I love Vegas.

I love that Vegas is wrapped in a miasma of consumerism, vulgarity, and fake tits. Everything is fake. From the ersatz sky in Caesar’s Palace to the replicas of the Eiffel Tower and Brooklyn Bridge. I love that you see the same senior citizens at the same slot machine at all hours, gambling away their social security. I love the guidos in Armani Exchange shirts, collectively wearing so much hair gel that they are a sea of patent leather heads. I love the girls wearing their cleavage like it’s the new black. Or the morbidly obese who unapologetically wear string bikinis in public (I still demand an apology!) And I love all the families. “Hey, kids, today we’re gonna gamble away your college savings!” I love that they pay ten dollars to wait in a twenty minute line for the Eiffel Tower experience. I wanted to remind them, “Hey, you do know this isn’t the real Eiffel Tower, right?”

I love Vegas because it is designed to gratify your id. And with all the eating and drinking I accomplished this weekend, I am evidently stuck in the oral stage.

I flew to Vegas on Thursday morning for my friend Chelsea’s 30th birthday. (We met through my friend Sarah who is Prom Date’s sister. See all the connections?)

Chelsea is like a pint sized version of Karen from Will & Grace. She lives on the Upper East Side and has a tiny dog named Sylvie. If she could carry around a flask of champagne around her neck, she would, and probably has. She isn’t afraid to tell strangers to fuck off or fuck you or any derivative of the word fuck. She is awesome.

I met Sarah through my friend Prom Date. He always thought that the two of us would get along “swimmingly”. He is also the type of person that says “swimmingly” in the colloquial. Sarah and I became fast friends through our shared fondness for good food, strong drinks, and hot boys. She is usually the voice of reason, the fulcrum that centers me and Chelsea when we get off the ground. Sometimes literally.

The three of us hail from Florida. The three of us like to drink. And the three of us certainly like to eat. I don’t know what it is about people from the Sunshine State, but when we get together we like to party hardy.

Did I just say party hardy?

We stayed in a suite at The Bellagio. We had THREE bathrooms. There was so much space that Chelsea’s mother encouraged us to meet boys and bring them to our hotel room. (Unfortunately, I did not bring any boys because I don’t like dudes with patent leather heads!) There was also a mini fridge that housed an endless supply of champagne.

I never thought I would say this…

But I don’t think I can ever drink champagne again.

SERIOUSLY.

My piss is carbonated.

In the mornings, we’d wake up and have chocolates and champagne. A veritable breakfast of champions.

THURSDAY

Chelsea and Sarah have been in Vegas since Wednesday but I arrive a day later to give my liver a break.

I am appalled and awestruck by the ostenstatiousness of the Bellagio. I can’t even say the name without feeling extravagant. I am also amazed by how expensive everything is at the Bellaaaagioooo. A large cup of coffee is 5 bucks. ATM fees are 5 bucks as well. Going to Vegas is alot like going to Europe–sans culture, sans taste, sans everything.

The central tenet that I follow on vacation is to drink during the day. There is just something so naughty and indulgent about drinking during office hours. Luckily, drinking is de rigueur in Vegas. So I slip into my bikini, lounge by the pool,and sip on a pina colada.

By the way, can we just talk about how fucking HOT it is in the Vegas? When you get out of the pool you are instantly dry again. And half the time I couldn’t even tell if I was hot or just severely dehydrated. Probs both.

After swimming, we get ready for dinner.


In which I channel Annie Leibovitz

We have Chelsea’s birthday dinner at Picasso, chef Julian Serrano’s homage to French/Spanish cuisine and art. The restaurant is adorned in real Picassos. I had to make sure I didn’t accidentally spit food at the wall.


Oh, that old thing? Just an original Picasso behind me.


Dinner was unbelievable. I felt like I was a judge on Top Chef, feasting on amuse bouche, poached oysters with a confetti of caviar, and the most luscious veal. Dessert was an ode to chocolate and obesity.


After dinner

Later we walk over to Paris with Chelsea’s father and have champagne at the Eiffel Tower.

We finally come back to the hotel and I pass out around midnight, with dreams of champagne flutes in my head.

FRIDAY

We wake up and have breakfast:




Chelsea’s parents book a cabana for the day so we smuggle bottles of champagne and bring them to the pool.

Another tenet of vacations according to Jinius, is to do nothing as much as possible. It is such a luxury to waste time. It is also a luxury to read without interruption. I started reading The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (best! book! ever!) and nothing disrupted me except the occasional pause to drink champagne and flip over for my tan.

Ah, the perfect life. To be wrapped in nothing but sun and reverie.

We take a break from the sun for lunch at Cafe Bellagio. I order a red wine instead of champagne just to shake things up a little.


At the cafe

Later that night we go to Caesar’s Palace for the Elton John Concert. The concert tickets came with three red boas and glasses of champagne signed by Sir Elton (or his assistant). So we don our feather boas and walk through the hotel. I have never received more catcalls and stares in my life. Guys would just yell “Hellooooo, ladies.” I mean, a homeless man could have pissed into a fountain and no one would have noticed because they were too busy commenting on our boas.


