Euro: Pt II: A Photo Tribute to The Royals' Rumble

Wow, those Royals sure know how to hog the spotlight. I for one have no delusions that their life is exponentially more interesting than anything even close to my orbit, so I'm not one of you wedding haters. I am however, biased having just run through their backyard last month.

Shit, I love a good wedding, especially the ones where a) you know they'll be separated before they finish paying for it, b) there's doves and other live animals and shit, and c) the bride and/or groom are filthy fucking rich.

I don't get it, really. It's silly to be excited about a royal wedding between two attractive young people with awesomely privileged lives, yet yall tuned in to watch a bunch of  surreality weddings, and sat glued in record numbers to watch an actual FAKE wedding between two MAKE-BELIEVE PEOPLE?? Gtfoh, bammas.



I tip my hat to Wills and Kate as I desperately wish I was there elbowing traipsing through the streets of London. Here is my brief London retrospective, a photo tribute, if you will...

Hands down the best subway system I've been on. No rats!!

An unimpressive DJ in an even more unimpressive Leicester Square club.

And I really didnt feel silly for being a clique.

Nope, didnt go on the Eye. Mine are large enough.

Big Ben actually refers to the huge bell, but the clock and tower are what we normally think of.

Imagine getting married HERE instead of your lil AME church home.

Well.

Buckingham Palace

RIP That Bottle

And those.

Euro Pt. I: Quo Vadis

Broadway: “He would have never got on that train if he knew you would’ve blown him. And I hurt for him for not knowing.”

Wise: “I would have. Unequivocally. But he would have left still, albeit fully aroused. Undoubtedly. And that’s why I am absolutely smitten.”

It reminded me immediately of this spot on Greene Street that I used to go to all the time when I first moved to the City. Except on this night in 2011 the city was London, not New York circa ‘99, though I was quickly drawing a convincing comparative analysis between the metropoli. Located in the Trans-Atlantic analogous neighborhood of Soho, my company usurped my rapt attention.

If I was a younger me, still beholden to the imagined shackles of what-ifery, I would have taken solid and copious mental notes. I’d remember not only the name of the drink that made us both pause in pure delight, but the pleasing ingredients. Instead, I blocked access to the left lane of my brain, the one leading to mindless infatuation, and instead focused on the components that helped us settle into a comfortably relaxed and disciplined conversation: equal parts liquor, laughs, and lust.

Back in the Greene St. days, conversations with a handsome young man would veer ultimately toward career: How long you been in NY? Where did you go to school? Where do you work? Tell me about the company you just started. But fast forward a decade and these convos almost always take the scenic route through a discussion about relationships: Do you date? Is marriage on your radar? I thought everyone wanted kids. Though the talk has shifted, the Vaseline effect of whatever liquor is flowing hasn’t changed. Thank GOD.

Have you ever met a famous person and been dumb confused about what the fuck just happened? Like, when you discover that dude from TV who is mad fine is also mad midgety.

Better yet, what about how making real-life introductions with old internet buddies is NEVER, ever what you imagined. They’re not as funny or sexy, the conversation not as fluid when spoken words replace LOLs and #weirdcatchphrasesyallthinkyallmadeup, and they have a nervous tick that was impossible to detect even via Skype. This was not that. The evening began in the hotel lobby when he stood up and was not, as I had expected feared, eye-level to Gary Coleman (RIP).

On the short ride on the subway that makes NY’s look like an underground shithole, we sat close enough to nudge flirtatious elbows, but didn't; a simple statement established boundaries like a pull-down arm rest.

“I started seeing this woman recently, and it was interesting trying to explain how I ‘know’ you.”

[Begin Chapter I of "The Story of My Life: A Tragedy" by So Wise]

The following progression was appropriate: first, a noisy British pub, pretending I couldn’t handle a whole pint of Stella and accepting a half, taking sips of his gin. Struggling to protect the sinking secret that I’m not as awesome when there’s no typing involved.

The crawl then progressed to the Soho spot. It was down this slightly dodgy alley (with cobblestones that didn't quite agree with my heels) and beyond the unassuming façade, in the center of a foyer that felt warmed by an open fire, that we took off our jackets for the first time that evening.

There’s really nothing better than a good drink with someone good-looking.

Even if you can’t have them.

The truth is, I didn’t even allow myself to imagine my face rubbing against the inside of his strong thighs. That would have tainted the pleasure of the improbability. Instead, I relished in the fulfillment of my long-suffering wanderlust and a great drink matched with even greater convo.

There was another bar and another drink afterward, but I choose to end my recollection here, in Soho--UK not NY. Seated, loose, unencumbered finally by the anxiety of whatever conclusions he’d drawn of the me sitting across the table and not across a computer screen. I traveled across an ocean and spent an evening drinking with a man I had had a crush on for five years or so. And he exceeded every expectation, whether real or digital.

Isn’t that what travel is? What it does? Lets you stare into the eyes, study the surface of the lips, examine the intellect and humor, ogle the crotch landmarks—without guilt of covetousness—of a space that is not your own, but is yours to explore.

A decade ago, in the Greene St. days, I would have lost my way in his confident eye contact, stopped his lips mid-sip and pressed them to mine, completely defenseless against his acute observations and effortless sense of humor and sturdy frame and manly ass and familiar Caribbean accent and alarmingly rugged handsomeness. Today, my boundaries and respect wouldn’t even allow me to take a picture with, literally, the man of my damn dreams. A lesser bitch would have been happy to swallow.

London is a lot like NYC, and I immediately felt like I had been there before…yet had no idea where I was going. Still, I was utterly smitten.

Euro: the Intro

I finally did it.

Finally got over the major hurdle that was Europe. How the hell have I never been to Europe?? Past tense. So much to tell yall about: bottles, cricket, royals, hookers, joints, and the tragedy of a crush fulfilled. Stay tuned, bitches...(cont'd here.)

S.O.'SHIP

Since I'm in a long distance relationship supported monthly almost exclusively by South*west Airlines, I feel compelled to share this PSA that the airlines emailed me...

An Open letter to All Airline Customers:

Our country is facing a possible sharp economic downturn because of skyrocketing oil and fuel prices, but by pulling together, we can all do something to help now.

For airlines, ultra-expensive fuel means thousands of lost jobs and severe reductions in air service to both large and small communities. To the broader economy, oil prices mean slower activity and widespread economic pain. This pain can be alleviated, and that is why we are taking the extraordinary step of writing this joint letter to our customers. Since high oil prices are partly a response to normal market forces, the nation needs to focus on increased energy supplies and conservation. However, there is another side to this story because normal market forces are being dangerously amplified by poorly regulated market speculation.

