Las Vegas Day Drinking

It's been a while...

Fri, 17 Sep 2010 19:35:59 -0700

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.

Luvin' with the Minister of Propaganda

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 13:50:00 -0700

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?

Oh, he's from Leeds!

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 14:59:00 -0700

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.

Sucker punch

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 09:18:00 -0700

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.)

Devil's Island with matching booty shorts

Mon, 24 May 2010 00:00:00 -0700

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.

Yo Vegas: this just in: life not actually a zero sum game

Sat, 22 May 2010 11:35:00 -0700

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.

Camp Vegas? Maybe. Mundo? Yes, please!

Wed, 19 May 2010 16:04:39 -0700

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…

Sprint is evil, but thank God, Frankie's is Divine.

Fri, 14 May 2010 21:54:00 -0700

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.

The DayDrinker takes a Day Trip

Wed, 12 May 2010 13:38:00 -0700

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.

In the land of the blind...

Sat, 08 May 2010 09:50:00 -0700

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.

Hola Cinco!

Thu, 06 May 2010 12:09:00 -0700

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.

Community? WIIFM?

Tue, 04 May 2010 14:23:00 -0700

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.

Keep your distance to keep your dreams.

Sat, 01 May 2010 01:15:00 -0700

You know what is terribly disappointing? Meeting famous people. Or even semi-famous people. I mention this not only because I lived through it this evening, but because it occurs to me now that there is big industry in this town (and on this week’s Seven) in doing just that- allowing you to brush up against or even speak with a “celeb”. But the dirty little secret of the evening is that I was not drunk. Nor even pleasantly buzzed. I know, I know, I’ve been slacking, so perhaps I deserved all that I got, after all, they say you get what you give, and the DayDrinker sans alcohol probably richly deserved being totally disappointed in an encounter with a writer whom up until the moment I actually met him face to face, I admired greatly. I was asked after I expressed my disappointment if this would change my experience of his writing, and no, I don’t think that it will, in the same way I believe people ought to have stood for Elia Kazan’s artistic achievement when he won the Oscar, regardless of his politics, I will still find this writer’s stories witty and charming, even if he, himself, was not.

But I guess that’s life, the mystery is always better than the reality. The idea of the VIP room is better than the room itself. The thought of being grown-up seems like a good one, until you realize there is no guidebook to help you muddle through, and in fact every “grown-up” you meet is really just like you and hoping desperately that you won’t figure that out.

But, as part of my jumping back into flowing or whatever, I will end on a positive note: there has been only one “celebrity” encounter that has not profoundly (or completely superficially) disappointed me: of all people, Pete Wentz, a surprisingly articulate (and incredibly short, like most of ‘em) gentleman with whom I had a brief conversation about the works of Hesse and the meaning of life… until his PR agent reminded me it was time for him to pose with his branded birthday cake. Ah Vegas. Ah “celebrity”. Ohhh cake… best idea I’ve had all day.

In the flow...

Fri, 30 Apr 2010 00:15:41 -0700

The DayDrinker had the most illuminating conversation with an old friend this afternoon in which the concept of being in the universal flow was discussed. The old friend has apparently jumped into the flow and things are now working out just swimmingly for her. Well done, old friend. The DayDrinker on the other hand has obviously lost mojo as the seven second challenge at Todd English’s PUB restaurant at City Center laid me low.

In fairness to me, the strawberry beer probably was not the best choice for chugging. Thick and sweet and refreshing yes, easy to glug not so much. Even the eyebrow plucking bartender from West Virginia (shout out Tudor’s Biscuit World- my hips continue to thank you) agreed. Not that it stopped him from charging me $14 dollars for the brew. Overpriced? Perhaps, but at least I made up for it later with nickel PBRs! Quite possibly the best deal in town.

But back to this flow business. I feel like there have perhaps been times in my life when I was smack dab in the middle of this universe current, happily buoyed along towards my destiny, but somewhere along the ride, the wheels came off the wagon, the train fell off the track, I jumped the shark to mix all the metaphors in one fell swoop.

Is it tragic that I’m fairly certain I peaked in 8th grade? But then again, I couldn’t drink in 8th grade. Not during the cool spring afternoon at the marble topped bar at PUB. I know this for a fact, as Jason (of eyebrow plucking and West Virginia fame) actually carded me when I ordered. Normally that might have been kinda nice, make me feel young again- remind me of those happy days at the top. But, of course, I had managed to leave my id in the car, which was in the self-park, which as anyone who has attempted the ludicrous adventure of self parking at City Center will tell you is about five and a half miles out in East Siberia or West Kansas, take your pick- they do however leave ample room between the cars for no apparent reason other than to frustrate anyone who may be trying to park (or retrieve one’s id) in a hurry. I mean really City Center, if there is one thing that Vegas really actually does remarkably well it is parking structures (see Wynn & Encore for the way a parking structure should work).

