Living in L.A. is unique for many reasons. One of said reasons definitely has to be the fact that, whether you know it or not, you are always an hour away from leaving the city to head to Las Vegas for the weekend.
A lot of people that I have met out here go to Vegas all the time. And I am learning that very few of their trips are put together more than 24 hours in advance.
Three and a half hours of desert is all that separates L.A. from L.V. And, one incoming call is all that it takes to separate your weekend of couch napping from a weekend of debauchery in the desert.
A friend of mine called me last weekend and said that he had received a phone invite by two friends that had decided at the last minute to leave it all behind and party in Vegas for the weekend. My friend informed me that we were going as well, and we would be leaving in one hour.
I packed, and it was on.
This was my very first trip to Las Vegas. I would like to say that I didn’t know what to expect, but honestly I felt like I did know what I was getting myself into. Enough has been made of Las Vegas in movies, Wild On E! (E! Entertainment Television) and stories that I have heard friends tell that I felt like I was prepared for what I was about to encounter.
So…
My friend (another Vegas first-timer) and I rolled into town around 11:00 pm on Saturday night and headed over to check in at the MGM Grand. Traffic was not a factor, which surprised me. I just figured people were EVERYWHERE in Las Vegas, especially on the strip, and especially especially on Saturday night.
After dropping our bags in the room, changing clothes and making fun of my friend for the prom vest he chose for the evening…we headed out. Out to on the town. Out to the casinos. Out to the clubs. Out for the laaaaaaaaadieeeeeeeeeeeeeees.
At least I thought that is what we were doing.
In reality, we headed out to find casinos “full” of around 13 people, completely empty streets, freezing cold weather and almost zero half-pretty young ladies with self-esteem issues looking keep what happened that weekend in Las Vegas.
If I had known that people were allowed to smoke in casinos, I probably never would have gone to Nevada. It is amazing how much cigar and cigarette smoke 13 gamblers can generate. Two hours after arriving in town, my throat was already scratchy and starting to hurt when I swallowed.
I did not find this pleasing.
When we got bored with the other 12 people at whichever casino we were in, we would hop out onto “The Strip” and walk down to another spot. I was always under the impression that “The Strip” was wall-to-wall people drinking and partying out of control. Last weekend, it was a few scattered handfuls of people walking with their heads down and their backs to the wind like we were in freaking Chicago. There were no people partying in the streets. There was no “Mardi Gras” atmosphere.
Once we did finally make our way into whichever casino we happened to be heading to at the time, I can only assume that I was not looking too hot in the eyes of the ladies with my wind burned face, chattering teeth and runny nose. Every entrance I made looked like a Campbell’s Soup advertisement (only I probably smelled more like smoke than the actors in the actual soup commercials).
A lot of people that I have met out here go to Vegas all the time. And I am learning that very few of their trips are put together more than 24 hours in advance.
Three and a half hours of desert is all that separates L.A. from L.V. And, one incoming call is all that it takes to separate your weekend of couch napping from a weekend of debauchery in the desert.
A friend of mine called me last weekend and said that he had received a phone invite by two friends that had decided at the last minute to leave it all behind and party in Vegas for the weekend. My friend informed me that we were going as well, and we would be leaving in one hour.
I packed, and it was on.
This was my very first trip to Las Vegas. I would like to say that I didn’t know what to expect, but honestly I felt like I did know what I was getting myself into. Enough has been made of Las Vegas in movies, Wild On E! (E! Entertainment Television) and stories that I have heard friends tell that I felt like I was prepared for what I was about to encounter.
So…
My friend (another Vegas first-timer) and I rolled into town around 11:00 pm on Saturday night and headed over to check in at the MGM Grand. Traffic was not a factor, which surprised me. I just figured people were EVERYWHERE in Las Vegas, especially on the strip, and especially especially on Saturday night.
After dropping our bags in the room, changing clothes and making fun of my friend for the prom vest he chose for the evening…we headed out. Out to on the town. Out to the casinos. Out to the clubs. Out for the laaaaaaaaadieeeeeeeeeeeeeees.
At least I thought that is what we were doing.
