Las Vegas Day Drinking

But the DayDrinker is back with a motherfucking vengeance, and have I got a story for you, dear reader.  

It is a very sad story and I wish to God (Yahweh, Allah whatever) that it weren’t true and yet it is, all too true.  It has to do with the average American loosing, or giving up or refusing to think for himself.  It is a terrible and dangerous activity in which we have indulged far too much.  

Case in point: the bloody TSA, that grand job creation scheme in the sky.  Your humble DayDrinker was returning to Vegas after a jaunt across the great state of Iowa where I had procured some Amish preserves.  I too, like you, was surprised and delighted to learn there is a thriving Amish population in Iowa and they like to bake and preserve things, like delicious raspberries.  At least I suspect they are delicious.  I wouldn’t know.  Why?  Because the fuckers at the TSA took away my Amish preserves.  

“It’s jelly.”  

“Actually, it’s not there’s no gelatin- it’s fruit, water and sugar.”  

“Well, we can’t let it through.”  

“Really?”  

“Really.”  At this point, due to a series of events having nothing to do with the TSA and yet easily enough transfered to them, I became quite “agitated”.  

“For the love of God (Yahweh, Allah (actually, did not say Y or A at the checkpoint, as I’m pretty sure that’s grounds for a cavity search)) use your fucking brains why don’t you?  It’s fucking Amish preserves.  Taste it if you don’t believe me.”  

“We’re confiscating it.”  

“Okay, fine whatever, give it to your wife, with my compliments.”  

“I will not be doing that.”  At at this point, the ignorant and artless fucker takes the lovely preserves and dumps them in the garbage can.  

“This, my friends, this is why America is falling apart.  Your laws are stupid and those of you “just doing your jobs” are even dumber.  Use your fucking brain before it turns to real jelly, you tosser.”  

“Is there a problem here?”

 ”Yes, there’s a fucking problem here.  This is why the country is so incredibly fucked up.  This whole nation was founded by people standing up and saying “No, this tax law is stupid, we won’t just follow orders and do our jobs, we’ll think for ourselves thank you.”  I actually did say all this to the befuddled agents.  

“You’re going to have to calm down.”  

“No, I don’t think I will and the fact that you are is upsetting.  If I weren’t so late for my flight, I would explain it to you.”  

At this I turned and fled, as a nasty supervisor was in fact making his laborious way over to me (let’s not get started on our obesity epidemic, shall we?) and I was painfully aware of my final boarding call screeching out over the intercom (in between reminders to report suspicious behavior).  

But at the end of the day, here’s the thing that really frosts me.  When I got home to Vegas and emptied out my LL Bean backpack in which the preserves had been traveling, I found (much to my surprise) my box cutter and large scissors.  

I mean really TSA, if you’re going to “do your job” then DO YOUR FUCKING JOB.  Otherwise, unhand the preserves.  

Vegas has more than its fair share of characters- most of them middle aged overweight men.  The mayor springs to mind.  But of all of them, the Minister of Propaganda, Popo to his friends, is probably the only one worth a damn. 

And yet, he, shockingly, had not sampled the daytime delights of Luv-it Frozen Custard.  (There is drinking, I assure you- for those of you who don’t know, Luv-it is conveniently located next to the Mighty Mart home of ridiculously cheap carbonated malt alcohol beverages). 

The story of Luv-it is simple: it is the best frozen dessert in the desert churned out daily by the same guy who took it over from his folks who’ve had it for over 35 years.  In addition to being conveniently located next to the Mighty Mart, the parking lot in which sits the neat blue hut where the Luv it magic happens is also the preferred spot for many of the local hookers, crack dealers and dumpster divers, it really is one stop shopping. 

But fear not, Luv-it, despite being a cash only business, has never been robbed, and as long as you don’t ask, they won’t tell and you can generally get your goodness free from molestation and other solicitation.