Twenty years ago, 21 percent of oil contracts were purchased by speculators who trade oil on paper with no intention of ever taking delivery. Today, oil speculators purchase 66 percent of all oil futures contracts, and that reflects just the transactions that are known. Speculators buy up large amounts of oil and then sell it to each other again and again. A barrel of oil may trade 20-plus times before it is delivered and used; the price goes up with each trade and consumers pick up the final tab. Some market experts estimate that current prices reflect as much as $30 to $60 per barrel in unnecessary speculative costs.

Over seventy years ago, Congress established regulations to control excessive, largely unchecked market speculation and manipulation. However, over the past two decades, these regulatory limits have been weakened or removed. We believe that restoring and enforcing these limits, along with several other modest measures, will provide more disclosure, transparency and sound market oversight. Together, these reforms will help cool the over-heated oil market and permit the economy to prosper.

The nation needs to pull together to reform the oil markets and solve this growing problem.

We need your help. Get more information and contact Congress by visiting www.StopOilSpeculationNow.com.



Robert Fornaro
Chairman,
President and CEO
AirTran Airways Bill Ayer
Chairman,
President and CEO
Alaska Airlines, Inc.
Gerard J. Arpey
Chairman,
President and CEO
American Airlines, Inc.
Lawrence W. Kellner
Chairman and CEO
Continental Airlines, Inc. Richard Anderson
CEO
Delta Air Lines, Inc. Mark B. Dunkerley
President and CEO
Hawaiian Airlines, Inc.
Dave Barger
CEO
JetBlue Airways
Corporation Timothy E. Hoeksema
Chairman,
President and CEO
Midwest Airlines Douglas M. Steenland
President and CEO
Northwest Airlines, Inc.
Gary Kelly
Chairman and CEO
Southwest Airlines Co. Glenn F. Tilton
Chairman,
President and CEO
United Airlines, Inc. Douglas Parker
Chairman and CEO
US Airways Group, Inc.
=====

Save Our (relation) 'Ship!

Thank You, kindly.
~MANAGEMENT

BLOGGING FROM THE BEACH (*photo updates)

Im currently sitting on the beach. Rain soaking my hoodie. The sun playing hard to get.

This couldn't be more like my life right now. Im in the right place just not necessarily at the right time.

20 of my closest friends are within earshot. An empty patron bottle litters the sand as does a few too many smoked down cloves and bidis.

My throats sore from God knows what... Walking through chilly rain puddles in sandals? Disproportions of liquor to water? Singing mary j blige and jay z songs for 3 hours straight on saturday (did that ngga Jigga endorse obama somewhere btwn performing 'Can I Get A' and 'Brooklyns Finest'?? LOVED it!) Laughing out loud til I cough uncontrollably?

Im on the beach but the sun won't come out...

Damn you sure gather up a shitload of debris during the course of 20+ year friendships. Lots of secrets too.

So this is what they mean when they say your family wll break your heart without remorse.

Mr. Wendel, the old homeless guy who does tricks, makes water disappear and "levitates" for tourists can't find a way to "magic" a roof over his head??
I didn't fall cuz I was drunk...but bec I was drunk, I couldn't stop myself from falling.

Im an obsessive crotch-watcher...and this is prime terrain.

I wouldn't last a second without my pda phone.

DatNucca is equal parts patient, hilarious, quick-tempered, sensitive, and sexy. Rrreeeooorrr!

My boy tatted some cat's name on his shoulder and hid it from us for almost 2 years.

Im pretty sure I lost a friend this weekend.

My brothers really never fulfilled their New Edition fantasies until they rented bikes today and rolled thru Miami looking like the NE Heartbreak video.

A confirmation number don't always mean 'confirmed.'

Everyone in my life is plotting on my biological clock...

Including my mother who called to speak to my best friend from college to tell him that she has a feeling he's gonna be her son in law. Ima need that feeling to take a hike.

It is in fact possible to get kicked out of and subsequently banned from the ocean.

Corn nuts??

Boys just never get tired of ass...

Can't really blame them.

Don't worry if a restaurant doesn't allow you to byob. You can. And should. A big one. For everyone.

"Her hair look like chicken-flavored ramon.noodles."
"All around me love's just not working. But I still feel like its the absolute only thing worth fighting for."

"What's a little head among friends?"

"There's more to the story..."

"Omg I was always DYING to ask daddy this...Can you feel it crawling around inside you?" ...
"No. And that's why people die from it."

"Bout time you got curious."

"I definitely thought less of him for it."

"You look like last night's good time."

"Who HASN'T had a threesome since we've been here??"

"Lawd ah cyan Sonny Wise dautah a dahnce so! Jesas hof di Sabbat!"

"Laaaaaaa laaaa la la, wait til I get my money right!"


Im on the beach and the sun is trying to play nice. As am I.

But its getting harder, not easier. The older I get, the more complex the relationships around me. Things are falling apart as others are coming together, and its impossible to find a sensible emotional balance.

Much like a hoodie on the beach.

So do you wait for the sun to show up or do you lay on the beach, shivering, and enjoy the imperfections that make life a beautiful fucking pain in the ass?

You have another shot. Another smoke. And laugh til your throats sore. It'll be better tomoro.

Happy birthday to me :)

RESPITE

I have a friend who used to live in Miami. One who just left Chicago. Another bounced from Vegas, then LA. One packed up and left Germany.

And every one of them muhfcukas is back in NYC.

I'ma need my friends to fan out again, please. I'm not spending my monthlong school/work winter break on the A train. I need a steady surface for my pen and notepad.

If you live in an exotic locale (and by exotic I mean not northeast US), and you have a comfy couch...I got liquor and grocery money. Hollerrrrrrr!

~Management

NC & IL

No, I havent cracked yet...I just need to interrupt the orgy for a quick request...

Anybody in Chitown or Raleigh, email me, pretty pls.

(Thanks, MDubb!
Brown Blogger, I tried to holler at you but your email isnt on your page)

North of the Border

Damn, the last post seemed so Debbie.Downer.

And it wasnt meant to be, AT ALL.

In fact, I'm pretty sure this trip will be followed by NO Loser Week. I feel refreshed and content, actually. Had a great Jump Up weekend. Id share some pics but, well you know.

But here are 10 Things I Learned in T.Dot...

