We're Not For Everyone (Days 3 and 4)

[Click here for Day 2]

Sunday, March 23rd
I didn’t—and still don’t—remember much from the tail end of Saturday night, but I quickly knew food had played a central role. A box from a pizza Hurley had ordered sat on the dresser, two still-wrapped kielbasa sandwiches sat on the floor where MoFo had slept (next to the towel he’d used for warmth), and the Hurley-eating-someone’s-room-service-leftovers story was getting full play in the morning briefing.

Trip informed us that we were each up $150 from betting on tourney games, with Sunday’s games yet to come. You mean I could potentially spend three days drinking myself stupid in Raleigh, and come home richer than I’d left? I felt like Shoeless Joe Jackson emerging from the corn on Ray Kinsella’s farm.

“Is this heaven?”
“No. It’s Raleigh.”

Like the day before, MoFo had left before any of us awoke. But this time, he wouldn’t be striding triumphantly through the door with pizzas. We were left to handle Raleigh without a host for a while. So what do four hungover guys from out of town do on the Sunday morning of a four-day roadtrip/bender? They go to brunch, of course.

We shuffled down the street and into The Oxford, where a cute redheaded hostess looked at us and did her best to stifle a laugh. How dare she? We got ourselves a table and drinks, and then headed toward the buffet to avenge her disrespect with waffles and bacon. And barbecue—sweet, sweet, North Carolina barbecue. Vengeance is delicious.

We also met our waitress, a buxom lass of dark brown curls named Tanya, who had no idea what she was in for when she strapped on her (overworked) suspenders that morning. She was two D-cupped scoops of cuteness, and gave us something to look at and bounce jokes off of as a means of distracting ourselves from our hangovers.

Tanya: “So what are you guys celebrating?”
Me: “Friendship.”

By then MoFo had caught up with us, and all five of us watched Kansas go down in flames, along with our winning streak. So much for going home up on the weekend. Might as well drink it off.

I’d started with mimosas—it was brunch, after all—but had switched to Vodka Red Bulls. Hurley tried to find himself with Captain & Cokes. MoFo and T.C. pounded beers. Sitting to my left, Trip may have looked like he was ahead of all of us, but it was mostly an attempt to rehydrate. In the first 45 minutes that we were there, he seemed to order every drink available on and off their menu, most of them non-alcoholic.

Tanya loved us. Her phone number would be MoFo’s trophy.

We went back to the hotel room to regroup. We knew we wanted to go to the Mercer/Tennessee game that afternoon. We didn’t have tickets, but we’d figure that out once we got to PNC Arena. While we meditated on it all, MoFo ate the two leftover street meat sandwiches.

We hopped into a hotel van, and pointed the driver towards Backyard Bistro. It’s a happy little sports bar & grill, situated (literally) across the street from the arena. We made our way to the bar in the center of the establishment, which was a bigger accomplishment than it may sound. The building was packed with Mercer and Tennessee fans, with a few University of Virginia folks sprinkled about. Each of us ordered a Vodka Red Bull double. The time for fucking around had passed.

Hurley, T.C. and I negotiated tabs and multiple drink orders. While we did, MoFo and Trip found two new blonde friends: Barb and Whitney were two dots of Mercer pride in a sea of U of T illiteracy. Whitney had caught our eyes, and her engagement ring came along for the ride—as did Barb. But fun is fun, and these two southern ladies were fun. They played Heads Up with Trip and MoFo, did shots with us, chanted Mercer fight songs, and kicked it with us for hours.

Eventually, someone amongst us who wasn’t petite, female, and from Georgia made the executive decision that attending the game wasn’t going to happen for those of us who weren’t petite, female, and from Georgia. It might’ve had something to do with us still not having tickets 30 minutes before game time. Or maybe it was because MoFo started beef with Tennessee fans by chanting taunts in response to their fight songs. Maybe.

When Barb and Whitney left us to go witness their alma mater’s moment in the spotlight, we called the hotel van. Did we ask the driver to take us to the Marriott? Never! We had him take us back to Big Mike’s BBQ, and our cute Saturday pal, Jacqui.

We got ourselves a table and some drinks, and fell back into old habits. Drinks, drinks, drinks, shots, drinks, shots, drinks. Standard. Jacqui wasn’t working tables that night, though, and appeared to be off-duty. Eventually, a few of us sat down at the bar, and began BS’ing with the cute blonde bartender. We offered to buy her a shot.

