Doing Vegas Right!

In Vegas for a bachelor party. 10 guys. MGM Grand Hotel. This was my Saturday:

11am: Wake up after 4 hours of "sleep." Re-orient self. Notice male friend in bed with me, no recollection of how that happened. Hope like hell I didn't drunkenly fuck him or try to suck his dick.

Noon - 4pm: Relax in the MGM pool. Oggle Vegas ass, and hope that chlorine kills the STD's that are probably floating around. In lieu of breakfast or lunch, Drink fruity drink from a two foot high souvenir glass. Very disturbed by how few people seem to be leaving the pool to go the bathroom.

4-5pm: Attempt 4 man nap in room with 2 beds. Get distracted watching Marlins-Cubs game on TV. When someone turns the game off, conversation drifts toward masturbating and then awkward silence. The game is turned back on.

5-7pm: 4 man nap in the room. Wake up at 7 feeling about as horrible as possible. I can't move. The only thought in my head is that if I killed the other three guys, I could go back to sleep.

7-8:15pm: 4 guys take turns showering. We're late for dinner reservation because one of us has to iron his "going out shirt" and put more gel in his hair. We all confirm our heterosexuality by not ever asking each other how we look. Grab an ice cold Smirnoff Ice for the walk to dinner.

8:30-11:30pm: Eat $100/person dinner at pricey seafood restaurant. Watch buddies drink white wine and discuss Sea Bass. Guy next to me gets completely hammered, and says out loud, unsolicited and to nobody "Man, I should have fucked that Asian chick five years ago."

11:35pm: Dinner over, at ATM with friend, get mistaken for gay couple in our 40's on our way to Rod Stewart Concert. More details on that in previous blog.

Midnight: Standing outside Studio 54 Night Club, I ask the Bachelor if he really wants to go inside. He says: "Yeah, man. I feel like dancing."

Midnight-3am: Inside Studio 54 with 9 other guys. We dance, we laugh, we get bottle service and drink Vodka-Cranberries. Realize that hot female dancer on podium has been replaced with a shirtless guy. Begin to wonder if the Bachelor is marrying a man or woman or if I've drunkenly wandered into a different all gay club. Again.

3:15am: Realize that my eyes are having a hard time focusing. Drink an entire Red Bull to try and sober up/stay awake. This fails. Of the 9 of us that came in, only about 4 others remain. Have an actual fantasy about just laying down in my bed and going to sleep. Slip out the door and drunkenly stumble back to room.

9am: Wake up with same male friend in bed with me again. I'm ony wearing boxers, but have no recollection of taking my clothes off. Wonder aloud if last night was the gayest heterosexual bachelor party ever. Bed-mate responds with disturbing overconfidence: "Oh yeah."

Tickets - The End of My Self Esteem

I was in Vegas recently for a bachelor party. There are two stories to tell, but I'm going to stick with one for now.

It was about 10:30 Saturday and my friend Jon and were, where else, waiting in line at an ATM. We'd just finished dinner and were gearing up for a night of "activities." We got our cash and turned to walk away when we were approached by two women in their mid to late 40's. Not young. And frankly, while they were dressed kind of slutty, they weren't the kind of 40 somethings who are desperately trying to look younger. These ladies were on the prowl for guys their age. So they stopped us. We are both 30 years old.

Lady #1: What's up guys? You have tickets?

We have no idea what she's talking about. We didn't have tickets to anything. We shrugged our shoulders, gave her a confused a look and said "No."

She and her friend then rolled their eyes at each other and looked at us like they were teenagers, and we were their parents. Then, with more attitude than I'd have thought possible, we got this thrown in our face:

Lady #1: Uh, Rod Stewart tickets.
Lady #2: They have no idea.

Then they walked off. We laughed briefly, making jokes like "we have no idea? They're heading off to see Rod Stewart!" (It's worth noting here, that I was under the impression Rod Stewart was dead). We went back to the restaurant to meet our friends and forgot about it.

Until about 10 minutes later, when a devastating thought occurred to me: Jon and I are not ugly - at least he's not, and there we were in our jeans and button down shirts inside the MGM Grand Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada preparing for a night of unimaginable debauchery, and these two women took one look at us and immediately, without any hesitation assumed that we were there to attend a Rod Stewart concert.

What the fuck? What do we look like? What vibe are we giving off? How could this be?

You know what kind of people go to Rod Stewart concerts. They're old. They wear Tommy Bahama shirts. They don't like any music they can't understand the words to and when they have sex it's only for recreation and not reproduction (if you catch my drift). They're also all white, but that's besides the point.

I don't need to tell you that this completely ruined our night. Any sense of confidence we may have had was long gone.

Thankfully, in Vegas, you never have to walk to far before you run into a little Asian dude who wants to give you and your buddies a ride to a fountain of self confidence: A strip club.

Now, if I can only avoid getting slapped...

Carousel of Progress

A friend of mine and I recently took our fathers to Disney World in Orlando. We told them that we would do whatever they wanted all day. We arrived as the park opened and both our dads immediately walked with purpose. Their destination (after the bathroom): The Carousel of Progress.