10. My outfit is usually predicated by whether or not I can comfortably conceal my flask.

9. Canadian hoods kinda resemble American suburbs.

8. I will spend my absolute last dime on a good meal and a pitcher of damn near anything.

7. Indian men are sexy.

6. The way to heal a pulled muscle is to (ole skool) dance it out.

5. ALWAYS look before you sit in a club/bar. DO NOT just sit in a booth without first inspecting every inch of it. *sigh*

4. Sometimes "closure" is best without the formal "closure" convo. (wait, I think I knew this one already)

3. The classic 'so homo' trappings of a buckle belt, tight tee and braided dreads are VERY arousingly heterosexual on a grown West Indian man.

2. A Jamaican flag hanging out of your back pocket makes a small azz appear larger and more appealing than normal.

1a. A solid hotel/car rental/airline hookup is essential. I'm sooo in the market.

1. I shoulda been born independently wealthy with an international travel trust fund. *double sigh*

Border Patrol

¡México, aquí vengo!
Y las bebidas mejoran estén en el hielo cuando consigo allí.

Translation...

When is African.Pride gonna start making black folk sunscreen with a sub-saharan sunset on the bottle, available exclusively at Ko'rean beauty supply stores?

Mama's on vaca. I'll miss yall. Might upload some pics while I'm away if I'm drunk enough.

Hey, somebody water my lawn and collect my mail for me, pls.
~Management :)

30 Degrees of Vegas...note from management

[*note: sorry if you tried to leave a comment on 30 Degrees of Vegas and werent able. should be straight now. effing blog.ger.]

30 Degrees of Vegas

Oh.My.

I'm back.

From Vegas.

It's just after 6 am, and I'm wide awake.

And trust, Weasy aint no morning ho.

Think Im still on that 'party til noon EST' time clock.

Well first, let me sincerely thank y'all for the bday wishes. So sweet, and I tried to respond to them all.

I had a really great birthday, and I cant even tell you how depressed I was when I got off the plane at BWI and heard the first Bawtuhmore accent. *sigh*

It's really over.

Back to reality.

Loser Week has set in HARD.

I got so much to tell yall about my trip...but I can't remember most of it.

So here's what I do recall (cuz lists are my new fav thing)...

30 THINGS I LEARNED IN VEGAS (this will be particularly helpful for you N@BJ folk headed there in August)....

1. What happens in Vegas carries a logistical improbability of occurring anywhere else...so it really does need to stay there.

...You could get shitfaced, layed, win dough and have the time of your life...all within any given one block radius. I do not know this from personal experience.

...I really like to drink. I really, really, really do. And yes, it does feel like a new discovery.

...There is only one black club on the strip, and there really only needs to be, cuz LV is not a black town. But just about every club plays hip hop.

5. White women find me insufferably sexy. Especially naked.

...Ballers really DO have more fun.

...A limo does not a baller make.

...You can't travel with everybody. This applies exponentially to family and childhood friends.

...Dudes are indiscriminately visual. It reminds me of my 2yr old nephew and his obsession with Barney. Toss a girl in shorts on a podium in a club and they will stare without blinking.

10. I'm convinced they have NOTHING else to talk about beyond every woman that walks past. That shit gets boring fast.

...Good food unlocks the key to my panties and burns away the few inhibitions I have left.

...Mehk! Phiffer is taller than I thought. Uglier, too.

...They charge for EVERYTHING...but the club is the only place you cant sneak in.

...I have anti-social tendencies and require alone time.

15. Growing up often means outgrowing the people you grew up with.

...Carry cash. If you charge things, check your account before you leave town cuz those sons of bitches make a killing by double and triple charging your card.

..."Hey hon, I just won at blackj@ck," is the going come on line. It's ok to fall for it the first time.

...The Veg@s industry would be screwed if the immigration cops ever rolls up.

...Toni Br@xton is too old to be on somebody's billboard with her hoot'nanny all out.

20. The Bell@gio hotel has the best buffet in the world. You CAN sneak in...and take home some jumbo shrimp in a napkin to enjoy on the 4-hour flight home. (OK, yeah I do know from personal experience)

...Sneaking in to places shoulda been on my list of things I'll stop doing now that Im 30.

...G'town Hoy@s!!! *clap clap clap clap clap*

...I need to reconcile my interracial issues before I go back.

...Kissing random boys in front of my brothers is gonna be harder than I thought...but they can't stop me from dressing slutty.

25. Don't tell anyone where you're staying...unless you want them to show up. Cuz they will show up.

...Veg@s strippers are as brokedown as the ones in your city.

...Don't try to club hop. Pick one. Go early. Buy bottles and a table.

...I should probably film my first porn there.

...The pool at the H@rd Rock reminds me of the video for 'I Get @round' where 2.Pac was running around in those white shorts sans the ashy negr0 league popping bottles poolside.

30. Orgasms are way more intense at 30.

Honorable Mention: As proven by this couple at my party at Tr.yst nightclub, you're never too old to be gangstaaaaaaa!

Welcome to Jamrock

The blog you have reached is temporarily out of the country.

10 days. A much needed exodus. But also got some family business... We're all going down for an early celebration of my dad's bday (RIP) and a ceremony to erect his tombstone (apparently this is a cultural tradition in JA).

Life is currently moving at warp speed. Got lots to share upon my return.

But please feel free to talk amongst yourselves...here's a topic...

You have 2 tickets to Montego Bay...who do you take?

Are you certain that person would take you?

Or would you sell the tickets to cover the rent? :)

There's just something about sun, sangria and sex that makes lifelong friends out of otherwise perfect strangers. See yall out on the beach one day...Uncle Slishy, can't you organize a trip or sumthin. :)

"THE DRAMATIC FINALE"...What Happened in Vegas: PT V

Last time on “WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…” (Part IV) ...I almost had to choke a B
PT III ... I almost signed with Death Row
PT II ...all dressed up and nowhere to go
PT I ...just happy to be there

And now, the Dramatic Conclusion…thank GOD. How long were you there anyway?!

I’m not even gonna front…and I was quite vocal about this to my crew…when we left the club I wanted to hurl. I could feel the night’s liquid indiscretions settling into my stomach and I wanted no parts of it.

But I was a soldier, standing in the loooong azz line outside of Caesars while my crew tried pathetically to hustle their way to the front of the line. The Boss of Me was starving, and when he’s hungry he gets festive. He dances.

So we head to the Pink Pony, our fav late night diner, and wait on some food. Again, I’m sitting there knowing that I should empty my stomach before I eat, but I don’t. Too exhausted and weak to go to the bathroom and back.

Finally sitting still I notice my quadriceps are on fire. Too much gettin’ low. It’s at this point that I recall a guy on the dance floor wearing this girl out. He was literally ON THE FLOOR, yet still on his feet, and the girl was doing her best to keep up. She was no match.