In reality, we headed out to find casinos “full” of around 13 people, completely empty streets, freezing cold weather and almost zero half-pretty young ladies with self-esteem issues looking keep what happened that weekend in Las Vegas.
If I had known that people were allowed to smoke in casinos, I probably never would have gone to Nevada. It is amazing how much cigar and cigarette smoke 13 gamblers can generate. Two hours after arriving in town, my throat was already scratchy and starting to hurt when I swallowed.
I did not find this pleasing.
When we got bored with the other 12 people at whichever casino we were in, we would hop out onto “The Strip” and walk down to another spot. I was always under the impression that “The Strip” was wall-to-wall people drinking and partying out of control. Last weekend, it was a few scattered handfuls of people walking with their heads down and their backs to the wind like we were in freaking Chicago. There were no people partying in the streets. There was no “Mardi Gras” atmosphere.
Once we did finally make our way into whichever casino we happened to be heading to at the time, I can only assume that I was not looking too hot in the eyes of the ladies with my wind burned face, chattering teeth and runny nose. Every entrance I made looked like a Campbell’s Soup advertisement (only I probably smelled more like smoke than the actors in the actual soup commercials).
And as for the ladies, the only steady female interaction we were getting was from the prostitutes. Now, this was not my first time seeing hookers (I have been to Amsterdam, NYC and Miami), but it was the first place I had ever been where the working girls outnumbered the patrons 2:1. And these chicks were aggressive. Walking into a casino felt like walking onto the lot at a car dealership. After leaving one casino and heading out onto the street, my friend and I were followed by two madams of the night. These two women tried the time tested “Hey baby. How ya’ll doin’ tonight? Ya’ll looking to have a good time?” lines that I ALMOST ALWAYS GO FOR, but we declined. I thought the whole thing was hilarious, but I couldn’t laugh because the muscles in my face were too cold to function.
Later, I told my friend that part of me just wanted to pay those hardworking girls $2,000 and tell them nothing was expected in return. I just wanted to pay them a nightly wage and tell them that I respected their work ethic, but I would like for them to each head back to their respective dwellings so they could get warm, get something to eat and get to bed. You know, it would have been easy for those two to take a sick day, but they decided to come in to work anyway. They were out pounding the pavement in 20-degree weather with short dresses, 6-inch heels, sunglasses, wigs, knife fight scars and razor-sharp game. I was in jeans, undershirt, a button-up and a jacket…and whining about the cold like a bitch. Get it girls.
I sometimes view hookers like I do street beggars. The presence of either one tarnishes a bit of the ambiance of any locale. Further, both factions are incessantly sweating me for money. The difference is, bums ask for cash and hookers ask for cash…while cupping my package. You never realize how much you miss bums until you are being publicly stroked and propositioned by a prostitute.
Yucky. No likey.
So, I am not a big gambler. I do not know enough about gambling to feel comfortable with it. What I do know is that people who have dedicated their lives to gambling and sacrificed their families and fortunes for gambling still cannot seem to beat the house, so I feel like my money is probably safest in my pocket...or tucked into a G-string.
I said that to say this, casinos are really lame if you don’t gamble (and also if you do). It’s just a bunch of poker tables and slot machines across from a sandwich deli, a bar, a Gap and a coffee shop. It feels like being in an airport.
I thought casinos were going to be more sexy and glamorous. I thought they would be places that you would never want to leave-when in fact, I tried to hold my breath, race through a quick tour of the place and get out before I needed to inhale another chest full of secondhand cancer.
Another thing I noticed while walking down “The Strip” is that all of the buildings look very unique and interesting. Once you are on the inside, however, you cannot tell one casino’s slot machines and jarring ornate carpet from the next (and, Marlboro Light smoke smells the same no matter where you breathe it in).
The MGM Grand was a nice hotel. The room was reasonably modern and the stuff seemed as clean as a germophobe could expect for a Las Vegas hotel room. My only real beef with MGM is this: After hanging out until 7:30 am, my friend and I decided we wanted to get some sleep-and that checking out three hours later before MGM’s 11:00 am deadline was not a possibility. So, we decided to hit the lobby and rent our room for a second night. After re-upping our room, we headed upstairs to get some sleep.
