This blog chronicles the shenanigans of two NYC SHOW-STOPPERS as they entertain themselves through fleeting, fun, yet ultimately futile attempts to overcome their boredom with corporate America, and life in general.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

All We Need to Know We Learned in Vegas

Our last evening in Vegas taught us a few more valuable lessons about navigating Sin City nightlife. Having arrived at Jet, a relatively new standout on the Strip, we found ourselves adrift in a scary sea of techno-addled club land denizens, comprised primarily of chunky Mexican dudes, Middle Eastern romeos rocking black eyeliner and sequined t-shirts, and the wide-ranging universe of bottle-service customers.

Sighing resignedly as I observed poor SWF being eagerly pursued by a painfully nerdy Pakistani lothario, I gazed around the club, trying desperately to discern where this evening would take us. Suddenly I spied what was, in that moment, the equivalent of a verdant oasis amidst the soaring dunes of the Namib: a gang of well dressed, clean-shaven gentlemen gathered 'round a few corner tables laden with bottles and mixers galore. I caught the eye of one of them, who promptly smiled and waved me over.

Sensing imminent salvation, I sprinted across the dance floor and was quickly ushered into their safe haven by a hulking, fedora-wearing, vaguely mystical bouncer by the name of Big Al. Which leads us to...
Lesson #1: In Vegas, you can rarely go wrong hanging out with the dudes who have the biggest, most badass man in the joint watching their backs. (Picture him as the jumbo Jay-Z to their collective Beyonce.)
Turns out they were all old high school friends from NY, reunited in Vegas for—what else—a bachelor party. Sweet, clear-eyed, funny, and articulate, they insisted that I rescue SWF from the Pak-man's lascivious clutches immediately and whisk her back to join the festivities. When they offered us a drink and we asked what they had, they paused, looked around at the veritable booze smorgasbord and replied, "Well...um...everything!" We knew then that the night had taken a welcome turn for the better.
Lesson #2: When visiting Vegas from the Big Apple, you can also rarely go wrong hanging out with other New Yorkers. Sorry, haters—it's the simple truth.
SWF hit it off right away with Matt, an adorable, blue-eyed investment advisor with a glorious head of hair you could easily lose a phone in, who now lived in L.A....so much so that when I turned around later she was parked the banquette as he treated her to a comical lap dance, shirt tails a-flyin' and hips gyrating (heavens!) as SWF laughed hysterically. Not to be outdone, she later returned the favor by throwing one of her magenta-legging-clad stems—complete with a four-inch-heel—straight up onto his shoulder, à la Cyd Charisse (well, if ol' Cyd had been a bit more randy), rendering him momentarily mute with awe. After regaining the power of speech, Matt unleashed possibly the most memorable quote of the trip, in reference to his amazement at the sheer chutzpah of the ladies of the night who swarm endlessly around the VIP sections of Vegas clubs: "I may be a man of few virtues, but I've never paid for sex." Well put.
Lesson #3: For all the random and ultimately meaningless encounters had in Vegas, it's worth staying in touch with those capable of these kinds of witticisms, as they are few and far between.
The evening ended with a few more cocktails back at Mandalay Bay, with Matt and his friend Steve, where another casanova with no game told SWF she looked like "Jane Fonda...but younger and hotter."

There, in a fitting finale to our zany few days in this singular city, we observed a very intoxicated gentleman whirling around the dance floor in what looked like a native ritual dance born deep within the Amazonian rain forest: hunching close to the ground, arms raised over his head with hands splayed and fingers pointed forward, "Shazam!"-style, he swayed violently from side to side like...well, a drunken Amazonian shaman, occasionally kicking one leg out to the front like a Russian Cossack (hmmmm...it was a rather global dance, come to think of it) as he spun around in a wildly imperfect circle, repeatedly losing his balance and crashing to the ground or into a nearby booth. Look out—he's one wild and crraaaaaazy guy! SWF added to the hilarity when Matt suggested she start a David v. Goliath-esque dance-off (if David had been a Frankendrunk) with the silly sloshed soul.

The literal kicker: A week later, I saw the very same man at a party at the Four Seasons restaurant back in New York, swilling champagne like it was going out of style and presumably getting ready to roll out the routine once more.
Lesson #4: Careful, kids—what happens in Vegas doesn't stay in Vegas after all.

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