The concert was amazing. I never realized how much I liked Elton John. Or maybe I never realized how much I liked Elton John with a gallon of champagne in my system.

After the concert, we meet up with Chelsea’s parents for dinner at the Palm. I manage to make room in my stomach for calamari, crab cakes, lobster and cheese cake. It is a Herculean feat but I manage.

Then the three of us go to the casino and play slots. I lose twenty bucks. Drats.

So this creepy dude comes up to us and says, “Hey, I’m not a creepy stalker or anything but…” and then he proceeds to list all the places he saw us that night.

Okay…

First of all, anyone who prefaces their statement with “I’m not a creepy stalker but…” is usually, for the most part, A CREEPY STALKER.

Second of all, if you’re convincing someone you’re not a stalker, I would advise against describing their exact coordinates throughout the evening.

Chelsea claims that when the dude started talking, I literally turned up my nose and ignored him. I know, I know, I should be nicer to strangers but I have to draw the line at creepy stalkers. Boundaries, people, boundaries!

So this dude continues to hit on Chelsea even though she is clearly evading him and playing the slot machine. He finally goes away when Chelsea tells him that we’re in Vegas celebrating her bachelorette party. So we lied. But everything in Vegas is fake anyway.

We are in the mood for more creepy guys so we navigate the hotel to find a good bar. Chelsea insists that we go to this one bar called Fontanas. But if Chelsea likes it, it is practically guaranteed that no one else will. For starters, there was a live Latin band playing Sexyback. I don’t think you need a second reason to avoid it.

We finally decide to go to this club called The Bank.

Now, I’ve been to plenty of clubs in New York and they are usually a meat market. But a Las Vegas club is more like a shark tank. The desperation for pussy is so palpable that you have to flee in the opposite direction of every guy you encounter. Swim away! They smell fear!

At the club, Chelsea is amazed that Sarah and I can dance to the floor. So I teach her how to take it the ground and back. Except Chelsea takes it to the ground but can’t come back.

So Chelsea eventually masters dancing to the floor and I’m as proud as an Olympic coach watching her protege. See, you never know what you will learn at 30!

This dude comes up to me and asks for a cigarette. He looks like the poor man’s version of the hot bartender who is the poor man’s version of Mark Ruffalo. So this dude is like the third world version of Mark Ruffalo. Hey, at least there’s a Mark Ruffalo in there somewhere! Anyway, I don’t continue the conversation because in Vegas do you have a cigarette is another way of saying can I cum in your mouth?

We leave the club after some bumpin’ and grindin’ and head back to our room. But not without making a pit stop at a bar for more drinks. This is what I love about Vegas. You never have to leave your hotel and you can walk around with an open container.

SATURDAY

I wake up and find Chelsea passed out on the couch with a full glass of champagne beside her. It seems that she has made herself a liquid breakfast only to pass out before drinking it.

Sarah decides to be healthy and goes for a jog.

I go downstairs, order a $5 coffee, and read my book. Yes, I go to Vegas so I can read.

Then I go to the pool and order a beer. Yes, beer is my first meal of the day.

Tangent: It is difficult to get drunk in Vegas, which–given my laughably low alcohol tolerance and Vegas’ reputation of Sin City–seems paradoxical. My conjecture is that all the food mitigates the effects of alcohol. Or maybe you are in such a permanent state of champagne haze that you wouldn’t know sobriety if it pissed all over you.

The girls come down and we order some frozen drinks and more food.

Because we are eating epicurean treats, we embark on a conversation about dropping deuces and how vacations tend to disrupt these movements. But not for me. I’m unbelievably regular. I’m like a Swiss watch!

That evening we meet up with some friends who are also in Vegas and go to Todd English’s Olives Restaurant for dinner.


Dessert


Group Shot


Flanked by an angel and a devil

Then we go to Caramel for some dancing.



Chelsea gets into a confrontation with some Southern woman at the bar. I forget how it ensues but Chelsea tries to order a drink at the bar, the woman says something to her, Chelsea tells her to fuck off or fuck you or some derivative of fuck, and then the next thing I know the woman tells Chelsea she will fuck her up.

I have a premonition that things will get ugly.

Sarah and I try to defuse the situation and say something along the lines of “Oh, it’s her 30th birthday” and then run away. Love ya like a sister!

We end the night back at our hotel room.


Chelsea ends the night on the floor.

It is about 3 A.M. and I am ready to pass out. Drinking for ten hours will somehow do that to you. Even in my half sleep, I can hear an intoxicated Chelsea singing (or maybe it was screaming) at the top of her lungs. And then I feel the warmth of a blanket over me and I hear Chelsea say, “You have to stay warm.”

And then she goes back to singing/screaming at the top of her lungs.

Apparently when I passed out, I missed the part when people were dancing on the tables in our hotel room. I always miss everything!

Then I wake up at 5 A.M. and catch my flight.

One last glance of the hotel room before I leave.

On my flight back to New York, I am slightly sad to leave Vegas. For a weekend you can pretend you’re big pimpin’. For a weekend you can pretend you don’t have a drinking problem. For a weekend you don’t have to do anything but fulfill your gluttonous desires.

Yet I am fucking exhausted. Who knew that being a glutton could be so tiring?