By 8:15 am I was laying atop my hotel bedding fully clothed wondering how I could lay on the bed without touching any of it, watching “Vegas Vacation” on TV and wondering why it was tomorrow already and I had not yet gone to sleep for yesterday yet. Things were, you know, going really well.
I remember sneaking a look at the bedside alarm clock at 9:23 am before turning off the light to get some sleep. I nodded off for about 19 seconds when it hit me like a shot of patron that neither one of us had put the “Shhh. Please Do Not Disturb” sign on the door yet. I sprang out of bed and slapped that sign on the outside doorknob with authority. The last thing I wanted was some lady that did not speak English banging on the door 45 minutes later asking if we were going to be checking out before 11:00 am.
45 minutes later, some lady that did not speak English was banging on the door asking if we were going to be checking out before 11:00 am. I managed to cough a sentence that sounded enough like “we added an extra day to our reservation” for her to understand. She then apologized to me for waking us (and for making me want to murder her entire family).
Why is that I can program my DVR wirelessly from my cell phone from anywhere in the world, but billion dollar “Resort & Casino” front desk staff are somehow unable to communicate to their housekeeping staff that patrons have rented a room for an extra night and should not be bothered for any reason (especially when displaying a sign that says exactly that)? I almost went to jail because of this lack of communication. If I had had the strength, balance, brain power or interest I would have tackled that little housekeeping lady when she knocked on the door, but at the time I was without all four of those things.
Give me a room with no bed. Give me a room with no windows. Give me a room with nothing but fours walls. I don’t even care. All I ask is that NO ONE EVER WAKE ME UP UNLESS THE BUILDING IS ON FIRE. And even then, if the fire is not going to affect my room specifically, then we can talk about it later on when I wake up.
Is there a hotel anywhere issuing “Please bang on the door and wake my friend and me up because we hate sleep” doorknob signs in their rooms? If not, all hotels should just go ahead and make this change now. Let’s just be honest with each other about what we are getting ourselves into so everyone knows to expect the early morning knocking.
Another quick Vegas-related note, I have officially decided that “Swingers” quotes are over. I love that movie as much as anyone, but all of that is done. Unless, of course, it is something under the radar, like “This place is dead anyway,” or “Like House of Pain was really gonna do something.” Otherwise, it’s officially a wrap. Thanks for playing.
Bright Spots:
I saw the rapper Too $hort at The Flamingo at around 4:15 am on Saturday night/Sunday Morning. Just as I was about to ask my friend if it was legal in Nevada for nine-year olds to be in casinos this late at night, I realized that it was just Too $heezy’s 5-foot 3-inch ass in that gaudy red sweater with two bodyguards and 15 sycophantic blonde associates surrounding him. I was going to bust through his entourage and ask him if I could get a quick picture, but I didn’t want to get spray tan and glitter on my jacket.
Club Prive at Planet Hollywood was pretty nice (again, not as glamorous or sexy or wild as I expected it to be, but very nice). Most importantly, the DJ (the only real reason I go anywhere) was pretty much killing it. A fellow Serato user, he was utilizing a lot of loops and mixer effects that are not for beginners. These kinds of things make a big difference, people.
The best part of the weekend also happened at Prive. Whilst trying to look cool on the edge of the dance floor with my $21 dollar drink, a gorgeous young Latina by the name of Cindy danced her way up next to me and began chatting me up (i.e. screaming directly into my earhole). It was so uncomfortably loud in the club that Cindy and I were able to exchange that she was from Orange County and I was from L.A….and that was about it. After growing frustrated with repeating ourselves, we decided it would be best if she put her information into my phone so we could correspond when we both got back to California. Thus, she put her fake name and fake phone number into my very real phone and I promised to spare her the waiting games and call her next week like a gentleman.
All in all, I personally thought Las Vegas was underwhelming as balls. But, I am willing to give it one more shot. Next time, I am bringing 60 people with me in case the city is barren once again. Also, my next trip will be during the warmer months, so if everything else breaks down I can just get sauced out by the pool and gawk at the pretty girlies.
