"Yeah, well i want to order vodka soda, i'll pay for it," I persisted, as if i would have a choice, "how much is it?" She scowled at me again-
"We don't take cash." She kept moving and refused to serve any of my friends. Clearly a discrimination case. 28th ammendment, please: no discrimination toward vegas bound youth. Crotchety ol' bitch.
Two seconds later, a nice looking male flight attendant passed down the aisle with peanuts and pretzels. I stopped him, told him how rudely i had been treated. He was, of course, sympathetic and hurried to bring me a complimentary beverage just as they announced there was too much turbulance to serve at all.
Things were off to a great start- I had been served before paying customers. Jen, across the aisle, shook her head and said, "It figures you would get served."
As I am quite convinced that the best things in life are free, that must mean that weekends in Vegas are among the best things in life. There is never a better time to be a female than on a weekend in the city of flashing lights. Despite the fact that we had of course paid for our flights, our 3 night stay was gratis, compliments of our friend Ashley's pseudo uncle who we fondly referred to as Lester the Molester. In all reality, I am sure Lester was a just a run of the mill harmless creepy old man who really wanted to 5 twenty-somethings out to dinner. Ashley's mom, though, said to be wary of ol' Lester. Conveniently, Ashley lost her phone the first night we were there, thereby making it impossible to contact poor Lester.
Of course, when I mentioned a gratis stay in Vegas it was not necessarily at the Bellagio or the Wynn... we were booked that the tried and true Stratosphere which is arguably still on the strip. Upon arrival, we stepped up to the desk and met Sandy, a stereotypical NY Jew with a beard that I could only imagine would boast matzo particles on any given occasion.
"Hi there," Ashley said brightly to Sandy, "we are registered under a Mr. Lester _______". Sandy looked at her skeptically. "Which one of you is Lester?" he grunted at his stupid little joke. Ashley looked at him, "He registered us- he said it would be all set." Sandy began to putter around on his computer; we would learn over the course of the weekend that Sandy loved to putter and make people wait obscene amounts of time for simple requests. He had a tendency to almost make you feel guilty about needing his services. Sandy took his job very seriously, and had no tolerance for fun and games.
Amidst his putzing and fettering away of our precious Vegas minutes, he took all of our licenses and examined them with the precision of an FBI agent.
To Jen, Ashley and Sammy, he made some elitist Jew joke that Shana and I could not comprehend and then smirked and pointed at us, "Goyim... they don't understand." In response, I asked Sandy if he wanted to go clubbing later and garnered a hysterical image of this fat man in a little suit rocking out at Tao and sweating shamelessly.
Eventually, Sandy gave us room keys (and we quickly found out that only one of them actually worked), and we began our whirlwind Friday night that, for me, ended in the food court of Caesar's Palace at 4 am shrugging off a broken dress strap and casually gnoshing on cheese fries off some stranger friend's plate. I guess we all have our moments.
The following morning, due to aforementioned cheese fries and most likely several pieces of pizza that I do not want to admit to, I did not feel all that awful and was ready to seize the day at the Tao Beach pool party.
Tao Beach was essentially the most exclusive frat party I have ever been to in my entire life. Unlike Rehab, which, personally I find overwhelming and commercial, Tao Beach is much more intimate. On this particular day, LMFAO was performing so naturally I texted Red Foo as I had met them outside of LAX a few months ago while waiting for blue shuttle bus. I guess even rockstars pinch pennies. Much to my dismay, Red Foo did not respond, but I had absolutely no time to sigh sadly as within moments we had joined the company of a bunch of little nuggets in bright pastel swim shorts. The head nugget, one who essentially had a shag rug taped to his chest, was the keeper of vodka and stood on top of the cabana bench so we could see eye to eye.
The nuggets were touchy little beasts but, overall, not unlike Lester who we would now never meet, they seemed relatively harmless and quite generous. This seemed to be the theme of the weekend: harmless, generous and just a little bit uncomfortable.
We would not see the end of harmless and generous throughout the weekend. After two long nights out, plenty of new stranger friends, two day long pool parties, we were headed for our final hours in Vegas. That is when we met Tito.
After moseying around Moon at the Palms/ taking advantage of ladies night champagne, we stumbled upon a table of decent looking fellows and I struck up conversation with a Mario Lopez replica in a white jacket.
"Oh hey," I said, "why don't you let me take the picture? That way you can be in it!" Nice goes a long way. the man flashed a smile. He looked even more like AC Slater, dimples and all.
Slater hopped in the picture, lithe as a gymnast and did a bit of a sorority squat. After the photo sesh, we introduced himself, "Tito," he said, pouring another drink. I told him my name and asked if his parents were fans of the Jacksons. Tito was not offended because, not unlike myself, he was more of a teller than a listener. He launched into a diatribe about his life. Within moments I learned that he was an architect from San Francisco, a cancer survivor, and Ayn Rand was his favorite author.
"Oh, I love Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead," I squealed. I am a dork and am always impressed when i meet any man who is relatively literate. It was quite possible Tito and I were soulmates.
Sadly, that dream died about thirty seconds later when "I got a feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas started bumping and I learned the dire truth: Tito was a clapper and looked like he was about to get on the soul train, white jacket and all. If there's one thing that I really dislike it's men who feel the need to clap while they dance. Suddenly I had visions of him hopping around in a Jackson 5 music video. Tito, in all his hot glory, was just another generous-harmless-awkward man out on the strip.
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