I Got Gamblin' Fever

I want to go to Vegas.
   'But Don,' you say, 'you live in Pasadena, you could just drive up to Vegas on a weekend. What's the big deal?' True enough. But I don't want to go to Vegas now, I want to go to Vegas then.
   It was 1998, at least I'm pretty sure it was, and five of us planned a trip to Vegas. Five guys. Three days in Vegas. Yeah.
   Back then (jeez... 1998 is 'back then') Vegas was just starting to build up. Caesars Palace was completing their second tower, the Mirage was the happening place, the Tam-o-Shanter was still there. So was the Sands. And the Frontier, and the Stardust, and the Boardwalk, and the Desert Inn. It was Old Vegas - Sinatra's mobbed-up Vegas - mingling grudgingly with the new, douchebag Vegas - Steve Wynn's Vegas. There weren't pedestrian walkways then, you had to get across the Strip the old-fashioned way, by jaywalking.
   Me, Scott, Mike, Sean, and Bizarro Don. Who brought his own pillow. Really. Right through the Mirage lobby. Ah, those were the days. Me and those guys out on the town. Them partaking of the free booze, sometimes with an undeserved sense of entitlement, me the perpetual designated driver since I don't drink alcohol. I want those three days back, or I suppose I want to re-live those three days over and over again. The trip of a lifetime. Seriously.

Some highlights:

Wrasslin' in the room. Both Mike and Sean used to wrestle in high school, so this was truly a contest of champions. Scott wrestled because he thought he could beat the other two because he outweighed each of them by forty pounds. He was wrong. I knew better and didn't participate, though I did egg everyone else on.

Scott - who was Jewish - kept his vow to eat bacon at every meal. He achieved his goal admirably, though sometimes with puzzled looks from waiters.

Crazy Girls in the Stardust. A topless revue. It was bad. Really bad. Spectacularly bad. So bad that it came back around and crossed over to being good. The performers were almost all former showgirls who'd been injured, or got too heavy, or had kids or bad boob jobs or all of the above. Some possibly with drug habits to support. Just agonizingly awful, and yet sublime because of it. We were about to leave before the show started but Mike made us stay, since we'd made the effort to get tickets. 'We're staying right here and we're gonna watch the show.' Good call, man.
   Also, the scary mafioso ticket taker guy. You could look in his eyes and know he'd murdered someone. Thin and sinister. 'So you want to see the Crazy Girls?' Yes, sir, we would. If that's okay by you.

Five dollar craps tables at the Stratosphere. A great place to learn the game. Especially at 9 AM.

Star Trek the Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton. Nerd-vana. You could get Ferengi drinks at the Quark's Bar. And if you were an uber-nerd you could get a Klingon-themed wedding.

Me, Scott, Mike, and Sean, walking two abreast on the sidewalk, clearing a path before us. I didn't think we looked particularly tough or threatening, but evidently our fellow vacationers felt otherwise.

The President from The Fifth Element at the Rio. We were waiting for a cab and there he was.

Club Paradise. A 'gentleman's club' where guys act like anything but. Scott took complete leave of his senses and spent waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much money. We were there for hours. HOURS. And it wasn't horrible. Scott actually paid for 'bootie bucks' or whatever they call their fake cash. A lot of bootie bucks. We helped him whittle his stash down and he was so drunk he never noticed.

Thanks, guys. A truly great time.