One last very important thing:
If you are reading this and your go-to fake clubbing name is “Cindy” and you are from Orange County and you met a guy named “Todd” at club Prive on Saturday, January 3rd 2009 and you put your go-to fake phone number that starts with “909” in Todd’s iPhone and Todd explained that he thought you were absolutely adorable and he promised he would call you when he got back to L.A., then please forgive Todd. The reason it has been a week and Todd has not yet contacted you is because Todd’s iPhone somehow did not save your fake number that Todd watched you input with his own two eyes. In an attempt to play it cool Todd decided not to call you immediately after you put your math in his phone (which would have cemented each party’s number in the other’s call history). You see, Todd is an idiot. An idiot who apparently does not know how to properly save the single most important phone numbers that will ever be tipsy enough to place themselves in his wireless device. So, now Todd has no way of contacting your very hot ass.
Cindy, please email Todd at WordsByTodd@Gmail.com
Todd would really appreciate it.
You’re welcome
-Todd
Later, I told my friend that part of me just wanted to pay those hardworking girls $2,000 and tell them nothing was expected in return. I just wanted to pay them a nightly wage and tell them that I respected their work ethic, but I would like for them to each head back to their respective dwellings so they could get warm, get something to eat and get to bed. You know, it would have been easy for those two to take a sick day, but they decided to come in to work anyway. They were out pounding the pavement in 20-degree weather with short dresses, 6-inch heels, sunglasses, wigs, knife fight scars and razor-sharp game. I was in jeans, undershirt, a button-up and a jacket…and whining about the cold like a bitch. Get it girls.
I sometimes view hookers like I do street beggars. The presence of either one tarnishes a bit of the ambiance of any locale. Further, both factions are incessantly sweating me for money. The difference is, bums ask for cash and hookers ask for cash…while cupping my package. You never realize how much you miss bums until you are being publicly stroked and propositioned by a prostitute.
Yucky. No likey.
So, I am not a big gambler. I do not know enough about gambling to feel comfortable with it. What I do know is that people who have dedicated their lives to gambling and sacrificed their families and fortunes for gambling still cannot seem to beat the house, so I feel like my money is probably safest in my pocket...or tucked into a G-string.
I said that to say this, casinos are really lame if you don’t gamble (and also if you do). It’s just a bunch of poker tables and slot machines across from a sandwich deli, a bar, a Gap and a coffee shop. It feels like being in an airport.
I thought casinos were going to be more sexy and glamorous. I thought they would be places that you would never want to leave-when in fact, I tried to hold my breath, race through a quick tour of the place and get out before I needed to inhale another chest full of secondhand cancer.
Another thing I noticed while walking down “The Strip” is that all of the buildings look very unique and interesting. Once you are on the inside, however, you cannot tell one casino’s slot machines and jarring ornate carpet from the next (and, Marlboro Light smoke smells the same no matter where you breathe it in).
The MGM Grand was a nice hotel. The room was reasonably modern and the stuff seemed as clean as a germophobe could expect for a Las Vegas hotel room. My only real beef with MGM is this: After hanging out until 7:30 am, my friend and I decided we wanted to get some sleep-and that checking out three hours later before MGM’s 11:00 am deadline was not a possibility. So, we decided to hit the lobby and rent our room for a second night. After re-upping our room, we headed upstairs to get some sleep.
By 8:15 am I was laying atop my hotel bedding fully clothed wondering how I could lay on the bed without touching any of it, watching “Vegas Vacation” on TV and wondering why it was tomorrow already and I had not yet gone to sleep for yesterday yet. Things were, you know, going really well.
I remember sneaking a look at the bedside alarm clock at 9:23 am before turning off the light to get some sleep. I nodded off for about 19 seconds when it hit me like a shot of patron that neither one of us had put the “Shhh. Please Do Not Disturb” sign on the door yet. I sprang out of bed and slapped that sign on the outside doorknob with authority. The last thing I wanted was some lady that did not speak English banging on the door 45 minutes later asking if we were going to be checking out before 11:00 am.
45 minutes later, some lady that did not speak English was banging on the door asking if we were going to be checking out before 11:00 am. I managed to cough a sentence that sounded enough like “we added an extra day to our reservation” for her to understand. She then apologized to me for waking us (and for making me want to murder her entire family).