Cute Blonde Bartender: “Thanks, but I’ll pass. We just had a waitress get fired last night for that. She came into work drunk, and then this table full of guys from out of town started buying her shots. She was hammered. She told off the manager, and he fired her ass on the spot.”
Us: “Wha…” *looking at each other*
Cute Blonde Bartender: *looks at us* “…it was you guys, wasn’t it?”

Well, that’s awkward.

I’ve often thought that the whole “the customer’s always right” reasoning was unfair, and here was a sterling example. We offered her free shots, but she got punished, for making us—her customers—happy. That just feels sadistic. [If, by any strange chance, you’re reading this, Jacqui, allow me to apologize for whatever role we played in your change of employment. I hope you landed on your feet. I’ll be happy to cover you for a night of drinking with us if you hit me up in the comments.]

We mourned Jacqui’s career at Big Mike’s by…continuing to drink at Big Mike’s (sorry Jacqui). And before long we had two new party guests: Tanya and her roommate. Our favorite brunch waitress had taken up MoFo on his offer to have a few drinks and let her hair down. She had also let her suspenders down. So, really, I guess that made four new party guests.

Tanya’s roommate was attractive—and insane. I mean, really insane. I tried to listen to one of her stories, and found myself spinning through time like a Twilight Zone inhabitant. She was one of the prettiest women from whom I’ve ever actively tried to distance myself.

I’ll be honest; I started browning out around this point. Sometimes it’s best to just let the good times carry you. The memories I do have play like a soundtrack-fueled movie montage, full of scenes like sitting at the bar, and talking to Cute Blonde Bartender; an old drunk mouthing off, to the point where Trip—Drunk Trip, who’s one of the friendliest and most affable people on the planet—raised up and made him leave the bar; and laughing with friends while debating things loudly.

…I don’t know how we got to a strip club, though. Fucking brown outs.

I came back to consciousness as we walked into a club of stripping, the familiar tones of darkened rooms, pulsating music, and soft, neon blue lighting greeting me like I’d stumbled into an old friend in a new town. I was with T.C. and Hurley; we’d left MoFo and Trip with Tanya and her crazy ass roommate. As we found chairs in a giant room filled with small stages and comfortable seating, all I could truly understand was that I didn’t want to be there.

My DGAF had returned.

I’d like to offer some deeply thought out treatise on why I wasn’t the slightest bit enthused about being in a club full of beautiful, naked women. I don’t have one. My boys were into the moment, and eager to watch Raleigh’s finest ply their trade. But all I could focus on was being somewhere else.

I walked out to the front door, and asked the bouncers to call me a cab. Like true homies, Hurley and T.C. were right behind me, sacrificing their night to make sure I wasn’t voyaging off alone in my (obviously) inebriated state. They’re great friends. They’re also stupid. But they’re great (stupid) friends. We cabbed back to the hotel, and I passed out before my head hit the pillow.


Monday, March 24th
If there’s one thing that sucks about a road trip, it’s the last day. Every part of it is a kick to your psyche’s crotch. That’s especially true if a hangover is involved, because it doesn’t really hit full stride until you’re on the road; so, as a result, the anticipation torments you while you’re getting yourself ready to go home that morning. You’d swear you could hear the firing squad load their rifles.

I hated every moment of showering and packing. I didn’t want to say goodbye to Raleigh. It is, after all, part of my family’s heritage. My father was born just down the road in Rhamkatte, and I’ve spent numerous family reunions in the area, taking in the Carolina hospitality and running rampant through the red clay woodlands. Ironically, my pops had called me on Friday afternoon, when we had just reached the city limits. When I told him where I was, he asked if I’d be checking in with any of our family members who live in the area.

Me: “…No.”
Dad: “…Okay then.”

I love my family, but this wasn’t a weekend for anything as responsible as reconnecting with relatives. This was a guys’ weekend: four men on a road trip, casting aside every worry and responsibility that saddles them the other 361 days of the year. Five friends with varying relationship statuses and claims on their personal time, taking hold of one of the few chances we’re given to be young(-ish) and stupid again. This was a time to be selfish, and to revel in that selfishness.