Round about now, you may be wondering where you’ve heard of Luv-it, well, you may be recalling that time a few months ago when Vegas, in typical Vegas defensive fashion, freaked the fuck out when the Indian chick from the office told Craig Ferguson on his late night show that the parking lot surrounding Luv-it was sketchy. 

It is.  And she still loved the custard.  But since Vegas has yet to develop a sense of humor (or even a sense of perspective) about itself, Vegans totally lost it and started online hate groups to shame her into never wanting to come back and spend her money here again (or give us free on air plugs).

But that’s what the DayDrinker has come to realize about Vegas.  All this hand wringing about the lack of community- here’s why Vegas doesn’t have community- because everyone is so busy getting whatever s/he can from whomever s/he can (please see the WIFM post for further clarification), that Vegas just uses people up, figuring they’ll always be another sucker coming through to suck dry, but you know what Vegas, the world is getting smaller, people talk and it is time for you to get some fucking manners. 

As the Minister of Propaganda said “It’s because of the culture of silence here that people have been able to act this way.”  Guess what, we’re all gonna start talking. 

What’s that you say?  Oh, yes, the Luv-it parking lot is also where they shot that opening car bomb scene in Casino… what’s your point? 

It has been too long, the DayDrinker has been super busy, collecting tales of Vegas tribulations.  But first, a good Vegas story, to keep my buzz going, before diving into the sorted stories that include phrases like “Let’s just compare arrest records, I don’t have a history of fighting.  I haven’t been arrested in… god, a long time.”  Perhaps the best character description ever. 

But that is for later, for now, I’d like to talk about the charming adventure I took through the chain link fence behind the Sherwin Williams into the parking lot of the Crown and Anchor, the best place in town to catch the first USA game of the World Cup, because as you ought to know, it was against Britain.  Or as the chalk board informed me, it was Britain 1: Yanks 1. 

The place was so crowded they’d set up a tent in the back 40 to accommodate everyone.  Course the DirecTV didn’t work for shit in the back so everyone had to crowd on the front patio to try and catch a glimpse of the game.  Since not much happened in the second half, it didn’t matter too much anyway, and the people watching was more than enough entertainment. 

There was a strung out skinny American dude swaying back and forth and occasionally shouting “USA USA” next to me and a loud mouthed British chick with an unfortunate ‘70’s shag haircut, a smoking habit, and the deepest scream I’ve ever heard come out of a woman not being fucked.  (I can only imagine, though I choose not to).

The skinny stoner was just really annoying her for some reason, she needed to know what was wrong with him, but he couldn’t really follow the words coming out of her mouth (it may have been because apparently no one in the States can accurately distinguish between the Irish, English, Australian and South African accents- a conversation that was being held in at least five different places on the grounds at all times).  In any event, she finally just came out and asked “What’s wrong with you?” to which the British “bloke” to her left retorted “He must be from Leeds!”.  This was, apparently, hilarious.

But that wasn’t as good as the fight that we heard about in which a “bird” was looking to walk out for a breath of air, some dude called her a bitch.  That, it turns out, wasn’t her name, and she didn’t much care for it as a nickname, so she, did what any reasonable person in the middle of a bar in the middle of a Britain USA game would do and slugged him across the face.  Not one to miss out, he pulled her hair and wrapping it around his fist prepared to wail her back, but then- gallantry to the rescue!  Five other guys jumped on the first and smashed his face until he unhanded the lady. 

No one was arrested, however, so they can still compare favorably with their friends.  They’ve not been arrested in gosh, just ages! 

This was a good day in Vegas. 

The DayDrinker of all people should have known better!  Really, two optimistic Vegas posts in a row was really just begging the Vegas devils to put me back in my place and boy did they ever, and in a way that I never in my wildest dreams would have thought.  As I told the other person involved “I guess I need to have wilder dreams now that I’m in Vegas, cause man there are so many ways to get screwed that I just never imagined. 

I’m not generally into self censorship, frankly I find it appalling that Comedy Central would cave on the South Park situation, but in this particular case, I will withhold details only because they would hurt someone for whom I care a lot.  (Call me for details though!)

