In Sin City everyone’s a rock star at Hard Rock
After spending New Year’s Eve weekend on the Las Vegas Strip, I promise never to complain about the traffic by the mall.
In fact, I’m not going to complain about anything. Not after Friday night, when I found myself in an exclusive nightclub being served free beer as two incredibly gorgeous 20-something girls in tight miniskirts — women who under normal circumstances would have nothing to do with me — tried to remove my clothing.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let’s go back three weeks, when my wife received word she had won a Bud Light-sponsored trip for two to Las Vegas. After much pleading, she agreed to take me.
Some perspective: As parents of two toddlers, we don’t experience exciting vacations much. Anything west of 24 Road is a big adventure. So this trip marks our first journey without kids — a time where we don’t crash on the couch to a “Berenstain Bears” video or tell a member of the family to stop eating the napkins. For the first time since the Bush administration, we’ll go 10 hours in a row without changing a diaper.
Once in Sin City, we check into our free room at the Hard Rock. There’s the old saying about rock music, “If it’s too loud, you’re too old.” I’m too old. Whether it’s my clothes, bankroll or attitude, I am definitely not cool enough for the Hard Rock. The whole time of our stay, I felt like I was the lead character is some children’s book, “Mr. Doofus From the Farm Visits the Big City.”
But I’m somehow allowed inside the Bud Light party at Vanity. This club is so happening, numerous billboards promise that Pauly from “Jersey Shore” will be there the following evening as a guest DJ. Apparently this is a selling point.
This brings us back to the party, where my new miniskirt-clad Bud Light girlfriends and I were having a grand old time, trying on all the free Bud Light gear. Marie came back from the restroom just as the blond one, (Kari I think), was taking off my jacket. She just shook her head. Usually if your wife catches you with two very attractive women in the process of removing your clothing there would be some tension. Not my wife. Hers is a confidence born of the knowledge that her husband has absolutely no shot with these women.
The next day was spent losing January’s mortgage payment while preparing for the big night, as the trip package included tickets to the UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship) event.
I’ve always wanted to see a big-time fight in Las Vegas, and this is the UFC heavyweight championship of the world. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I’m married to the least-enthusiastic fight fan in North America. It’s our romantic weekend — the first kid-free evening in four years — and it will not be spent watching Cain Velasquez attempt to kill a 239-pound Brazilian.
Selling the tickets crosses her mind. “We could take the cash and see ‘Jersey Boys,’ ” she suggests. In other words, give up prime seats to a major fight in exchange for tickets to a Broadway musical. “Sure!” I say. “And what should I do with these testicles? Because apparently I don’t need them anymore.”
We give them away instead (the tickets, not my testicles), to an appreciative couple playing the penny slots. “It’s good karma,” Marie says, only karma must have not been paying attention because she certainly didn’t follow me to the poker table that night. My guess is that she was at the fight.
As with any return trip from Vegas, the drive back is long. But I am ready to leave the Hard Rock and go home. At my house, I’m the coolest person in the room.
Or at least, definitely in the top four.