For those of you not familiar with the Carousel of Progress, it's not a carousel with horses that you ride up and down. You sit sill. In seats. And watch an animatronic family "progress" through the 20th century in 4 parts. A full rotation takes about 20 minutes. And let me tell you that after the Hall of Presidents and the Country Bear Jamboree (which gives me an erection for some odd reason), the Carousel is easily the least interesting attraction in the Magic Kingdom. And that includes just sitting on a bench all day watching Latino kids get physically abused by their parents.

We settle into the Carousel. When I say "we" I mean the four of us and the two other people who were probably looking for a restroom. We go around, our dads enjoy it on a level usually reserved for sex and revenge.

When the rotation was complete, my friend and I stood up. Our dads did not. "Let's go again," they said. I tried pointing out that we hadn't gone anywhere, but gave up. We sat back down for round 2.

A quick note on the Carousel of Progress. It's not like THE SIXTH SENSE, or THE USUAL SUSPECTS. When it's over, you don't feel like it got you. You aren't filled with a need to see it again and point out all the hints you missed. It just goes back around again. The dog barks and cousin Orville won't get out of the damn bathroom. By the time the Grandmother gets the high score on the video game, you find yourself pulling out your eyebrows. And showing them to your friend.

2nd rotation is done, we head out. Both Dads grab a Mouseketeer bar, sit down and begin to - I kid you not - discuss the Carousel. Appliances they grew up with, similar relatives, etc.
"What's next," we ask.
"Maybe one more time around," they say.

I think that our Dads' favorite thing - next to actually experiencing the Carousel of Progress - is waiting outside to be let in. Because this provides them both a chance to further discuss the Carousel with whoever is unlucky enough to be working there. Now, I'm married, so I've seen some eyes rolled before. But I swear when my dad asked this girl how many times a day she "experiences" the Carousel, I actually saw her brain.

We go inside. 1 turn becomes 2. 2 becomes 3. 3 becomes 6. We finally stumble outside and it's like leaving a strip club in Vegas. You have no idea what time it is and you feel kind of dirty and full of shame and the sunlight burns like you're a vampire.

We head for lunch and end up eating for 2 hours, listening to our Dads continue to discuss the Carousel in detail that Walt Disney himself would not believe. Suddenly, and without warning, an argument breaks out and gets heated. The trouble? The dog's name in the Carousel of Progress. The debate reaches friendship ending levels.

Thankfully, there was an easy way to solve this problem. And that's a full afternoon spent seated on the Carousel of Progress. In case you're curious, they were both wrong. The dog's name is Rover. Very imaginative. I suppose technically my Dad was closer. He said Max, which is actually a dog's name. My buddy's Dad said Martin, which is a name I've never known any pet to have.

During what was probably the 7th consecutive time around, my Dad begins to wonder if the Carousel is rotating faster this year. I suggest that maybe the breaks are out and we might be slowly rotating to our deaths. This prompts my Dad to get up in the middle of what was easily our 14th showing of the day and go ask an employee. When he comes back after a minute (the answer was no), he completely blows my mind by having the audacity to ask: "What did I miss?"
I can't respond. My hesitation results in a much needed 8th consecutive spin around the carousel.

We leave to stretch our legs. The sunlight burns my eyes. Our Dads being looking around for someone, anyone with whom they can discuss the Carousel. It doesn't have to be an employee, an elderly person, or even someone who wants to talk about it. What they're basically looking for, is someone who can't get away.

What I've noticed that men aged 60+ love to do, is share information. Or rather, tell people things. Random facts, or instructions mostly. They actually started to tell my friend and I about the Carousel, as if we hadn't just spent the last 8 hours sitting on it with them. So our Dads sit down next to this guy waiting outside a souvenir store, buried in bags, and start telling him all about the Carousel of Progress. They guy looks confused, and who wouldn't be. After about five minutes of what was basically a lecture, the guy stands up, turns to our dads and says something in Spanish.

For dinner, there was apparently no time to sit down. The park was closing in a little over an hour and that was only time for 4 or 5 more Carousel turns. So we grab an oversized turkey leg and get right back into our regular seats.

"Hurry," my buddy's dad says. "I don't want to miss anything." I don't need to remind you that it's not a live show. It basically waits for you. There's nothing to miss. Well, nothing to miss inside. Outside there's a whole world of things going on to miss. And miss them all we did.

Something strange happened as I passed my 20th carousel of the day. I would have expected the kind of disorientation that people suffer at high altitudes or at beauty pagents. But no. I found myself starting to look forward to different parts of the show. I was reacting more. I realized that day's lack of sunlight, nutrition and circulated air had somehow caused my brain to think these animatronics were alive. And part of my family. It certainly didn't help matters that my dad insisted on frequently addressing the characters. And interrupting them. But suddenly, cousin Orville was my cousin Orville. I was concerned with how long it took to do the laundry. And the daughter was starting to look a little too good to me.

Thankfully, we got the call that there was only one more show that day. Disappointment hung in the air like it was opening night of Phantom Menace, or like it must everyday at the Kardashian's house. So the four of us sat there and sadly bid farewell to our animatronic friends for the 23rd and final time.

They weren't completely gone, though, because I still can't stop humming or whistling that damn theme song.

So in conclusion, if you ever take your parents to Disney World and let them plan the day, bring a book. Or some booze.