After the shock of the initial betrayal wore off, okay who am I kidding, after I calmed down enough to drive, I got in the car and headed to the Brett Wesley gallery for some soothing art and a free glass of crappy wine. 

The art was fun, artist John Bell bringing a sort of Rauschenberg redux to the wall with some clever facebook commentary- “The question is, now that we’re in the future, do we have enough minutes for everyone’s 15?” Do you “like” that?  (btw, if you haven’t already, fuckin’ like me, will ya?  the button’s at the bottom of the page) and the wine was crappy. 

As was the Thai BBQ restaurant to which I scuttled after the show.  Serves me right, I guess for eating- after looking at Jana Cruder’s photos of real life Barbie girls.  I think she’s trying to make some sort of commentary on the whole Barbie thing, but of course, it just makes me wonder why my hair never seems to curl that perfectly.

By this point, there was absolutely only one thing to do: Double Down. 

It was punk rock bingo night and the joint was jumping, the ass juice flowing, and the bar tender’s hands were hurting from popping open so many PBR cans.

I downed my beverage, vowed never to let Vegas get the better of me again and watching Andrew S. from Swing Shift Side Show move his heart below his rib cage so it was beating in the middle of his torso, I thought yes, what an apt Vegas analogy- you’d better be able to move your heart, otherwise watch the fuck out, Vegas will stab you right through it. 

And in typical Vegas double down fashion, for those of you wondering what ass juice is, word on the street is that it is what’s left at the end of the bottles dumped into one big jar, repackaged as ass juice and sold for $5/shot.  (While there are those who swear by the stuff, I must say, they DayDrinker can’t help but be partial to the Bunkhouse’s version affectionately referred to as blue windex.)

The DayDrinker has had quite the busy few days.  The thing about Vegas, you see, both the blessing and the curse, is that much like Gump’s chocolate box, or sleeping with a girl from the Spirament Rhino, you never know what you’re gonna get and because of that, you stick around.  It’s the Devil’s trick here on His island in the sand. 

This weekend was no exception.  It was the weekend of the annual house party at a rather large estate in the Scotch 80s, a place that embodies the notion that no one quite grows up in Vegas.  If all of Vegas is an adult playground, this one house could be the scale model of the town.  Within the backyard, one can find a tennis court, a basketball court, batting cages, a sand volleyball court (with musko night lights) and a pool that was designed to look like, and has indeed overtaken the Playboy mansion grotto.  (two levels, hot tubs with built in cup holders, a sauna, diving board, swim up bar you name it) and the bitch of it is, for me, an East Coast snob to admit that it is rather tastefully done. 

Back to this annual house party, the kick off for which is a tequila shot at 7am.  There are day drinkers and then there are day drinkers.  Luckily for the contestants, this year was a fully organic tequila.  I kid you not and I assure you it was delicious.  Pick some up, get knocked down.  In a good way. 

And while it was easy to write off the middle aged dudes, tricked out in their silliest attire (including one team which had both grown matching facial hair and donned matching branded hot pants), seriously competing in drunken events including a mad dash through an oversized bounce house brought in for the occasion, upon closer inspection, one could find Ivy grads and lawyers, family men and the newly engaged, and then yes, the die hard party boys born on third. 

I am positively terrified that Vegas may actually be growing on me.  And while the host in no way remembered who I was, he was more than generous with his organic tequila and that can’t be bad. 

 The DayDrinker is off to LA for some much need perspective, but inbetween meetings, will guiltily sneak a beverage.  They just don’t have the same attitude about dayturnal imbibing there, Villaraigosa is no Goodman, I’ll tell you what.  Actually, I will leave you with a brilliant Oscar story.  At the opening of the Ruvo Center for Brain Health, Mayor Goodman was the first speaker, he strode purposefully to the podium, martini in hand, called up some ladies to escort him as stand in showgirls, and gave a lovely and heartfelt speech.  He turned to leave the stage, then catching a word from offstage ran back to the mic to announce “Oh, sorry, I’m so drunk, I forgot to introduce our next speaker.  Ladies and gentlemen: Toby Cosgrove, head of the Cleveland Clinic.  There are indeed moments when I do indeed love this town. 

