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"