I realize that guy was Anger Management.

I’m telling Mommy.

So we’re waiting on our food, recalling the events of the night…but the crew is sans Entourage (with the white girl who dodged a bullet), and Bourgie…who knows where his pretty azz is. [editor's note: all this time I thought he just wasn't ready to leave... but he calls me today and informs that we left him at the club. No one bothered to look for him, so he walked back to the telly alone.]

We’re all pretty tore down, but none more than "London Bridge". There is a reason he is so named. All weekend LB has been mistaken for Charles Barkley. It all started Friday when he was wearing the Sixers throwback jersey. White women were begging for his autograph, posing for pics. He’s getting a kick out of it. He’s yella, yeah, and he’s built like a mack truck, sure (6’8, bout over 200 under 300). He’s in MUCH better shape than Sir Charles, but he’s a big, bald, black guy nonetheless.

So he’s basically asleep at the table, waiting for the food. He and Boss of Me are each others’ fav whipping boy. So of course he’s fcuking with him. Taking pics of him asleep, shaking him awake, etc.

All of a sudden London Bridge, without warning…falls down. Clear out of his chair.

You know how you’re nodding off and you wake yourself up when your head jerks? Well you’d think that the weight of his own azz swaying would have jolted him, but it didn’t. He fell to the side, and hit the floor with a thud. THAT’S when he woke up.

We’re crying laughing. He doesn’t even jump up, embarrassed. My man sat there for a good minute, got his bearings, then returned to his chair like it never happened.

I’m guessing this is not the first time this happened.

This white guy at a booth behind ours is in stitches.

“Dude, that was soooo classic!”

The diner manager is also nearby…he lifts himself up and looks at the heap on the floor. Shakes his head laughing.

The next morning when he's awake and able to defend himself, I help him out and insist that he only fell after Boss pushed him.

It’s a lazy day, spent walking off the knots in my stomach through downtown LV.

That night, our last we decide on Light, a club at the Bellagio.

Long story short…celebs out the azz.

The champ is here.

Anger Management is impressed.

Floyd is standing a good 10 feet away and my cousin tells AM to take a pic with him, but my brother says, “Naw, I don’t want dudes thinking I’m dick riding.”

Within seconds Floyd is standing next to him, and says, “Naw, we all fam, yo. It ain’t nothing. I ain’t even like that. Let’s go.” [taken with his camera phone]

AM is startled but appreciative. They take some pics, part ways…and AM now has all the courage he needs to holler at Serena Williams. She wasn’t having it…something about their lame reality show. She was nice at least. Had a huge bottle at her table. Looking way out of tennis shape.

When Keepin It Real Goes Wrong...

At some point in the night, AM and Bourgie are talking and AM says, “Mayweather is like, my height (not even 6’) and he still the toughest cat in here.”

But one of Floyd’s handlers mistakes the comment as something about “I can whup that nigga’s azz. He ain’t bigger than me.”

They kind of shake it off, but not before my brother says, “I can whup YOUR azz.” His anger management has been under control all weekend…until now. Oh shit. On the real, my brother is INSANE. I’m worried.

So fast fwd to after the club…we’re at Fat Burger. A luxury sedan pulls up. It pulls in reverse. According to my overdramatic brother, the driver isn’t even paying attention to the parking spot. He’s got his eyes locked directly on him. It’s Floyd Mayweather. Coming to look for AM.

My brother is no punk, but he’s whimpering now. “Don’t let him hit me! I'm not ready!”

We bounce out of there real fast. Thank God we’re on our way out of Dodge.

But before we leave there is an informal investigation that must take place.

Pour Out a Little Liquor...

"Excuse me, Mr. Cab Driver? Oh, uh, lo siento. Donde did Tupac get shot?"

We had already scoured the lobbies of the MGM Grand where Pac had his last scrap. You remember, the one where they stomped the living shit out of this guy. We question dozens of sources, none of which were working there at the time of the fight, few of which speak English.


We pretty much decide on our own where it all went down...did the obligatory reenactment (London Bridge aka Charles Barley playing the role of Suge, as we rewind to the shot of he and I in my digital camera...I will NEVER live that down), then bounce.


The cab driver explains the legend of Tupac's downfall...yet it's suspiciously unlike anything I've found on the internet since. Whatever. We decide to erect a memorial for Pac in front of our hotel before we leave. Not really. But we want to. For now we just leave it on wax.

*

The taxi ride back through the city to McCarran airport is a somber one. All the lights are to our backs now. The adventures are no longer before us in real time. They are implanted in our minds…if we can recall them.

I start writing this immediately for all our friends, including you reading this now…who couldn’t make it out to Vegas with us. I am the crew’s scribe.

The slot machines in the airport are still a shocker, even though I am anticipating them now. I didn’t expect to see him again, for like the 5th time.

“Hey Mr. Smith,” I say, flirting one last time.
“What’s up, lady?” he says from his seat at a quarter machine near my gate.
“Did you enjoy the fight?” I ask.
“I did,” he responds, shifting his body slightly toward me, like we’re about to tango.
But I keep it moving…a flask of booze in my hand…headed back to life in the real world.

"How The White Chick Almost Got Me Jumped": WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS... PT IV

Ok, play catch up...

Episode I
Episode II
Episode III
Special Report

Now for Episode IV: So after the fight we decide to walk toward the club until we can grab a couple of cabs on the street. Walking through the streets, we can see our destination in clear view, and it doesn’t seem like a daunting undertaking in the mild night air.

Problem is, none of the passing cabs are empty. So we approach this small apartment complex. In my mind this is the west coast version of the projects, or the hood at best…those cramped quarters that resemble just about every building I’ve ever seen in Boyz in the Hood, Menace, Baby Boy, Training Day, etc.

The silent old Latino man laying on a cot out on the front lawn should have been immortalized in my camera…but wasn’t. I was too preoccupied by the eerie silence of our surroundings.

At the end of the complex is an alley. No more like a crossing. Ok, what it really looked like was the setting for this line from Boyz in the Hood: "Y’all wanna see a dead body?”

Yeah, on the train tracks. These grown azz men in hard bottom shoes and slacks got me hiking in my skirt and heels on a damn John Singleton set, looking like a black extra from the director’s cut of Stand By Me. [In their defense, it would have been pointless to double back past old man in cot and down another street. We were anxious to party and already almost there.]

Finally, we cross the hill, literally jumping a fence… and approach the Hard Rock hotel. We consider the club there, “Body English,” a spot that my boy“Entourage” is very familiar with. But the line is already really long…and really white. We decide not to stay.