So I understand that gambling is a zero sum game, but here’s the thing Vegas, not all things in life are.  There actually is enough to go around.  Come on guys, read the Secret already.  

I mean honestly, I drink during the day, sure, but at least I’m still willing to believe in the basic decency of mankind.  Which is probably why that guy who rang my doorbell, claimed to know my mother and took $20 off me figured me for an easy mark.  ”But how did he know her name?” I asked my brother when it became apparent that he was not actually going to return to pay me back.   

“Is there any mail in your mailbox?”  Ahhh, foiled again!  

But you know what?  I’d rather believe in humanity and pay for a spot of street theatre, than live hating everyone, like some locals I know.  Of course, I haven’t been here 20 years like Libby Lumkin and Dave Hickey who are espousing a sort of scorched earth policy on their way out, saying out loud and in print what the rest of us just sort of mutter to ourselves.  Though I suppose it is entirely possible that if I stay here much longer I may just loose the small bit of optimism that remains.  

Or maybe I’ll just settle into a general distrust, but still retain my sense of humor, much like the lady at the 7-11.  I strolled into the upscale 7-11 around the corner from me (yes, you read that right, there actually is an upscale 7-11) this morning and perusing my liquor options settled on the Green Apple Joose, a drink that my 6’7” 200 pound brother told me “will fucking knock you on your ass- don’t drink more than one.”  With his warning ringing in my head, I didn’t think I could really go for the “Panther Joose” so I settled on the “Green Apple”.  What can I say?  I’m a sucker for an emerald green beverage.  

Anyway, so I get to the register and the lady looks at me.  ”Is this all for you?”

“Yes… It’s not… It’s for a thing…I swear I’m not just drinking at 10 in the morning… I mean, it’s for a project.”

“Is the project to see if it will get you drunk?”

ZING

But then she laughed and promised to check out the blog.  So here’s to you 7-11 lady, for not having totally embraced the Vegas cynicism, and taking a chance on an unknown blogger who need a good buzz in the early morning.  

And yes, for the record, my brother is right, for the love of god, go easy on the Joose- just because it tastes good, with that lovely after burn in the pit of your chest, doesn’t mean you have to drink the whole can.  Especially on an empty stomach.  It may be time for some Donuts and Chinese Food.  Luckily for me they are both available at the same cash only establishment.  

Ah Vegas, so I’m watching Hulu and who to my delight should bring me “limited commercial interruption” than Camp Vegas!  Hooray, thought I, much better than adult diapers, or yet another non-profit, or the scary HPV ads that are making the rounds courtesy of Merck (“what if you have hpv?  what if you have cervical cancer?  what if you are the biggest fuck up of all time, if only, oh if only you had taken our three shots that aren’t covered by your insurance!!!). 

But then I saw the Camp Vegas logo and all I could think of was VD cream.  Maybe this was a holdover from the scary HPV stuff, but take a look: a burning flame coming out of a V?  oh, and it’s “for grownups”. 

Just looking at it makes me itch, which is why I had to go cool off with a Mexican Garden Martini at Mundo over at the Design Center. 

The Mexican Garden Martini includes cucumber (to sooth that burning Vegas rash), blue agave bianco tequila, agave nectar, fresh pineapple puree and cointreau. 

I know the Daydrinker isn’t so much a restaurant critic as a person who drinks during the day and spouts off about it, but I really must say that the Mundo food is really quite delightful- lighter and milder than one thinks of Mexican food as being, but in a good way.  So while I could never forsake my Charleston dive restaurants, Mundo is a really lovely space for those who aren’t into taking long naps after eating, or people who like the idea of Mexican food, but not the overly hot spice.  Plus the room is fabulous, and the waitstaff, while a little slow, is quite nice once they get to the table. 