I’m not sure how one plugs back into the universal current, but I’m going to order another quarters’ worth of nickel PBRs at PUB and give it some serious consideration.

Captain Jack is the only VIP who matters, and Frank Gehry likes the Excalibur

Sun, 25 Apr 2010 10:55:00 -0700

Your humble correspondent took a day off yesterday and decided to see how the other half lives, waiting for the sun to set before imbibing. And wow, was it a colossal waste of a perfectly good day.

Turns out a half the “rock stars” of yesterday and tomorrow are on the wagon, so they’re only drinking energy drinks and water, which on the one hand means more free bottle service vodka for me, but on the other hand makes me wonder what life must have been like before images were so carefully curated. Gig here, personal appearance there, can’t be seen drinking, can’t smudge the eyeliner, blah, blah, fuckity blah.

Here’s the dirtiest little secret in Vegas: the VIP rooms are really fucking boring.

To be fair, I’ve not sampled them all, and to be fair I have no idea what constitutes “fun” for porn stars, quasi rock stars or the people who hope to profit off them, so perhaps they are actually having a grand old sober time. All I can say is that the Asian bachelorette party in matching white boas seemed to the naked eye to be having a much better time on the general dance floor than anyone was having in the back room or even in the bottle service areas off or above the dance floor. It was kinda like, and I promise this will be the only time I make reference to this movie, but it really was like that scene in Titanic where you start in the stuffy upper deck where the corsets are too fucking tight and end up in the steerage section where the pints are being chugged, jigs are being danced and then Kate Winslet does that stupid balancing on her toes thing, Vegas is an awful lot like that (come to think of it including the stupid balancing act).

All of which is to say that the DayDrinker got more than my fair share of free booze last night and somehow still managed to leave feeling cheated. Hmmm… I wonder if this is how the tourists feel?

I feel like I ought to end on a high note, so I will say this, the Crazy Horse 3 is a strip club, but that notwithstanding, they have a pretty great front room for bands to play and last night the Paper Dolls tore it up. For a minute there this homesick Los Angeleno felt like I was on the Strip of the Sunset persuasion. And when the dichotomy of the half naked chicks rubbing on cheesy guys on one side of the wall and this crazy awesome lead singer chick rocking out on the other side got too much for me, I just said “Jack and Coke” please and good old Captain Jack got me through the night, that and the fact that Frank Gehry’s favorite building on the Vegas Strip is the Excalibur. That slays me. There’s a man who understands Vegas better than Vegas understands itself.

HoJo's, Mojitos and Ho's

Fri, 23 Apr 2010 21:06:07 -0700

In the lobby of the Howard Johnson’s lives a surprisingly magically delicious place. They tell me that HoJo’s have always been known for their delectable dining establishments. My own mother once waitressed at one such place, in fact, she missed Woodstock because she had to work a double. But that’s neither here nor there, she can’t stand mud, she wouldn’t have held up well anyway.

More to the point, the best mojito in Las Vegas is to be found at the Florida Cafe in the Downtown HoJo’s. Now, to be fair, you do have to be sure that it is the male bartender whose name escapes me who makes it for you, his is the best. But even if you get stuck with the other lady who doesn’t use the homemade simple syrup and puts the bitters in at the end, it is still better than most of the mojitos you will find in this town. Plus they have conga drum barstools and the best Cuban food in town too. There are those who argue for that other Cuban cafe place over on Flamingo. They are wrong.

Now, the DayDrinker has got something in mind, and while I know that it is not particularly popular and that as someone who drinks in the middle of the day I have not perhaps the sturdiest of soap boxes on which to stand, but all the same, I just have to wonder about all this quasi-prostitution going on in this town. There’s the straight up prostitution, evidence of which is literally strewn about:

and then there is the quasi-prostitution that was discussed in the latest New York magazine in their article about Rachiel Uchitel and bottle service girls (to be clear, since she apparently was very specific on this point, RU is NOT a bottle service girl). Look, I get it, making $500,000 a year for being seductive is seductive. But reading some of the blogs and even just that article makes you wonder why it is that we continue to put women in this role. A new list was just published on the highest paying woman’s positions (missionary not so much, but apparently doggie style cleans up) and what was startling was the fact that women still on average only make .75 cents to the male dollar. (http://money.cnn.com/2010/04/20/news/economy/highest_paying_jobs_for_women/)

WTF?! And I don’t think I’m alone in saying that the media bias against Hilary would never have flown had she been a member of any other marginalized group.

