A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

Vegas '07 - Part III

"I like elves fucking."

Friday dawned clear and windy. At least, I assume it did. It was clear and windy when we finally rolled out of bed around noon, anyway.

The first Vegas morning is generally pretty benign. Your system has yet to be overcome by the steady diet of toxins and fatigue, so it recovers fairly quickly from the initial night's excesses. In my case, a couple of aspirin, some Emergen-C, and a quart of Gatorade had me back on relatively steady feet, ready to face the day.

Dining options were limited, unless you want to chance the iffy Fremont casino buffets. We pretty much ducked into the first restaurant we came across, which I vaguely recall being named "Mickey Finnz" or some such. It had a half-assed beach theme, but the grub was acceptable to four losers in varying stages of hangoverdom. We actually lingered there for a couple hours, the better to rehydrate and appreciate the saucy waitress' lowrider jeans.

The Wife always asks me if I had any good conversations whenever I hang out with my friends. My response is invariably "Sure," and then silence. I rarely remember what was discussed, which is usually not that big a deal when the topic of conversation sticks to sports or debating the age-old questions (Ninja vs. pirate? Buck Rogers vs. Manimal?), but I remember Friday's discussion simply because it's the only time I've ever shot a liquid out of my nose from laughter.

It came about innocently enough. We were talking about things like Pandora and other taste aggregators that make movie or book selections for you based on your past interests, and what sort of criteria could be plugged into it. Things like: "seafaring epic" or "strong female protagonist" or "future tech," when TTTWLAM piped up with, "I like elves fucking."

After I'd wiped the coffee from my face and shirt, it was decided to get the hell out of there and do some gambling. We were joined that afternoon by The Thing's old college friends "The Pregnant God" (his chosen nom de blog) and "Beth Wexler" (christened in honor of her African volunteer past). They flew in from the East and West coasts, respectively, to help their old chum bid a sloppy adieu to bachelorhood. There was nothing for it but to seek out some adult entertainment.

More adult than gambling and drinking, I mean.

"You mean you only get one dance at a time?"

I mentioned the disconnect between how Vegas portrays itself and how it actually is in my last entry, using casino accommodations as the primary example. The same lesson could be applied to just about every aspect of the city's existence, however. Especially with regard to its strip clubs.

Honestly though, thanks to the philosophical similarities it's pretty impossible for a strip club not to succeed in Las Vegas. Both the club and the casino are out to extract as much money from you as possible with minimum effort on their part. The casinos ply you with free drinks, the occasional comp, and the remote-yet-tantalizing possibility that the next dollar you drop in a slot machine or plunk into a progressive poker ante might net you six figures. Clubs like Glitter Gulch or Cheetah's play upon the fact that most guys out for a guys' weekend aren't going to have the stones to simply call one of the bazillion escort services available in Vegas, opting instead for the - relatively - insertion-free option. There are many things a man will put up with to see some bared breasts, including enduring Glitter Gulch.

Glitter Gulch (oh, the imagery) is the only actual strip club on Fremont Street. That may sound crazy, but bear in mind that there are none on the actual Strip either (that I know of). Cheetah's is on Western, for example, while Sapphire on Industrial is probably the closest to the top-line casinos (it's easier to apply out-of-town admission charges when the customer arrives in a cab or limo, after all). GG exploits this to its best advantage, with Jumbotrons advertising its bevy of marginally attractive basket cases who haven't yet succumbed to the horrifying side effects of methamphetamine addiction. Not eager to tack on a $30 cab ride to what was already shaping up to be an expensive Friday night, the six of us ambled over for a little obligatory bachelor party nudity.

$20 cover gets you two drinks and a private mini-stage where you and your compatriots can get a much needed close-up of C-section scars and razor burn. I downed my duo of vodka tonics in about 90 seconds (as well as one of The Dave's Coronas, which he foolishly left unattended while chatting up our first dancer). Things grow a bit hazy at this point, but here are a few highlights from the subsequent few hours.

1. TTTWLAM got a stripper's business card. Her real business card. She was a real estate agent, I believe, and was apparently quite taken with the big lug. I suspect if I'd ever tried to seek out an exotic dancer's true identity, I'd be dragged by bouncer's to the not-so-VIP area and set upon with truncheons. That's probably because he usually has that goofy open persona and I look more like an aging sociopath who got used unkindly in white collar prison.

I mean, could you resist these charms?

2. I gave Cujo (so christened because his normal slobberingly friendly personality tends to give way to haphazard clumsiness and verbal abusiveness under the influence of hydrophobia 20+ beers) $35 for a lap dance. They're normally $25, but the extra tenner gets you into a more secluded room for your entertainment. Of course, the room is "secluded" from the rest of the club by a whopping bead curtain, you're stuck in there with about two dozen other saps, and a surly bouncer watches over the proceedings the whole time. Regardless, he returned some 10 minutes later with a chagrined look on his face:

Cujo: I'm out $100, man.
Pete: What? How did that happen?
Cujo: She charged me for each song.
Pete: ...Uh, yeah. That's what they do.
Cujo: But I thought $35 would get me three songs.
Pete: [feeling an aneurysm coming on] Where in the contiguous 48 states is there a strip club where you can get three dances for the price of one?
Cujo: [Names some dive in the rural fastness of East Texas where he went to college]
Pete: How old are you?

I feel I should point out two things. First, Cujo is over 30. Second, this isn't the first time he's made poor financial decisions in a gentlemen's club. At his own bachelor party in New Orleans, which I also attended, he had to be forcibly prevented from verbally agreeing to some VIP-room deal that would've cost us around $3000. In all fairness to him, he dutifully related the story to his wife later that evening. Her response: "You're a fucking idiot."

3. $8.75 for a beer meant yours truly left Glitter Gulch significantly more sober than when he entered.

More gambling followed. The Dave and I enjoyed watching a young fellow solidify his gangsta cred by loudly bellowing for his $2 in change from McDonald's, TPG whizzed off the balcony, and TTTWLAM and Cujo narrowly averted grievous thoracic trauma simply by the savvy and ninja-like brandishing of several Gatorade bottles.

Next up: the Spice Girls. Finally.