But back to the liquor…

I have to say I have a special place in my heart for Cointreau.  It comes from smuggling it into Egypt for my ex-boyfriend’s mother.  She was a delightful lady who loved her drink (especially daydrinking) and who wasn’t able to get it, living in Egypt and all, so whenever we would go visit, we would load up our suitcases, declare three bottles a piece, and bring in up to fifteen at a go.  I remember we got there, opened the bags, lined all the bottles up on the table and the lady practically wept for joy.  Oh she was fun!  And Cointreau was one of her favorites.  I have to say they have a rather fun website, if you are up for a spirits website visit.  And even though Dita von Teese is the brand ambassador, there is not one image even vaguely reminiscent of VD to be found.  

There is something to be learned here Vegas…

So here’s what pisses me off: Sprint won’t answer any email inquiry in which they have “identified profanity”.  Yes, I am pissed off.  Fucking answer the email before I call and bitch out your staff.  Or better yet, don’t fuck up my billing so I’m pissed off enough to write you some identifiable profanity. 

Really Sprint?!  You can’t handle a little profanity?  And here’s the bitch of the situation.  I didn’t actually write any profanity in my message to them.  They make you ask a question to see if they have a canned answer before they’ll even let you write your actual question.  So yes, I had profanity in the first question, the one that they didn’t tell me was going to be sent to anyone.  I did not have any profanity in the question that I emailed to them directly.  But rather than sort that out, they sent me a sanctimonious email scolding me for my word choice.

So here’s what keeps me from killing someone at Sprint: Frankie’s Tiki Room. 

Hands down my favorite bar in Vegas and that goes double on Fridays when if you wear a Hawaiian shirt you get your first drink half off and let’s be honest, no one who drives to Frankie’s has any business drinking more than one of their magical concoctions.  Every time I go, I marvel at the intricately carved seats, the amazing collection of random 1970s soft Hawaiian porn and surfer movies and the multi-ingredient drinks that are full of rum and yet taste so sweet that you could drink all night and never realize how incredibly and delightfully smashed you are becoming. 

Today I sampled the Kahiki Kai, a marvelous beverage with “coconut rum, banana liquor, and pineapple juice” aka heaven on earth and the only reason I will be civil to Sprint when I re-email the, I think, overly simple question of why the fuck are you overbilling me? 

And by the way, since we’re on the subject of cell phones, can someone explain to me how the hell AT&T managed to sew up the iPhone for another two years?  Seriously?  And has anyone else noticed that for some unknown reason, you can talk perfectly fine inside the parking garage at the Palazzo, but as soon as you hit the street there, you drop the call?  It’s as if the sudden gush of fresh air was just too much for the connection.  

But enough about them.  Let’s go back to the yummy stale cigarette smell mixed with air conditioning that Frankie’s pulls off so well.  That with their super knowledgeable bartenders, and today the rehearsal dinner that was getting kicked off in style.  There were many loud whoops for Brian and Lindsay and their life together, whatever that means.  

Really, I do wish them well and I have every confidence that any couple that drinks at Frankie’s is destined for greatness.  And since Matt Lauer and his wife have denied any craziness, we can finally all go back to believing in the institution of marriage.  (I really do think that had he been caught cheating, it would have been all over- modern American marriage just couldn’t take another of the “good guys” turning out to be “evil pigs”.)  So yes, hooray marriage and life together!  But even more than that, hooray for Frankie’s! 

This picture of the Strat has absolutely nothing to do with anything, I just like it. 

Sometimes you just gotta get out of town.  I know I guy who owes a lot of money to a loan shark.  It seems to me that would be a good time to get out of town.  These are the sorts of things I never was able to say before I moved to Vegas.  I kinda thought that loan sharks only existed in the movies before I moved here.  I was wrong.  Recurring theme. 