And revel we had.

But oh, that return leg of a road trip. It’s nauseating, even without the hangover. With the hangover, it’s pure hell. No amount of McDonalds, Gatorade, snacks, bottles of water, or reassessments of past decisions can get you to where you’re going faster. The only thing that takes your mind off the travel, for brief moments of respite, is rehashing the tales you’ve just lived in the previous 80 hours. It tricks the mind—however briefly—into thinking the good times are still rolling, that you’re not trapped in an SUV hundreds of miles from your couch and TV.

During one of those moments of postgame analysis, somewhere in Hour Four of the drive, I hit upon a realization: We’d heavily impacted the service industry in Raleigh, for better or worse. Bartenders charmed. Waitresses fired. Pockets fattened. Wet Pussies tasted. Boobs creep-shot. Lives shared. Nerves tested.

With a shake of his head, and a brief pause of self-reflection, T.C. wrapped a bow on it: “We’re not for everyone.”

Kang like T.I.—But in the Chi? Daffy (Pt. 3)

[Continuing on from where we left Part 2...]

Saturday, March 1st
I awoke after 8:30 and rolled over to see TJ lying on the other half of the air mattress, looking through something on his phone. “They may call off the game, because of the [approaching] storm.” I responded with a barely intelligible “Oh yeah?” I’d almost drifted back to sleep when the meaning of what he’d said hit me. “WHAT?”

Since he was the first one up, TJ cleaned up and then headed out to Wrigleyville to catch up with Weatherman while the rest of us slowly pulled ourselves together. Fire, showing true Chirish hospitality, had coffee and doughnuts waiting for us. And though he didn’t have aspirin or Advil, he had vitamin packs that he said would help replenish our systems. I wasn’t going to question it. In the state I was in, he could’ve handed me a rolled up twenty and said the lines of white powder on a small mirror were a healthy aspirin alternative, and I would’ve accepted it without contest.

Before we left I added a can of Mountain Dew Kickstart and a shot of Milagro Tequila. Hashtag: “Chicago Breakfast.” Leggo!

We cabbed it to Goose Island Wrigleyville, where Tennessee and his girl were with some friends of theirs. A waitress showed us to a table upstairs, and before we had even sat down, TJ, Weatherman, and GG walked in. They hadn’t even known we were there; the synchronicity of booze-loving minds is amazing. Our party of 11 ordered up beers and food. When Swag suggested mimosas, Weatherman and I were game. When the waitress came back over to us, he and I each ordered one. Swag ordered two.

As we ate, drank, and loudly debated various ramblings, Alex texted some of us to tell us she and E-Bomb were on their way. Nearly an hour later, they still weren’t there. When I casually looked over my shoulder in the direction of the stairway to see if they’d arrived, I instead saw a familiar stocky blonde guy in a Penguins tee striding towards us. It was Dupa.

“WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU COME FROM?!”

…When I glanced around at the tables of bewildered diners staring at us, I abruptly remembered that being in public requires a tad more decorum.

My unfiltered reaction, though, was caused by the fact that our Polish homie had kept his planned attendance a secret from everyone but TJ. He’d played it up brilliantly the day before, repeatedly commenting on all of our Facebook check-ins, pictures, and statuses about the trip with the same one-word response: “Stupid.”

Alex and Ed finally caught up with us, and shared their tales of running around Boystown the night before. Among those accounts was one about Alex getting taken to the wrong hotel by her cab driver. I laughed heartily. (Remember that later…) Dupa worked on getting caught up, asking the waitress for a beer and a menu item named the “Black Earth Burger,” which he instead called a “[D.E.F.I.] Burger.” She gave him a blank stare, since she didn’t know my name, and the joke had sailed over her head. I laughed heartily some more. He also asked for poutine style fries; when we got our bill later, the final entry on our list of damages was, “POUTINE THE FRIES.” At that point, Chicago was starting to feel like my spirit animal.

We moved the party across the street to Sluggers. There we met a cute waitress with a spectacular bottom, Fire’s buddy German, and a phenomenon called Old Style. While the rest of us ordered up various drinks of credible pedigree (Vodka Red Bull for moi) and rounds of shots, Dupa ordered a pounder of the Chicago delight that was—and probably always is—on special just down the road from Wrigley Field. The look of anguish on his face as he tasted it was really brutal, as a friend. I almost didn’t laugh at him. …Heartily.