So we step. My other brother “The Boss of Me,” has just arrived in town from his biz conference, and we have his cab come scoop us up. Destination, back to OPM to redeem ourselves.

And we do.

Well for the most part…

Only two more of us can legally fit into “Boss of Me’s” cab. So of course I jump in, and Bourgie is right behind me. That nucca has such entitlement issues, it’s ridiculous. Had I been a bit more sober, I would have screamed on him realizing that he was allowing the female half of the “Codependent Couple” to continue to troop in her killer heels.

We arrive back at the club and the crowd makes the one last night look like a modest neighborhood double dutch line. It’s crazy in there! But Wise was ready. Earlier that day I call the promoter and reserve a table for the crew. So we front him the $200 for the line, and then are escorted up to VIP. We decide on Henney and Stoli for our bottles, and start taking pictures…until burly bouncer who is stationed by our table, informs us that picture taking is not allowed…becase they got a photographer in there selling photos (which my cousin “Oh Canada” can’t resist).

So we’re already partying when the rest of the crew arrives. They place a call, we tell them who to talk to at the door, and after an extended pause I realize something’s probably wrong. Next thing I know, Anger Management and London Bridge run up on us.

“Yo, they said y’all told them there was only 2 others coming. Stay Hype, The Codependent Couple and Pac aint get in.”

True. We tried to save them an extra $200…cuz they told us at the door that if there were more than 2 others they’d have to pay out the azz for another table. So the couple was obviously connected at the hip…I mean, the wife literally slept in the guys’ room every night, even showered down there instead of in the girls’ room. Anywhere the husband goes/or doesn’t go she goes/or doesn’t, and vice versa. Hence the name. They had each other so I wasn’t trippin off them not getting in. But Stay Hype was so named for a very good reason. We’ve been tight since 7th grade and he’s the life of the party…and this is the second party he’s missed. He wasn’t willing to pay $90 to party and I can’t say I blame him.

Not that the party wasn’t well worth it…

Ya know, it’s not a good idea to allow drunk people pour their own drinks. There is a reason why open bars are regulated...as in, there's a bartender. But at a VIP table, with a bucket of ice, two bottles, and nonstop chasers, what makes you think I’m NOT going to wild out?

Well I was doing really well. Btwn the dance floor and the table, I had it under control for the most part. Kid Capri was murdering the crowd with hit after hit after hit [that's Capri via my photo vision by the end of the night]. Even the west coast shit was hot. So I’m walking from the bathroom and I run into Entourage who is in his full element. So I walk behind him back to the dance floor when we run into this tall white girl who is not faring so well. Apparently these two South Side Chicago-type hardcore chicks stepped on her foot and she reached out as a reflex to try to regain her balance. But the girls thought she was swinging at them.

So Entourage, ever the hero to a damsel in distress, steps in and stands between the burgeoning melee. The black girls of course are bout it, and the white girl is of course cowering, and I’m slightly amused. I really just wanted them to move so I could get back to the Kevin Garnet look alike I left on the floor.

So I lean over to one of the sistas, smirk and say, “Don’t even waste your drink on her.”
But home girl took it as me taking the other side.

“What??!” And before I know it the attention is averted from the real offender and now on me. So I step a step closer and look her in the eye to let her know I’m not playing either and repeat myself.
“I SAID…don’t waste your drink on that girl!” And then I punctuate it with a slight head lean and a raised eyebrow. The Rock style.

They smell what Wise is cooking, back off and disperse…and I exhale dramatically. I ain’t no punk chick…I’ve been known to get it poppin for less than this. And a chance to show off in front of Boss of Me, who thinks he’s my dad and would be so proud of me if I beat some bitch’s azz? What?

But really, I just didn’t have the wind to be throwing bows. I swallowed most of my energy three Stolis ago. I had just enough for the upcoming reggae mix, and MAYBE another two “get lows.” [this of course after a brief, but mandatory (and involuntary) pass-out on the couch]

And I didn’t want to spill my damn drink.

I find out the next morning that Entourage went home with the white girl…only because he forgot to get the room key from Pac and Stay Hype. He slept on her couch in the basement of some house in the burbs.

He always tells me when he smashes. And this time, for whatever reason, he didn’t.
I however, did briefly entertain the thought of smashing the KG lookalike. I gave him my card and he was blowing up my biz phone all night. Mighta been a decent look…had the Boss of Me not escorted me safely back to the telly.

Caution!

Next up…the dramatic conclusion of WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…a sista is gettin tired!

THIS JUST IN..."Why I Allegedly Have Suge's Sweat on My Shoulder"

See the sweat beads drowning Mr. Suge's forehead? [this guy was in line for a pic right before me...so in essence, yes, I had time to deduct that I was waiting in line for a gangster] ...perhaps the sweat was caused by this...



From AllHipHop.com:
Rap-A-Lot CEO James Prince Subpoened In Suge Knight Case
By Nolan Strong
Date: 4/17/2006 6:40 pm

Prince and Marion "Suge" Knight. Prince, owner of Rap-A-Lot and Prince Boxing, was served with the subpoena while sitting ringside at the IBF Welterweight Championship bout between "Pretty Boy" Floyd Mayweather and Zab "Super" Judah on Saturday, April 8.

Harris' lawyer Steve Goldberg will question Prince on Thursday, April 20 in Houston, seeking knowledge about the relationship between Prince and Knight.

"They have a relationship, they were sitting side by side at the [Floyd] Mayweather fight and we are seeking to determine the depth of their business relationship," Goldberg told AllHipHop.com. "We believe that Mr. Prince may owe Mr. Harris a substantial amount of money."

Goldberg said he believes Knight and Prince have several unnamed joint ventures together. "I look forward to getting into the nitty-gritty of the financial dealings between Mr. Prince and Mr. Knight," Goldberg told AllHipHop.com.

"I plan to leave no stone unturned."

Knight filed for bankruptcy earlier this month, claiming debts of more than $100 million. Knight said he filed for bankruptcy in an attempt to avoid paying Harris' estranged wife Lydia a $107 million default judgement against Knight and Death Row Records.

Harris, who is serving a 28-year sentence for attempted-murder and drug dealing in San Quentin, claims he invested $1.5 million to help start Death Row Records in 1991 with Knight's attorney, David Kenner.

The label released platinum records by Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Tha Dogg Pound, Tupac Shakur and others. The Harris' won a default judgement, after Knight missed several hearings seeking to determine his assets. While Knight and Prince have never formally announced a business venture, rumors have persisted for years that Prince and Knight were planning a record distribution company.

Now back to our regularly scheduled program, which is already in progress...