Anyway, I don’t owe money to a loan shark, but I did need to get out of town.  So I hightailed it to an ashram in San Diego.  And while I was looking forward to posting a story about smuggling hard alcohol onto the ashram premises, that’s not what happened. 

What happened was that I had a very nice lunch in Del Mar with my mother, who has become a bit of a cartoon character.  In a good way.  She’s called the Dowager.  She never leaves the house without a silver tipped cane, her oversized glasses and either a cape (not to be mistaken for a horse blanket, though it does bear an uncanny resemblance to one) or a secondhand fur jacket.  Not a fur coat, mind you, not all Cruella de Ville or Snoop Dogg style, but a half jacket, like you might see a little lady wandering the Upper East Side or Fifth Avenue wearing. 

Anyway, the two of us went to Americana, where in honor of the DayDrinker, my mother split a beer with me, her first beer in over twenty years.  Way to go Mum. 

And I must admit, the Dowager kinda schooled me on the bitter ales.  I had to wuss out and go back to my New York Egg Cream, which the waiter said was the first one anyone had ever ordered.  Come on now people, try something new, will ya?  Contrary to popular belief, it does not actually contain a raw egg.  Tragically.  That’s okay, I got my raw egg quota eating coffee cake batter, but that’s a different story.

Now, here’s the thing: I love politics, and all politics is local and I admire people who care enough to run for local politics.  I’m not sure how I feel about them campaigning while they are also my waiter. 

Patrick, our waiter, is also running for La Mesa town council.  He seems a delightful chap, enamored of urban gardening and pushing a sidewalk widening agenda.  All fine and dandy, I suppose.  Though, here’s a free tip for you Patrick, I’m not sure you are going to win over the voters of San Diego county by telling them they need to be more like Cuba. 

I kid you not.

As someone who grew up in Southern Florida and watched Cubans literally float in on cardboard boxes to make a better life for themselves here in the States, I am pretty sure there’s some more than suspect shit going down there.  Like I said, sometimes you just gotta get out of town. 

But he’s not wrong.  Yes, let’s urban garden- I have some lovely heads of lettuce popping up in my backyard that intend to eat upon my Vegas return.  And it’s very hard to argue against sidewalk expansion. 

But, I gotta say once my food came, I really wanted him to go away so I could enjoy my grass fed, if not local beef and imported gorgonzola cheese burger.  I made myself feel slightly better knowing that I had chosen Stone brewery’s Arrogant Bastard Ale, which was a local brew.  Today, I am a locabev, if not a locavore.  See, this is why you gotta get out of town- to eat and drink new stuff without compromising your ideals.  

There are moments in Vegas when you know better, you just know that you should have had a drink before the meeting, but then you walk into it straight and all the ridiculousness that you might have otherwise let pass, just leaps out to confront you. 

The all too sober DayDrinker had one such meeting the other day with the smarmy Smith Center man.  Here’s how it began:

Smarmy Smith Man: “We created the center to be a perfect opera house.”

DayDrinker: “Oh, will there be opera?”

Smarmy Smith Man: “No.”

Off to a rolicking start!  It was just then that he had to ask the receptionist to please remind him in twenty minutes that he had to leave for “his luncheon with the Mayor”.  Egads!  Pretension much?  But that’s rather the problem with the center in general, isn’t it? 

A whole lot of undeserved pretension.  It’s funny really, sitting so close to a building that got it so right.  The Smith Center, not to be confused with Las Vegas High to which it bears a canny resemblance, sits right next to the Gehry designed Lou Ruvo Center for Brain Health. 

The Smith Center is the Peter Keating to the Ruvo Center’s Howard Roark.  The Ruvo Center, a Cleveland Clinic run clinic has a Wolfgang Puck run cafe open to the public and an amazing literally one of a kind atrium in which they will host functions to help defray the cost of the building.  The Smith Center, priding itself that it will be the center of the new “community” in downtown Vegas has a two acre park in front of it… with absolutely no refreshments for sale, so even if you wanted to picnic, you’d be shit out of luck, or I guess you could go to the Ruvo center. 