When Swag returned from the batting cages on the second floor (yes, really), we introduced him to a guy in the bar wearing a University of Miami hat. You see, Swag is an impassioned Florida State fan, who bristles at the mere mention of “The U.” So while this guy meant no harm and jokingly chided him about their differing collegiate affiliations, Swag was seething with rage over someone daring to wear Miami gear. You know...here in Chicago, the land of FSU. (Don’t try to find the logic. The rest of us gave up years ago.)

The NHL officially stated that the game would go on as planned, so those of us staying at Fire’s—including Dupa—cabbed it back to that location, so we could fortify ourselves for the weather we were going to endure in the stands. For me, that meant a thermal shirt, Pens t-shirt and tossle cap, gloves, and heavier socks being added to my standard attire. When someone asked Dupa, who had come from 70 degree temps in Houston, what he had brought in preparation, he said, “Ski tech.” I did not laugh heartily; I muttered jealously.

Fire poured us out shots (more Milagro for me), and the seven of us toasted to the night ahead.

The plan was to use the Hilton Chicago, where TJ and Fire’s boy Kerrigan had a room, as a base camp. It was within walking distance of Soldier Field, making it a perfect place to meet up before and after the game. Those of us who had clothing more comfortable to wear in a bar took our bags to the hotel, so we could change following the game. Everyone squared away their (physical) baggage in Kerrigan’s room, and we hit the hotel bar. …Well, most of us did. Dupa made a quick pit stop in a lobby bathroom to vomit. Old Style’d.

Count this as the first—and, in all likelihood, last—time I ever have to wait in line to get into a hotel bar. The place was packed to the limits of the fire code with Penguin and Blackhawk fans trying to numb themselves up before the Lake Michigan winds could. I downed a couple of Miller Lites in an effort to do the same, but it just wasn’t working. Try as I might, I just couldn’t fight off the effects of soberness. I even switched to a Jack & Coke. Nada. Damn it.

It wasn’t helping that we were standing right next to an emergency exit, which people were regularly using to give themselves a more direct route to the stadium. Each time they did, Chicago’s “Windy City” reputation reached into the bar and punched each of us in the balls. Swag was clearly getting fed up, and when a round middle-aged guy in a Hawks jersey headed for the doors, our buddy asked mockingly, “Where ya goin’?”

“Uhh…the museum,” was the smart ass response he got (and probably deserved), as the guy continued on his way outside and met up with a friend standing on the sidewalk. Unable to handle not getting the best of this stranger, Swag fired one last salvo; he cracked open the door, stuck his bald head out into the pounding winds, and yelled, “FUCK YOUR MUSEUM, BRO!”

TJ and a few others had waited until the last minute to throw on their heavier gear, so while they went upstairs to do that, Canada and I each downed a Jack & Coke at the bar. After the drink we wandered out into the lobby, waiting to meet up with everyone. It seems the hotel was hosting a formal event of some sort, as men in tuxes and women in expensive dresses sauntered past us and up to a ballroom. Maybe it’s a good thing I couldn’t get drunk. Otherwise I might’ve let them have it for thinkin’ they were better’n me.

By this point, the blizzard had moved into the area and had put down about a half foot of snow. Our black, gold, and red battalion marched dutifully toward Soldier Field, with Canada bringing up the rear in boots so worn that they had no tread. Not ideal for the conditions, to say the least.

Kerrigan, his wife, Cap, TJ, Dupa, Swag, Canada, and I were all seated together in the next-to-last row of the stadium. The wind was coming from left to right, pelting us with snow and dragging it across our face like icy razor blades. And we were loving it, thanks to our adrenaline—and the hand warmers that Cap passed out. I probably would’ve loved it even more if I had been drunk and not feeling as much of it as I was, of course. But the atmosphere in the stadium was electric, and unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. People weren’t just excited to see their teams play; they were excited about the game. The moment captivated all. Have you ever attained consciousness during a dream, where you understand that it’s just a dream, and felt the calming peace of knowing nothing can harm you, nothing can be taken from you? For at least a brief moment, 63,000 people dreamt that dream together.