Why is that I can program my DVR wirelessly from my cell phone from anywhere in the world, but billion dollar “Resort & Casino” front desk staff are somehow unable to communicate to their housekeeping staff that patrons have rented a room for an extra night and should not be bothered for any reason (especially when displaying a sign that says exactly that)? I almost went to jail because of this lack of communication. If I had had the strength, balance, brain power or interest I would have tackled that little housekeeping lady when she knocked on the door, but at the time I was without all four of those things.
Give me a room with no bed. Give me a room with no windows. Give me a room with nothing but fours walls. I don’t even care. All I ask is that NO ONE EVER WAKE ME UP UNLESS THE BUILDING IS ON FIRE. And even then, if the fire is not going to affect my room specifically, then we can talk about it later on when I wake up.
Is there a hotel anywhere issuing “Please bang on the door and wake my friend and me up because we hate sleep” doorknob signs in their rooms? If not, all hotels should just go ahead and make this change now. Let’s just be honest with each other about what we are getting ourselves into so everyone knows to expect the early morning knocking.
Another quick Vegas-related note, I have officially decided that “Swingers” quotes are over. I love that movie as much as anyone, but all of that is done. Unless, of course, it is something under the radar, like “This place is dead anyway,” or “Like House of Pain was really gonna do something.” Otherwise, it’s officially a wrap. Thanks for playing.
Bright Spots:
I saw the rapper Too $hort at The Flamingo at around 4:15 am on Saturday night/Sunday Morning. Just as I was about to ask my friend if it was legal in Nevada for nine-year olds to be in casinos this late at night, I realized that it was just Too $heezy’s 5-foot 3-inch ass in that gaudy red sweater with two bodyguards and 15 sycophantic blonde associates surrounding him. I was going to bust through his entourage and ask him if I could get a quick picture, but I didn’t want to get spray tan and glitter on my jacket.
Club Prive at Planet Hollywood was pretty nice (again, not as glamorous or sexy or wild as I expected it to be, but very nice). Most importantly, the DJ (the only real reason I go anywhere) was pretty much killing it. A fellow Serato user, he was utilizing a lot of loops and mixer effects that are not for beginners. These kinds of things make a big difference, people.
The best part of the weekend also happened at Prive. Whilst trying to look cool on the edge of the dance floor with my $21 dollar drink, a gorgeous young Latina by the name of Cindy danced her way up next to me and began chatting me up (i.e. screaming directly into my earhole). It was so uncomfortably loud in the club that Cindy and I were able to exchange that she was from Orange County and I was from L.A….and that was about it. After growing frustrated with repeating ourselves, we decided it would be best if she put her information into my phone so we could correspond when we both got back to California. Thus, she put her fake name and fake phone number into my very real phone and I promised to spare her the waiting games and call her next week like a gentleman.
All in all, I personally thought Las Vegas was underwhelming as balls. But, I am willing to give it one more shot. Next time, I am bringing 60 people with me in case the city is barren once again. Also, my next trip will be during the warmer months, so if everything else breaks down I can just get sauced out by the pool and gawk at the pretty girlies.
One last very important thing:
If you are reading this and your go-to fake clubbing name is “Cindy” and you are from Orange County and you met a guy named “Todd” at club Prive on Saturday, January 3rd 2009 and you put your go-to fake phone number that starts with “909” in Todd’s iPhone and Todd explained that he thought you were absolutely adorable and he promised he would call you when he got back to L.A., then please forgive Todd. The reason it has been a week and Todd has not yet contacted you is because Todd’s iPhone somehow did not save your fake number that Todd watched you input with his own two eyes. In an attempt to play it cool Todd decided not to call you immediately after you put your math in his phone (which would have cemented each party’s number in the other’s call history). You see, Todd is an idiot. An idiot who apparently does not know how to properly save the single most important phone numbers that will ever be tipsy enough to place themselves in his wireless device. So, now Todd has no way of contacting your very hot ass.
Cindy, please email Todd at WordsByTodd@Gmail.com
Todd would really appreciate it.
You’re welcome
-Todd
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