"The Fight": WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…PT III

Last time on “WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…” (PT II)

...The time before the last time on “WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS…” (PT I)

And now, today’s feature: “The Fight”

[Saturday morning at brunch]

“Where we going tonight, bitches?!”

The Fight.

“Bourgie” finagles us into another limo to the Floyd Mayweather/Zab Judah fight. I’m not sure of what to expect, but I’m certain that at least 2 of my 3 requirements for success will be in abundance. And were they ever…

We roll up to the Thomas & Mack Center (where UNLV plays), and saunter past a sea of Boys and get in line for some Booze.

I actually manage to smuggle a flask of Grey Goose and cran past security and I’m sipping and sinking into the scene.

It was like a rap concert. That’s the only thing I can compare it to. Not everyone is there to see the fight…they’re there to be seen. And this is where I finally get a good dose of hoochies.

My boys are so ridiculous about it, flat out pointing from point blank range at women’s azzes. Making comments. Actually SAYING shit to them. They're behaving like the losers I blog about. I have to sober up a second and ask them sincerely if what I’m seeing isn’t make believe.

“Did you actually just point your camera phone at that woman’s behind?”
“Yeah, but the one with the big titties got in the way.”
Just checking.

“Well DAAAAAYUMMMM! Look at the sack on THAT cat!” I say. “I KNOW I’m not the only one who sees that dude’s azz!”
“Shut the hell up, Wise. Go take a picture of that stallion chick in the white cat suit for me.”
Point well taken.

Well a scene is not a scene unless there are some famous folk. And there are plenty. (NBA) Steve “Tricky” Smith. Fellow fighter Antonio Tarver. Patriots' Willie McGinest (pictured here). The Maloof Brothers (who own the Sacramento Kings and the Palms hotel/casino). Beyonce. Christina Aguillera. Luda.

I live in NYC, and don’t usually get antsy when I see money walking toward me…but I go absolutely 106 & Park when they show Usher, Magic, and Hov on the jumbotron before the main event. Yeah, this is my first fight.

So if you’ve seen the highlights (or by now the actual fight in its entirety) you know them boys put on quite a show. Despite the odds (I’m in Vegas so I know all about the “odds” and shit like that), Zab was actually bringing it in the early rounds. And the crowd was loving him. Many more random “Judah! Judah!” outbursts than “Floyd! Floyd!”

Then the brawl.

Then the decision.

Then the after party...

My boy Bourgie isn’t so successful this time with the limo…twice in one night would be asking a lot…so we troop through the parking lot past an insane line for taxis.

You can probably sense a pattern here, and I swear I’m no alcoholic…but I AM tossed. We pass Tarver and Steve Smith again (who I later think is stalking me…stay tuned)…and just kind of mingle with the crowd.

It’s a nice night… I have my legs out… dudes are showing off, and my boys (my big bro Anger Management in particular) are not happy about it. But I lay it on thick, and pose for dudes who are pointing their camera phones at his sister, Wise. Touche.

I even go so far as to grab up a piece of yellow police tape from the ground, let it hang from the back pocket of my skirt and prance.

“You got something on your skirt, boo.” That’s what the boys say.
“Uh huh. CAUTION, baby.” That’s what I reply.

My brother is livid and walks way ahead. [and refuses to honor request and take a pic of my backside]

As I haggle behind, I’m aware enough to notice an out of place Maybach. I survey the scene and identify some young scrub dudes gathering.

Oh shit! Shut up!! Who he bout to get killed tonight??

I get my prance on right toward him, letting the night breeze caress my bare thighs.

Since my crew is yards ahead of me, I turn to one of the scrub hangers on and say, “Please don’t run off with my camera…but can you take this flick?” Scrub dude agrees. Looks too high to run anyway. [note: I don’t smoke]

Then I turn to HIM.

“Mr. Suge, will you pose with me?”
“Of course, honey.”

This large arm around my shoulder feels a lil less sexy than the night before.

Suge Knight has years of blood on his hands and now they are hooked around my back. I’m daydreaming about a lifeless Tupac, and a dangling Vanilla Ice, and yet I’m carefree…but only because there are no Bloods or Crips visible in the vicinity. I am, however, slightly concerned about the buckets of sweat dripping from this negro’s forehead…like he just violated parole or something. Oh.

I catch up to my crew at this cute little liquor store at the end of the parking lot and show them the pics on my digi. They can’t believe my balls. Balls? It’s Vegas. It’s rubbing off on me.

“Anger Management, Suge could have snapped my fcuking neck, and you were nowhere to be found.”
“Wise, he could have snapped your neck if I was carrying you on my back.” True...

Anger Management walks off to find a bottle opener…meanwhile, there is a sudden swarm of young sexies around me. I keep it movin, and prance to checkout, where the rest of my crew is gathered.

“I’m telling Mommy you had your legs out,” says my play brother “London Bridge.”
“Here, take a picture and email it to her,” I say.
“Ok Wise, this whole “Caution” thing is a bit much for me,” chimes in Anger Management.

I pull the caution tape out of my pocket, toss it in the trash, buy a 6 pack of Coronas for me and my big bro, and we’re on our way to Hard Rock Cafe.

Next up…“How The White Chick Almost Got Me Jumped”: PT IV

BUFFETS, BOOZE & BOYS: “WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS" PT II

Last time on WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS...

Today's episode...BUFFETS, BOOZE & BOYS:

I love to eat, get drunk and flirt, and not always necessarily in that order…These are my main objectives for the trip.

Every casino has some sort of theme or m.o. that range from cheesy to high roller. You’ve seen them on TV and in movies. (I couldn’t help but daydream about George Clooney in Ocean’s 11 as I scoped out the beautiful Bellagio).

There are at least 2 common themes among all the spots: Buffets and Booze.

The first day I wander into the exit door of a hotel buffet (sorry, I don’t remember what I had been drinking)…and enjoy all the mashed potatoes, turkey, salad, cookies, Diet Pepsi, etc. I can eat.

And it’s on the house…and the house has no idea I was ever there…several times. Free food is second only to free hooch…

So the other thing about these casino/hotels is that basically if you’re spending money, whether on slots or at tables, the ambitious barmaids will come around and take your (complimentary) drink orders. Not any bullshit happy hour rail rinks either. Oh no. I’m talking bout OD’ing on Absolut at little low class spots like the one across from the Venetian.

And it’s at this same spot that I borrow my cousin’s dollar card and win $77 on a penny slot machine.

“(Free) round on Wise! Vegas, bitches!”

Barmaid loves us!