After the first period, we had our first casualties. Dupa announced that he was soaked through, and had to leave. Apparently Mr. I-live-in-the-third-world-heat-of-Houston-now had decided against wearing the outer shell of his ski tech. Stupid.

Swag went with him, as they told us they’d wait for us at the Hilton bar. Canada and I got more beers. At the second intermission, more casualties. Tennessee and his girl abandoned their seats on the other side of the stadium, and Canada abandoned ours. I waited in line for 20 minutes to get into the men’s room, and then got more beer.

As the third period got underway, my lack of thermal underwear (not that I don’t own them, I just didn’t bring them; looking back I have no clue why) meant my thighs were frozen. As was my beer, which had turned into a Bud Light slushy. TJ asked if I wanted to bail, too. Hell no. I was the only one of my Pittsburgh brethren still standing. The Pens were being easily handled on the ice, and I knew I was going to have to hear about it for the rest of the weekend. I would’ve amputated my own frostbitten leg before I would’ve handed Blackhawks fans an opportunity to add material about Pittsburghers not being able to handle Chicago weather to their impending stand-up comedy set list.

With five minutes left, the stadium PA alerted all that the north gates—which we’d come through—would be closed after the final whistle while postgame fireworks were set off. That was all the nudge we needed, and the five of us remaining in our group jumped up and headed down the long staircase to the concourse.

Cap, somehow, assumed the role of our group’s navigator as we walked from the stadium. I didn’t realize it at first, but he had not been our navigator when we walked to the stadium. This would be a bit of a problem; we quickly found ourselves in a part of Grant Park that I hadn’t seen three hours earlier. As we began crossing a field with our sights trained on the distant lights of the Hilton’s block of Michigan Avenue, I suddenly felt my foot slip on a hard surface as I planted it in the snow. “Odd,” I thought. “Why would grass be icy?” After a few more steps, I distinctly heard the sound of ice cracking.

“Wait…what are we walking on?” I got no responses. “AYO! ARE WE WALKING OVER WATER RIGHT NOW?!”

TJ: “I mean…technically it’s not water right now…”

Apparently, these four white Chicagoans found my sudden murderous rage very comical. I failed to agree. (The next day, TJ would explain that we had merely been on a retention pond, and the water below us wasn’t more than four feet deep. But for all I knew that night, I was walking across Lake Michigan.)

Once back at the Hilton, we caught up with Weatherman, GG, and their boys in the lobby. The line to get into the hotel bar had doubled, as had Weatherman and GG’s level of intoxication. Once it thawed some I was able to turn on my phone, which had shut down in the cold of the stadium. Swag and Canada finally responded to our texts, informing us that they had gone back to Tennessee’s room at the Courtyard Marriott instead of the Hilton where we were all supposed to be. Yayy… I went up to Kerrigan’s room and retrieved my bag. When I came back downstairs, Weatherman and GG had already departed for the Marriott. TJ, Fire, and the rest of their people were going to go to dinner in the area. I decided to catch a cab to the Marriott.

As we parted ways, TJ and Fire told me to tell the cabbie I wanted to go to “the Marriott River North.” I recited that phrase over and over in my head, as I stood in a very long and slow-moving line at the cab stand. It took almost 45 minutes for me to finally get into a cab. “Marriott River North,” came out of my mouth aboard a sigh of relief.

The roads in Chicago weren’t exactly clear, and even though my cabbie was driving a small SUV, he slipped and struggled in a few places as he carried me across the city. I could just feel the bemused gods toying with the idea of getting the cab stuck in the snow, and stranding me in the middle of a giant, foreign city. When we got to the Marriott I felt my shoulders relax for the first time in hours, and I started putting together thoughts on how to get myself back on the righteous path to drunkenness.

Swag had texted while I was in the cab, and told me he, Canada, Dupa, and Tennessee were in room 1225. I found my way to the 12th floor, but was at a loss when the door numbers on the odd side of the hallway went from 1219 to 1227. I retraced my steps; the rooms on the even side were all there: 1220, 1222, 1224, 1226… The fuck?

I dialed up Swag.