We laugh when Iranian clerics suggest loose women cause earthquakes, we think ourselves so evolved when it comes to women, and yet Indonesia, Pakistan and Bangladesh (three predominately Muslim nations) have all had female prime ministers, not to mention Israel, the UK and about a zillion other nations and yet we can’t seem to get even a female vice president. I guess I just wonder what these women would be, could be doing if they weren’t busy escorting overpriced bottles of vodka. As a free market believer, I’m trilled the economy is able to support this industry, I’m happy these women are able to make money. But one has to wonder about some sort of overarching societal good that is perhaps being overlooked, that perhaps we might want incentivize other activities? That and it really does make one wonder what those chicks were doing in the Woodstock mud, writhing around for “woman’s lib”.

But in the mean time, I will climb down off the crumbling soap box, back onto the conga drum and indulge in Cuba’s best and still mostly legal export (depending on where you drink it…I’m looking at you glorious bar in town, you know who you are.)

Atomic, get me bombed!

Wed, 21 Apr 2010 16:43:00 -0700

There are certain things that are really quite fabulous about Atomic liquors: they hold the oldest continuous liquor license in Vegas, their already quite reasonably priced beverages ($1.25/can of Busch) are even more reasonably priced during their conveniently timed Happy Hour: 7am-11am, during which they can be had for $1, on this particular occasion, their parking lot was empty as we were the only ones who had driven to the bar, and I gotta say, I’m still a sucker for a bar that buzzes you in- it’s like a poor man’s VIP experience.

That being said, Atomic Liquors was a somewhat sobering drinking adventure. At the end of the day, or even at the beginning of it, as the case may be, we are all just looking to get through the day with a modicum of dignity and if we’re lucky a warm place to spend the night and if we are even luckier, a nice cold one to help us get there.

Leaving the bar, I picked up a brochure that was one of a stack left out on the corner, it was for a job with the census, the only thing you needed to apply was a passport or baring that, a valid ID from column B AND a document from column C. From the looks of it, these people weren’t exactly passport holders.

It is easy to wallow, or else to get swept up in the glitz of the Strip, but sometimes it is good to get a little perspective, Atomic Liquors is good for that. The place got its name because they used to go up on the roof and watch the mushroom clouds. I used to wonder about that when I was little, about how they knew that once they set off that first chain reaction it wouldn’t overwhelm them and the entire universe with it. I guess to a certain extent, they didn’t, and they just did it anyway. Looking around the Atomic, it is easy to see how sometimes things do just overwhelm.

But at the same time, at least there is an Atomic, with bartenders who get a kick out of making you jump when they blast the buzzer to let you in, old fashioned Heinekin signs and a dedicated Veterans corner. The jukebox screetched “Welcome to the Jungle”, ain’t that the fuckin’ truth.

Here it is: your moment of Un-fucking-zen

Mon, 19 Apr 2010 12:42:00 -0700

There is this strange pull in America between breaking the rules and being drones. I mean the Pilgrims broke all the rules running away to America so they could be more strict in their religious practices. Now normally this type of tension only really annoys me when I have to take my flip flops off at the airport (I’m just waiting for the class action suit for when people start getting foot herpes or whatever nastiness you just know is all over those foot pads) and I get over it, understanding the TSA for the grand job creation scheme that it is.

BUT when this bullshit gets in the way of my enjoying a quality cocktail, well, that I cannot stomach. Take for example my situation yesterday. Being the cultured DayDrinker that I am, I had gone to take in the artistic offerings of the Imperial Palace casino: Human Nature (the four white Australians who sing Motown hits), Diva Las Vegas (Frank Moreno and his merry drag queens) and of course, the Rockhouse Guitar (80oz of frozen alcoholic slush in a plastic guitar shaped drinking vessel).

The day started okay enough with a solid Mai-tai during the show, but then, in the break, I thought we’d take advantage of the free entry and drink at Rockhouse. The bouncer was delightful, the music sing-a-long-able, and the bartendress a fucking bitch on wheels. Visibly holding my drink coupons, I ordered a vodka redbull (the night was young) and a Jack and coke (what else?) she took my order, came back, hands full of glorious alcohol and said “Oh, you can’t get redbull with that.” then she paused and added “Or Jack. You can’t get Jack with that either.” “Ok, what can I get?” “anything just not name” “Ok, so I can get I get a whisky and RC Cola and a vodka cranberry?” Now up until this point, annoying yes, but infuriating, well, after you’ve been in Vegas more than a week, no.