But the bad design, the lack of opera and food aside, the one comment that really just threw me over the edge was when asked if the Smith Center, the one that was supposed to be creating and supporting this new Vegas “community” (the source of so much local hand wringing), when asked if they would have rehearsal space available to smaller dance and theatre troops, the people who in reality form the backbone of any real community, the reply was, and I kid you not “We’re not trying to be all things to all people.  It’s important for those groups to be out in the community.” 

What did I miss?  Commuwhat? 

It might have been comical if he hadn’t been so fucking earnest.  He was trying so hard for this group of first generation money to feel equal of if not superior to the old bluebloods that he and they totally missed the fucking mark.  Vegas is Vegas.  Vegas is never going to be fucking downtown Cincinnati, New York, and certainly not Milan, no matter how many expense account trips you take to La Scala.  And that what’s so startling about the way some people are trying to grow the town.  City Center looks like an airport in middle America.  The Smith Center, “made out of Indiana Limestone, the same stone that built over 40 of our state capitols” looks like downtown anywhere USA. 

Let Vegas be Vegas!  Tourists, even medical ones, don’t want to come to a place that looks just like the one they left behind. 

Oh, and the cherry on top, here’s a guy who’s job it is to convince people to help pay for the $500 million Center (yeah, you read that right), to tell them that this is going to spur urban development, bring Vegas back at the same time that it grows up, transforming Vegas into a cultural force to be reckoned with, a thriving downtown, a great place to live, work and play blah blah blah, he even has the lame vanity plate “SMHCNTR” on his BMW, and he’s moving.  He and his family are moving from “near the airport” to Henderson. 

Well there goes the neighborhood.   

And then there are just the loveliest times to be had in Vegas.  Of course you have to wade through the shit, in this case, the nastiest fake cheese you have ever encountered in all your movie nachos and Kraft singles and Velvita squirt cheese life.  Yes, the “cheese” in the quesedillas at Jimmy Buffet’s Margartitaville is in a league all its own when it comes to nastiness.  The texture alone is enough to make you puke up the reasonably tasting, if not priced, margarita, and then the taste hits you.  When you long for Taco Bell cheese, something is seriously rotten in the state of Margaritaville.  But, I suppose it serves me right, going there on Cinco de Mayo when there is so much good Mexican food to be found just off Charleston. 

My personal favorite place is the counter at Los Compadres Meat Market at Charleston and Maryland.  I don’t know (nor do I particularily care to know) what they do to that meat, but holy hell is it ever good.  And the salsa.  Oh dear lord, I weep over that salsa.  Crack salsa.  Ease into it gringo.  It’s too spicy for you.  But man is it ever good.  And a cheap way to drain out the sinuses. 

In my defense, the reason I didn’t go to Los Compadres was because they don’t serve alcohol at the counter.  And, after a cursory google search of Cinco festivities in Vegas, I came up empty.  So, the Jimmy Buffet debacle seemed like a reasonably good choice at the outset- outside, not too expensive, blah, blah, blah, as Social Distortion would say out: I was wrong. 

But then, luckily, as I was heading home with heavy heart and light tummy, I got a text to meet a friend at Downtown Cocktail Room.  Never one to turn down a beverage, I headed to Fremont and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a huge street fair packed to the gills with Mexicans with savory meats, cheap and icy flavored margaritas and that awesome grilled corn on the cob!  It’s not at all like New England corn on the cob, it’s a whole different taste sensation, a surprisingly creamy texture.   

I’d like to take this opportunity to point out that on the morning’s local NPR, a pompous commentator (who probably works for the Smith Center in his off time) had bloviated at length about how Cinco de Mayo was a stupid gringo holiday that no Mexican would be seen enjoying.  That Vegas used it as an excuse to get drunk (obviously this man is new to town, we don’t need a fucking excuse to get drunk, thank you very much. It is, as George Hamilton would say “It’s what we do.”) and that we would not see any happy Mexicans today. 