Swag: “Yo.”
Me: “What room did you say you were in?”
Swag: “1225.”
Me: “Why don’t I see it?”
Swag: “What?”
Me: “Man, I’m looking at these room numbers, and there’s no 1225. The rooms go to like 1219, then there’s nothing on that side again ‘til like 1227.”
Swag: “I’m pretty positive it’s 1225.”
Me: “I’m standing outside of 1224.”
Swag: “Well, I’m standing in the hallway looking at 1224, and I don’t see you, sooo…”

I was in the wrong Marriott.

There’s frustration, and then there’s being sober and alone in a new city you know nothing about, with a phone with a dying battery, barely defrosted from three hours of watching your favorite hockey team get embarrassed in an 8°F snowstorm and another 45 minutes of waiting for a cab in an 8°F snowstorm, carrying a duffel bag like you got lost on your way home from a rec league game, wandering through hotel hallways fantasizing about a magical liquid that eases the pain and makes you forget bad experiences, only to learn that the hotel you were dropped off at isn’t the one you wanted to go to.

There wasn’t a single person or thing on the planet that I didn’t want to strangle the life out of.

Google Maps was the first to get back into my good graces. If only that cabbie had heard of it. It informed me that the Chicago Marriott Downtown Magnificent Mile, where I was taken, was only 0.3 miles from the Courtyard (Marriott) Chicago River North, where I was going. I started walking, and along the way shot off a text to TJ: “I hate your city right now.”

My rage subsided when I finally reached Marriott room 1225, and found everyone having a quiet conversation while Dupa slept (*sigh* Houston makes you sofff). Weatherman and GG’s room was just down the hall. I stopped by to share my tale and found GG ready for bed, while Weatherman was making himself Makers & Cokes.

Swag, Canada, Dupa, and I formed a new plan. It was around midnight. We’d cab it back to Fire’s, drop off Dupa and my bag, and go get properly drunk in Old Town. We went out to the street to hail a cab. It would be another hour-plus before one finally stopped for us. All I heard in my head while we waited was, “Man, fuck this town.”

Eventually, while we were repeatedly failing to flag down a cab, two cars approaching the intersection collided…somehow. We hadn’t been watching, but they suddenly pulled over across the street from us. A furious young brother hopped out of the trailing car. I can only guess that the other driver had changed lanes into him, maybe. He yelled at the other car as he approached it. I reveled in someone feeling the same anger that I’d felt for most of the night, and waited for a gun to be pulled. Then he yelled for his girlfriend, in the passenger seat, to call the cops. So much for murder. “Man,” I groaned. “I was hoping I’d get to see a homicide. Would’ve made this whole night worth it.”

Back at Fire’s, we shared our various miseries with the Chicago boys, who couldn’t fathom the issues we’d run into with taxi service. They hadn’t had any trouble getting cabs all night. We were all too cold and tired to bother going back out to the bars. I sat in Fire’s recliner sober and angry, and realized I hadn't even had dinner that night.

Man, fuck this town.

[To be continued...]

Viva Las Vegas: Fear & Loathing

The first day of the trip (10/5) was, in fact, Dupa’s birthday. Our 6:20 a.m. departure had us groggily trudging through the Pittsburgh International Airport with a muted sense of anticipation. Really, how excited can you get for an orgy when you’re barely able to keep even your eyelids up? “If we look like this now,” I thought, “what the hell are we going to look like when we come back?”

Thankfully it was a direct flight. While T.C. snoozed a few rows back, Dupa and I alternated between states of reading, sleeping, and shrinking patience. By 9 a.m. Pittsburgh time we were nearly at our destination; Dupa looked at me and said “Jack & diet?” Why not? He pushed the flight attendant call button, and shortly thereafter we each had a surprisingly-strong plastic cup of party on the tray table in front of us. As we snapped pictures of our respective drinks (right), the older guy in the aisle seat next to me muttered, “That’s trouble.” Oh, if you only knew sir.

Once we were on the ground, the giddy schoolchildren inside of us took over. Facebook and Twitter updates were launched, announcing our arrival. Jokes were cracked back and forth as we claimed our bags and waited for a shuttle to the Planet Hollywood Resort & Casino. Suggestions about where to go for breakfast, where to gamble, and where to lose all hope of ever going back to Pittsburgh were all tossed around. We were kids in the admission line to an amusement park, competing over which rollercoasters we were going to ride first.