I don’t know why I severely underestimated Caesar’s Palace, but it was amazing! Spent lots of time there with our friends “ATL” and “TX,” who were guests there. The architecture on that place is unbelievable, and it’s huge enough to house several nightclubs, bars, obviously a theater (they’re already promoting an upcoming Seinfeld performance scheduled for August), and a mall. High end. Fendi. La Perla. Jimmy Choo. Boss. [funny thing, I was just watching a rerun of my guilty pleasure, Super Sweet 16 on MTV...and the girl who jumped into her daddy's private jet to go to Vegas to find a dress was shopping at The Shops at Caesars.]

Friday night, get dolled up and head back to Caesar’s to party. Ahhhh, the Boys…

We get VIP tickets to this spot in Caesars called OPM (“opium”), and arrive promptly (read: late) at close to 11:30. As we make our way past another jam packed party at a club called Pure, I turn the corner with my crew and my knees almost buckle. The Boy of all Boys is headed toward me. No one’s blurred vision is sharper than mine at this point, and I double back and approach him.

“Laveranues.”
“Yes?”
“I think you are so beautiful. You’re an amazing athlete, but after seeing you on Oprah I think you’re an amazing man.”
“Thank you so much.” He is absolutely flushed, almost timid, and/or drunk/high. He’s alone, and looks lost. His voice is like a shy child’s.
“I want to give you a hug,” I say.
“Come here.” His strong football boy arms wrap around my waist and back, shooting fire to all points south. There go my damn knees again. I wink. He smiles. I’m wet the rest of the damn night.

Truth be told, I was so hot and horny at that point, any sexy beast would have sufficed. By no means am I a NY Jets fan, but I really was so smitten with him after reading his courageous Sunday NY Times admissions, and of course the Oprah appearance, that I was ablaze. My crew can’t believe my balls. Balls? It’s Vegas. It’s rubbing off on me.

“Why you didn’t let me take a pic of you and him, Wise?” asks “Stay Hype.”
“It’s not about the pic. It’s about our connection. He’s amazing,” I answer, laughing sarcastically, but only 1% kidding.
“I can’t believe you run into this nigga and you pull the Oprah card!” says “Entourage.”

Hater!

We finally approach OPM and the line snakes out into the mall like a mob of kids awaiting their turn on Santa’s lap.

This is apparently my boy “Bourgie’s” element. He is the baller of our crew (and a very pretty muhfucka), and his swagger is on full display from the time earlier in the evening that he politics with the doorman of our telly to get us a limo. All without dropping the Cohiba from his lips.

So Bourgie is front and center at the door of the club, and maneuvers us into the bouncers’ radar. Good boy. Now, “Entourage” is also on call here. He’s my best friend from college, whose claim to fame is that he hangs tight with a lot of the athletes we went to school with. In fact, this is his third time in Vegas. The first two times were on an NFL pro bowler’s dime.

Coincidentally, quite a few of our fellow alum are in the house, and Entourage could have easily slipped in with them, because he’s broad like a linebacker, and fine too. But instead, he’s loyal to our crew and he sticks around as the second string, in case Bourgie can’t handle the task.

They operate and work us a deal to bypass the line: $200 to bypass the line, then $20 for ladies, $30 for guys, and a couple of bottles.

We’re down.

I count up the posse…where the hell are “ATL” and “TX”? They’re staying in Caesars, so they’re on their way down from their room. 10 minutes later and Bourgie’s panties are in a frenzy, he’s worried all his hard work with the bouncer is about to go up in flames. They finally arrive. The crew is anxious now, ready to get in there and put the “sin” in Sin City.

Final head count. Hold up…one, two, three….. nine... Where in the hell is “MIA”?

She’s…MIA, of course. Hmm. “She said she was going to find an ATM…but that was like 10 minutes ago,” my cousin “Oh Canada” informs us.

Ok, cool. Let’s wait. We’re cool.

Not Bourgie. He is beet red by now. And without his cigar he’s on edge.

“Old boy is gonna forget the deal he just quoted me. Let me go talk to him.” Ok good. Keep poor Bourgie occupied.

10 minutes later he’s back with great news. Not only did he just save a bundle on his car insurance, but he also gets another bouncer to cut the damage in half. Only $100. Oh shit, we’re absolutely beside ourselves now.

And the DJ is playing “The Benjamins”.

Aight, let’s make moves like Debbie Allen. Head count…nine…where the fcuk is MIA? Still MIA??

20 minutes later. Finally I go walking back through the mall and see no trace of her. I go back to the crew who is now all slump-shouldered and dejected. And divided and indecisive. Bourgie is beside himself.

“Let’s go, y’all,” I say. “I don’t see her. Let’s just go in and party. She must know how to get back to the telly if she’s breaking out and not telling anyone.”

But sadly, ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ bouncer has been replaced by ‘Get Money’ bouncer, who has now doubled the price of admission. $300. Ladies $40. Dudes $60.

“I feel so played. I worked harder than I did all week at my baller job and now we fcuked it all up!” Bourgie wants to be recognized for his efforts…and rightfully so. But now’s not the time, bitch.

There’s a flurry of vitriolic sentiments flying and I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The entire time no one can make a damn decision. We’re all, “Whatever,” and “Don’t matter to me.” So I flip the hell out… a bit of a repeat performance from the airport a day earlier… and I start cussing everyone out.

Then shortly afterward, we walk back out of the mall…and end up salty, drinking at some consolation spot called Shadow. They didn't play "The Benjies." :(

We get back to our room early that morning, and MIA is there, fast asleep. The next morning I have no intentions on even mentioning the night before. “Oh Canada” is on a passive-aggressive silent retreat. She gets up early, jumps in the shower, grabs the room key and bounces.

“How was the club, Wise?” MIA asks when she wakes up.
“We didn’t go in because we were waiting for you to get back from the ATM.”
“But I called “Oh Canada’ to tell her I was going back to the hotel.”
“And she called you several times and got no answer.”

MIA gets herself washed up without another word from me…and is MIA again. I still don’t know where she was all day.

I brush it off. The night before I decide I’m not gonna have a repeat performance, just not feeling going out at all. Not pissed, just not feeling the whole scene.

By lunchtime at the hotel buffet, I get my second wind.

“Where we going tonight, bitches?!”

Part III..."Fight Night"

What Happened in Vegas...PT I

Reporting live from Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport on a 4 hour layover (during morning rush hour mind you, or I woulda been out of this shit hole and in Bankhead looking for TI the King of the Souf) [photos to come]

In summary…VEGAS IS THE SHIT!

Thursday…The Journey:

We miss our flight.