BUT THEN, THE BITCH DUMPS THE TWO PREMIUM DRINKS IN THE TRASH!!!

WTF?!!?!?!

She tosses the drinks and pours new, bottom shelf drinks, hands them to me and leaves for greener pastures.

Look, I get it, the coupons are only for certain drinks (not that they specified that on them, but whatever), and I get it, you should tell me that before I order, but if we both somehow manage to get to the point where you have poured the drink, you would rather dump it in the trash than give it to me?!?! In what fucked up universe does that make sense? How does that help your bottom line or your reputation? Are you just following orders? Did you ever stop to wonder if these orders made any sort of sense?

ARGHHHHHHHHH

I hope she gets that hideous toenail fungus I hear is going around at the Vegas airport. And that she doesn’t hear about the class action either.

For the record, I still tipped her. I probably shouldn’t have- how is she ever going to learn if I continue rewarding this sort of behavior?

But, putting aside the bitterness of the beverage, I must say that the Divas Las Vegas fucking rocked it! If you want a really fun night out, go see them.

You may be in Coachella, but I heard Blake Shelton on Fremont

Sun, 18 Apr 2010 01:15:00 -0700

So here’s the thing about Fremont- make sure you are drunk. It’s not hard to do, nor is it expensive, so get drunk and then you will find Fremont more than charming. Tonight was country night at the Experience and I gotta tell ya, I’m here tonight to stick up for “America”. I must admit that when we first arrived and we went to Mermaids for deep fried Oreos and a deep fried Twinkie on a stick and I wasn’t yet drunk (daydrinker got a late start, but drinking on Fremont anytime of the day is the equivalent of daydrinking anywhere else) the sight was somewhat jarring- overweight people chowing down on deep fried food, made by a large woman with a fresh tattoo… like i said, not particularly confidence inspiring.

But after a 99 cent frozen margarita that tasted like liquid key lime pie and the rockin’ sounds of Luke Bryan (All my friends say) and Miranda Lambert life got much better. And I must say in defense of “America” that “America” is actually way more diverse and polite than what you might expect. If the Strip is home of the “do not touch or breach the rope” than Fremont Street is home to everyone, come on down, we won’t judge you- you’re old, but you still want to have a good time? Come on down! You’re in a wheel chair, but you still want to dance, go for it, we’ll dance around you and your chair, you’re ugly but you want to dress up and go out, that’s cool, it’s not your fault! I saw the tallest woman I’ve ever seen tonight, along with the cutest Mexican three year old on his dad’s shoulders, everyone was more than polite, smiling at each other, whether they had four beers, like the dude standing next to me (one in each pocket and two in one hand) or four teeth, like the dude standing next to him trying to negotiate for one of those four beers, everyone was dancing, toe tapping, singing along, hooting and hollering and snapping cell phone pics.

Black, white, hispanic, mixed, cowboy hat sporting, mexican mullet wearing, dressed up white girls drinking beer from the plastic boots at the Golden Nugget, whatever and whoever you were, you were guaranteed to have a blast tonight down on Fremont- with no judgement from anyone. And the best part was that these people haven’t gotten the memo that it’s cool to pretend not to care about anything, so they actually sang along and cheered and demanded an encore, not like the whimpy crowds one occasionally encounters at “hip-er” places that are too cool to scream for their band.

And then, just when I thought the evening couldn’t get any better (after that surprise visit by Blake Shelton and his Hilbilly Bone (hehe, or should I say yehaw!), I discovered Tilt at the corner store.

Awesome.

Once again, another classic day brought to you by Las Vegas.

And for a moment there, the Bible thumpers had me nervous:

But then good woman Miranda reminded me that “Jesus drank wine” and I felt much better, after all, I was in good company.

ps: Luke Bryan “All My Friends Say”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PatJKQwxN5k

Blake Shelton “Hillbilly Bone”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OGoiiwxTWeE

Miranda Lambert: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxWEwgYfYGU

GS BS

Fri, 16 Apr 2010 15:45:30 -0700

For the record, I have been saying (both drunk and sober) for a long long time that Goldman Sachs was full of it. So for you, burly stockbroker who sat next to me on the plane and got all upset because you found it unconscionable that I could say such a thing about your beloved GS, please let me be, if not the first, at least the first on this blog to say: I fuckin’ told you so bro.

Maybe if someone had been hanging on the stoop down on Wall St, this bullshit never would have happened… I’m just sayin’…