We arrived at the hotel around 8 a.m.; being well ahead of the check-in time, we left our bags with the bellhop and headed to Pampas Brazilian Grille for a steak and egg breakfast. Dupa washed down his breakfast with a Bloody Mary, which was one of the restaurant’s two morning drink specials. I chose to go with their other special: a mimosa. I was on vacation, after all. And feeling fancy, damn it. …Fight me.

As we wrapped up the meal, we each ordered a Shock Top draught for the road, drinking them down as we strolled through the Miracle Mile Shops. [If only all malls were void of open container laws. Can you imagine how much greater Christmas shopping would be? Black Friday would be one big kegger. Picture handing your mother a box on Christmas morning, and neither one of you has any clue as to what might be in there. Is it a blouse? Is it a piece of Sbarro pizza with a bite taken out of it?] We thought about cruising the Strip, but the unseasonably cool weather (low 60s) and overcast skies encouraged us to limit our exploration to the lands within the Planet Hollywood. And there was plenty to see. The casino floor is a purple, pink, and black playground, with slot machines, blackjack tables, roulette wheels, and TVs playing promos for Holly Madison’s “Peepshow” everywhere you look. Cocktail waitresses and “Pleasure Pit” dealers, dressed in bustiers, hot pants, and thigh high boots, patrol the grounds to catch any male eyes still standing after that onslaught, before they can stray towards the elevators. The poker room—really just a roped-off section of floor real estate—was the closest the PH came to disappointing me, but even it beckoned like a half-naked siren.

In the last year, Dupa has nurtured a blackjack obsession, starting with online play and then moving to the Rivers’ video blackjack games and low stakes tables. He found a $15 table on the PH floor that seemed to have his name on it, and changed in for $300 worth of chips. T.C. and I watched a few hands before realizing that neither of us planned on joining him at the table; T.C. suggested we find two open seats and video blackjack games at The Heart Bar, and I readily agreed. Free booze while you play—suck it Pennsylvania and West Virginia gaming laws! $20 in a machine meant we were drinking on the house, and my vodka tonics were like little reminders coming every ten minutes to say, “Hey, good for you; you made the right choice. You are very intelligent, and an exceptional human being. And have I told you how charming and handsome you are?” …Did I mention I was going through one every ten minutes?

After a short while, T.C. wandered off to the men’s room, but soon came back with Dupa. “Cashed out; I’m up $700,” the birthday boy said, grinning from ear-to-ear like a Cheshire Cat.

We played a bit more, slugging drinks and blinkingly taking in our surroundings, still in shock to be in Vegas. I took repeated breaks from the electronic blackjack cards to watch a sugar daddy across the bar who was seated with a hot woman. He was pushing 60; she was in her mid 20s. She pretended to find everything he said to be hilarious, and he kept shelling out money for drinks. Ah, the American Dream. As for this American, such pay-for-pleasure pursuits are just that—a dream; I cashed out at $10, down $50 to that point, slurping up the last of my drink as we finally made our way to the front desk to check in.

Every room in the PH is based on a different movie. The three of us were given the Forrest Gump room. It just felt…right. We made a quick trip to the ABC Store in the mall for supplies. T.C. bought a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black; I picked out a bottle of Belvedere and grabbed some cans of Red Bull. Happy birthday, Dupa. We also purchased two gallons of bottled water. This wasn’t our first rodeo.

Back in the room, Dupa decided he needed a nap. Why he also felt that he had to be naked to take said nap, I’ll never know. I can only hypothesize he felt it poetic to be in his birthday suit on his birthday. Then again, this is Dupa; taking his clothes off in public is as common as a handshake. (And, ironically, it’s also the next step for him in the course of an introduction.) Before he could climb into his bed, there was a knock at our door—the rollaway bed we had ordered was being delivered. Dupa jumped up to answer the door, but T.C. stopped him, and told him to go to bed. Thankfully he did, because when T.C. opened the door a cute girl in her early 20s pushed in the rollaway bed. Sexual harassment lawsuits – 0, Three Drunk Guys – 1.