Boy can he go shove it. 

Once again I was reminded why Fremont, in this case, just past the experience, but before it gets super funky near the Bunkhouse, is where you want to be. 

And then, just when I thought between the dollar tacos and the little kids singing pop song karaoke next to the bounce house (god I love the bounce house) life couldn’t get any better, I sat down in the DCR and ordered myself a Kentucky cappuccino, bitched with the bartender about how all the good ideas start downtown before they get snatched by the Strip (hello roller derby, percussion circles, fire breathing freaks, and absinthe), and moaned with my friend about how no one had thought to mention this street fair on any website, periodical, or radio station. 

It was so good, I almost forgot to write my strongly worded letter to Margaritaville.  Almost.   

Ah Derby Day, how glorious you are.  I love it all, the hats, the roses, the horses, and predictably: the juleps!  And today, in typical Vegas fashion, I got it all, and comped! The Hilton is a great place to watch sporting events.  Fair enough, I haven’t been to Lagasse Stadium, but I can say that for football season anyway, when the Hilton converts their main showroom into a giant living room with a huge screen, salty pretzels, cheap beer and Jim Beam give aways that no one pays attention to, it is the best in town.  And while the Derby party wasn’t quite as exciting as Super Bowl party, it did have its upside in the form of the Maker’s Mark guy who gave away hats and fabulous silver cups in which to drink the excellent Mint Juleps from the bar. 

The Drinker didn’t have time to bet, which was just as well, because while Super Saver was my bet to win, I was sentimentally attached to Line of David and would have lost what I won on Super Saver on Line of David so in the end it was a wash, except I’m now up four of the aforementioned silver cups (It really does make a difference, drinking out of the proper cup.  For more of this check out Herbs and Rye, down on Sahara- excellent bartenders and brilliant copper cups!)

And, as if the day couldn’t get any better, I had a Vegas revelation.  I was already familiar with the WIIFM or “what’s in it for me” which is practically Vegas’ motto.  (People ask what it’s like living in Vegas, I say “Have you ever seen Deadwood?  It’s Deadwood with more showering.”)

I was introduced to WIIFM by the son of a gentleman for whom I was doing some non-profit work.  I sat down to lunch with the kid to see if he might help us out with the organization, an organization for a disease from which his father suffers.  No sooner had our order been taken than he looked at me and asked, in all earnestness “Okay, but what’s the WIIFM?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, it hit him what he had done and he, thank goodness, did seem somewhat mortified.  “I’m sorry, it’s just the way we think here.”  He thought about that for a moment, promised to help with the cause and promptly stopped taking my calls. 

So, okay fine, WIIFM, got it.  Then, though an offhanded comment, another piece fell into place.  Someone told me “Everyone in Vegas works like they are VIP hosts”.  (With few exceptions, a VIP host is basically a glorified promoter.)  And holy hell, ain’t it the truth.  Now, I’m sure there are those of you out there saying “Wow, DayDrinker’s a little late to the realization party.”  And yes, I am, and yes, I am ashamed of that, but you see, I grew up in a place where manners meant something, I actually got a “consideration” grade when I was younger, so the idea that someone would invite you to a party, just to have another warm body in the room, and not even bother to have a five minute conversation with you is beyond.  But not anymore.  Now I get it. 

It’s interesting, because every now and again, Vegas wrings its hands and wonders why it doesn’t have “a sense of community”.  This is why.  This right here.  If only there had been some sort of prize for having figured that out!  I think the mayor should at least buy me a martini.   

But again, in my flowing spirit, Jesus, it sounds like the DayDrinker is on the rag with all this flow business.  Anyway, in keeping with the realignment with the universal spirit and whatnot, ending on a positive note, I will say again what a wonderfully good job the bar at the Hilton did with that Mint Julep, one drink and I had the most delightful afternoon rest (you say blackout, I say nap, let’s call the whole thing off) upon my homecoming.