Last weekend, I was in Las Vegas to celebrate and partake in the blessed wedding nuptials of my dear friends, Ricardos and F-Bomb. Throughout the journey, I took partial, haphazard notes in hopes of retaining at least some of our experiences. These are those (elaborated) notes…
MAY 24, 2012
I finish packing just in time for the cab’s arrival outside my house. F-Bomb and Ricardos greet me with weary hellos. They look tired and stressed out. I decide not to comment.
I was forced to forego a shower due to a time crunch on account of hitting the snooze button five too many times. Hopefully, my lack of bathing will not prove offensive to those seated near to me on the plane. I’m not overly concerned; I applied deodorant as a hasty afterthought.
A-Bomb, the fourth member of our group (and F-Bomb’s maid of honor), meets us at the airport, promptly realizes that she has left one of her bags in her father’s car after he dropped her off, and calls for him to swing back around to drop it off.
We shake hands. I can tell we will get along famously.
I get groped all over the place by airport security. Apparently, short, hairy Irish-looking guys give off a strong terrorist vibe. I’m nonplussed, but I endure the abuse.
There is an issue with storing the wedding dress aboard the plane, which leaves F-Bomb worked up. The rest of us decide to cope with bloody marys at the airport’s Great Dane restaurant.
“Would you like to add another shot for an extra $2.00?” the bartender asks us as we sit down.
The four of us unanimously agree that an extra shot would be a pretty terrific idea.
I find my seat aboard the plane, which is sandwiched between two delightful old ladies. One of the ladies offers me a cookie. I happily oblige, expressing my gratitude.
Fact: Grandmas fucking love me.
We begin our two hour layover in Denver at the airport’s Denver Chophouse. The food is good, despite the fact that our table is damn-near in the kitchen. I am not bothered because I am famished, and all the coffee I’ve had up until this point has begun to erode my already temperamental stomach lining.
My father would be far from pleased with being seated in such close proximity to the kitchen and would undoubtably have requested another table–a situation that occurs all too frequently when I dine out with him and my dear mother. Apparently, the Hunt family is forever doomed to be relegated to the worst table in the restaurant.
When asked by our server whether we’d like to make our respective beverages doubles for a nominal up-charge, we collectively answer, “Why the hell not.”
Clearly, this is becoming a trend.
With over an hour until our next flight is scheduled to leave, we find ourselves at the Mesa Verde Smoking Lounge. We are seated as far away from the smokers as possible lest any of the fumes cling to the wedding dress.
“But it’s got a protective covering,” say Ricardos, indicating the cocoon-like garment bag the dress is enclosed in.
F-Bomb’s glare is response enough.
Upon being notified that half of our group of four was to be wed on the morrow, we are rewarded by the staff with a complementary round of Jägermeister shots. It is heartily decided that we will milk the wedding thing for all it is worth.
Whilst at our gate, waiting to board the plane, a huge, tough-looking black dude strolls by us, loudly whistling “Let’s Hear It For the Boy.” Which is hilarious for more reasons than I can count.
After successfully checking into the Mirage, the girls promptly begin wiping down everything in the room with disinfectant wipes.
I throw some of my shit into a drawer and call the bed closest to the window.
The girls head to their appointment at the spa. We agree to meet up with them at 8:00, giving Ricardos and I a little over three hours for an impromptu bachelor party.
“Strip club?” I offer.
“Ricardos,” says Ricardos, “at this time of day, we’d be exposed to nothing but scars and stretch marks.”
“And boobs,” I remind Ricardos. “But maybe we should just go drinking.”
We both take a photo of our room number with our respective telephones before leaving.
Just in case.
Ricardos and I belly up to the first bar we find, a joint called Japonais, and order two Knob Creek and sodas. I put down a twenty to pay for the round. Twenty dollars does not, in fact, cover the round.
“We’re not in Wisconsin anymore, Ricardos,” informs Ricardos.
I feel like a bumpkin of sorts.
Up until this point, Ricardos and I had been keeping a tally of the various ‘whoas’ as they were encountered, but we decide that Las Vegas just has too many ‘whoas’ to count. We both consider this situation a good thing.
“Does that sign across the street at the Flamingo say ‘$3.00 Beers’, Ricardos?” asks Ricardos as we’re cruising the Strip.
“Good eye, Ricardos. Let’s investigate this further.”
Once at the Corner Bar, Ricardos and I decide it will be funny to indulge in a Leine’s Summer Shandy.
“It’s actually not that bad,” I cautiously admit.
“You’re kind of right, Ricardos.”
“Let us never speak of this again.”
We each purchase a Foster’s for the road.
We discover $20 buckets of Pabst Blue Ribbon at the Rock Bar and settle in for a bit as things start getting fuzzy.
Ricardos and I find the girls at the Revolution Lounge, whereupon I am served whiskey by a girl in a truly gravity-defying corset.
“Oh my god, Ricardos,” I whisper at one point, leaning over to Ricardos.
“Stop it, Ricardos. I’m married.”
“Not yet you’re not.”
Reservations back at Japonais. I’m pretty tuned up but am managing to keep it together. Mostly.
The future groom opts to cook his own dinner at our table upon a really, really hot rock. Because that’s the Asian way.
We’ve been out at various locations for hours.
A-Bomb and I are bellied up at Rhumbar, drinking whiskey and Jäger bombs after the soon-to-be bride and groom have retired for the evening. The Jäger bombs are completely unnecessary.
We are throwing twenties into the bar-top poker game like they are Pez candies, and we are not winning.