After an hour or two of rest, we got ourselves together again. Showers, shaving, and Johnnie Walker on the rocks prepared us for our short walk down the Strip to O’Shea's. We grabbed a quick meal of traditional Irish cuisine at the in-house Burger King, and then found a $5 blackjack table to call home. Cheap blackjack, free drinks, and a bounty of skin populating the nearby beer pong tables. It was like a yinzer paradise. We soon learned the names and bedside habits of just about every dealer the casino employs, as we didn’t leave our seats for the better part of four hours. Unfortunately, they don’t hire from the same headhunters as Planet Hollywood. Nice people, all of them, but… Not that my boys or I cared, as long as they kept flipping over 23s to our doubled-down 18s.

One dealer (“Raw Deal”), who took over our table early in the night, reinforced my theory on O’Shea's “We don’t need hot, half-naked women to keep people playing” policy. Though, to be fair, I didn’t go any lower than her face. Dupa and T.C. stated that she had a very large rack that was eager to be freed from her uniform’s blouse. I don't remember that myself, but I highly doubt it could have salvaged anything for her.

[*pauses* God I’m an asshole.]

I asked the guys where the bathroom was; when T.C. pointed off in the distance, I couldn’t see anything. After leaning over and looking around Raw Deal, who was directly in my line of vision, I spotted the elusive men’s room sign.

Me: “Ah, couldn’t see around [Raw Deal].”
RD: *teasing* “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Me: *slightly embarrassed, trying to save face* “No, I mean, your beauty was just so overpowering, how could I possibly look anywhere else?”

This obvious (I thought) instance of back-pedaling bullshit managed to win the moment, as we all laughed and returned our attention to the blackcrack. And that was pretty much the only winning I did that night. But, I bought in at $100 and managed to play that same Benjamin all night. Not so fortunate was T.C., who made a trip or two to the ATM. Dupa, though, was actually up (call it birthday luck). Alcohol, however, was up on all three of us. To the point that, as a new dealer began at our table late in the night, I managed to spill my beer all over him, the table, and the deck of cards. “FLOOR!” [I vaguely remember joining him in yelling, “Floor!” As if I wasn’t the drunk that had caused the problem to begin with?]

I can’t imagine, though, that this is the first time they’ve had this happen at O’Shea's. Bellagio, Wynn, Caesar’s Palace—at those casinos, a couple of guys in colored blazers probably tap you on your shoulder and point to the doors when you soak a dealer, table, and cards (the trifecta!) with beer. At O’Shea's, they just walk your party over to another blackjack table, and call over a waitress to replace your drink.

Around 4 a.m., T.C. called “no mas” and stumbled out the doors. I hung on for another half hour or so, finally losing the last of my chips to a dealer’s 20. As I bid Dupa adieu and began following T.C.’s footsteps, I felt a tug at my arm. I turned to find Raw Deal, smiling at me. “Uhhhh…oh fuck.” [I mean, that’s what I said in my mind. I wouldn’t say that out loud, of course. …Then again, it was closing in on 5 a.m. and I’d been drinking all night. I can’t guarantee that I didn’t.] I gave a quick smile back, said a hurried and awkward “Be safe,” and power walked out the door.

Here’s the fun part. Ever have that dream where you’re stuck in a maze, disoriented in a haze of sleep, taking turn after turn that leads you right back to where you just were? Get sloppy drunk and stumble into the Planet Hollywood from the entrance on the Strip. I promise you, it’s the closest you’ll get to living that nightmare. I knew our room was on the 38th floor, and I knew that there were two sets of elevators—ones that went past the 23rd floor, and ones that didn’t. When I finally found a set of elevators after wandering through the casino floor, they were the wrong ones. I walked back out, and circled the floor again. Finally, I found a set of elevators. I hopped on one, and looked at the buttons; nothing higher than 23. Fuck! Another voyage out onto the casino floor, another set of elevators located. I peeked inside of one; nothing higher than 23. Fuck!

I took the escalator back down to the lobby and check-in counter. I knew we had gone up to the room from there that afternoon, and I remembered the elevators being down a hallway off to the left of the counter. I staggered past people just arriving from—or just leaving for—their what-happens-in-Vegas sin stories, and got to the elevators. I stepped onto one, feeling triumphant…only to see no buttons above 23. FUCK!

When I walked back out to the hallway, I wondered how hard the clerk would laugh at me when I asked for help getting to my room. Then a thought hit me. I had walked in from the left, where the lobby was. I turned and looked towards the right. Down the hall I saw a sign reading “Elevators: Floors 24 – 52”.

*sigh* Day One was officially in the books.