to come), there is a list of people we need to thank for helping our night happen:

The Ross clothing corporation, my girl_friends (note the underscore), TV, and Swingers for invaluable wardrobe and grooming advice. Jose, Jack, Sam, and Bud, for their encouragement and unfaltering support. The DJ’s, despite their constant East Coast shoutouts (The west side is, of course, the best side). AND OF COURSE, my uncle and yours, Mike Couevas.

As for the rest of the night, well, the good Lord has no jurisdiction in Nevada, so I guess it’s our secret to keep.

Oh, and Peter was declared by one girl to be the “Cutest boy in the whole club.”

The cutest boy…
in the whole club.

It brings a tear to my eye.

Sunday was spent in recovery mode, shambling around the strip, exhausted and dehydrated. Did I mention it was hot as fuck. We saw “Hero”, we ate at Denny’s, we went to the mall.

By the way, while we’re tooting our own horns here, can I just say that the girl at Waldenbooks in the Las Vegas mall came onto me more blatantly and shamelessly than I had ever previously experienced? It was probably my Prose before Hos T-shirt (yes I own one and yes, I wear it), or maybe my excellent choice of books (The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho), but for whatever reason, she was hollering her lungs out. I responded in kind, of course; the notion of a girl with an employee discount at a bookstore drives me wild. Sadly, it was not meant to be, as I had a plane to catch and a life to lead. Oh well, honey, we’ll always have Waldenbooks.

We wandered around for a while after that, but things were winding down. The vibe was changing, and I could feel our inertia slipping. Monday loomed hatefully, and as Chris said, with uncharacteristic clarity and insight, “There is a lot of bitterness in Las Vegas on Sunday afternoon”. Definitely the most philosophical thing I’ve ever heard over Hot Dog On A Stick Lemonade in the food court, at least in the last couple of weeks.

My friends then abandoned me at the airport at around 6 (My flight left at midnight), where I slept and read and listened to Buena Vista Social Club for what seemed like an eternity. Again, I whine, but it wasn’t that bad. See back issues for details.

Obviously, I made it home safe, a couple hundred dollars poorer and a little bit sunburned.

CURSE this stupid software, why won’t you let me post a picture? I have pictures, which I would share with you, but this dismal piece of garbage is openly defying me.

Perhaps next time.

Until we meet again,

laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.

-T.

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One Response to “but all I can do is staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaare”

  1. To upload pictures just go to Photobucket.com upload them then post the picture html in here and it will show.

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