Fcuking around leaving late, making stops on the way to the airport (ok, guilty… I had to make a trip deposit at the bank). We all accept the blame…but I had to be an azz and ask my brother who was driving, if he had a clean license…because I simply couldn’t condone him driving a mere 70 mph as we face the possibility of missing a night on the left coast.

But alas, we get there 11 minutes after baggage check closes for the flight. But luckily we manage to get a later flight to ATL, which gets us on the same connecting flight we’re scheduled on originally. And for once, my brother, who we’ll call “Anger Management,” doesn’t blow a fuse, and instead succeeds in hustling us out of the extra 25 buck fee for changing flights.

I had neither the patience nor the sobriety. Didn’t take long for me to start cussing out the Delta Airlines representative. I digress….

So I’m traveling with:

“Anger Management (AM),” my older brother

“London Bridge (LB),” my brothers’ best friend, who I also consider a big brother

And the “Codependent Couple” (CC), a friend we grew up with and his baby moms, who we’ve also known forever.

So as we’re polying to get rebooked and checked in, I’m furiously texting my other brother, who we’ll call “The Boss of Me.” He’s out of town on biz, and is meeting us in Vegas on Saturday. He foregoes texting me back and instead calls me laughing and asking all the right questions ("How drunk are you bastards?"). As I’m struggling to recall what we’ve all consumed, I look up and AM is posing for pictures with Buffalo Bills Hall of Fame QB Jim Kelly. (PS - not sure about the time stamp on that photo, but it was taken 4/6/06. That's my brother "Anger Management," blurred out)

My brother is a lifelong Cowboys fan, so it’s all the more of an azzhole statement when he looks Jim in the eye and says, “Thanks for all the great years, Jim.” I’m crying laughing now, and "The Boss of Me" is howling in my ear.

Later AM tells me he also told Jim, “I’m really sorry to hear about Hunter. He was a brave young man.” He's an azzhole for sure, but AM is also a dad, so I know that at least that sentiment was sincere.

So we pass the time at a pizza/bar, of course. Since about noon I’ve been nursing a Sprite bottle, my makeshift flask, filled with Malibu rum on the rocks.

Not my usual fare, but it’s light and smooth…and there was a bottle of it at my house leftover from my birthday dinner.

By the time we get to ATL for our connecting flight, I’m pleasantly tossed. My brother “London Bridge” (more on the name later) is a smoker, so after checking the boarding time at our gate, and finding that it’s delayed by about 25 minutes, we post up in the cigarette room, have a round of Coronas and wait. We meet up with my boys “Stay Hype” and “Pac” there, and we quickly get lost in the anticipation of our Manifest Destiny…so much so that we don’t hear the alleged last calls that the obnoxiously flamboyant gate boy insists he’s been repeating ad naseum. Turns out the gate time posted was wrong and the boarding time was indeed 25 minutes prior.

I immediately text “The Boss of Me” to tell him we almost miss 2 flights in one day.
===

Have you ever flown into LaGuardia, or say O’Hare or Louie Armstrong…and notice how usually when you get off the plane there are like, restrooms right outside the gates?

Not in Vegas, baby.

I thought it was a joke when I heard there are slot machines in the airport.

Not only were there slot machines, them sons a bitches are damn near on the tarmac.

Muhfucking Vegas!

Oh yeah, Bow Wow was on our flight from ATL…and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t stand all of 3 apples high. I got speakers taller than that kid. The best part was that no one cared that he was there (with one brolic bodyguard). Ok there was one girl who asked to take a pic with him at baggage claim, and I tried to piggyback and take a flick with my phone to send to my niece, but he turned away mad quickly[that's is his back]. But trust, these are indeed his freshazimiz braids. [pic taken with my cellie]

Amidst severe overpopulation at baggage claim, we manage to coordinate our arrival with my cousins “Oh Canada” and “MIA,” and head to the telly.

Over the next 36 hours “Boss of Me,” “Bourgie Boy” and “Entourage” join us to round out the travel crew.

The Strip, Spics & Sluts:

The next 4 days are spent wandering The Strip, pilfering hotel buffets, ping ponging through casinos playing slots, getting shit faced and modestly tan.

If you’ve never been, I will do my best to compile the So Wise “Everything You Need To Know About Vegas” list, but for now here’s the deal. Basically the Strip is a 5-mile road that is home to hotels/casinos and restaurants and shopping and sight seeing. Think Times Square if it spanned from like 14th Street to 42nd…think Times Square back in the smut days.

Spics…

Ya know, I’ve never heard a Latino call his hermano o hermana a “spic.” I’ve heard them say “nigga”, tho.

Anywho, there are none here. These are hard working Mexicans, and I say that sincerely without sarcasm. I can only imagine the powerful imagine it would send to Capitol Hill if the Latin population in Vegas was to protest the immigration bill along the Strip.

Let’s just say they appear to run this town, and I ain’t mad at ‘em. They contribute to a real genuine diversity in LV that I sense immediately, and enjoy immensely. There’s a little bit of everybody there, doing a little bit of everything. My crew blends in nicely.

So the first thing we learn as we step out onto the Strip on Friday afternoon is that Vegas has lots of freebies to offer. No sooner do we pass by a “Dirty Babes and Beer” marquee, are we accosted by a bevy of street salesmen and women.

“Are any of you a couple?” [so they can offer you free tickets to shows]

“How long are you in town? [so they can invite you to some promo presentations about various shows, products, services]

“Want girls?” [so you can get to know them?? Huh?]

This was a very frequent inquiry, usually spoken in broken English. The Mexicans get their hustle on promoting escort services. They wear their shirts that say, “Girls,” have a blond in a slutty backshot pose and a phone number.

After passing through a gauntlet of them for like the whole first mile and a half of walking, reaching over me to get to my boys, I start asking, “Got Boys?” all of a sudden they don’t speak no English.

White trash ain’t even standing in nobody’s hot azz sun handing out no soft porn postcards. F immigration laws. Open the borders, dammit. Puta.

Sluts...

I expected to see so many more, and I didn’t have the pleasure of seeing any. In fact, there seemed to be more couples than anything, and not too much T&A to speak of. At least not during the day. There was a fair share of skin shown after hours, but even that was tame compared to a night out on 23rd St in the city.

I personally find Vegas to be counterproductive to quality time with the honey…I think I prefer it as a Homey Weekend destination. But then there are lots of places like this to get your cuddle on…

But I think perhaps the new millennium slut is actually a preppy dude in cargo shorts and short sleeve Polo. Now THEY were on the prowl. And I LOVED it!

Up next… PT II..."Buffets, Booze & Boys”

Part III..."The Fight"