Where were we? Oh, yes. I last left you in Las Vegas after a midnight drive, hypothetical cannabis chocolate tasting, and a breakfast of omelettes and pumpkin cake (where one member of our party may or may not have fallen asleep on the table without even touching his food. Let this be a lesson to all young men who have just reached drinking age: Jack Daniels is not your friend).
Sam and I, however, had woken up as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as could be, and so forewent any naps to instead enter the no-sense-of-time, smoky, shiny-shiny, cling-clang-ringing, tattoo-parlours-and-wedding-chapel-including (for all your well-thought-out needs), gaudy and cavernous Circus Circus casino.
While I found myself irresistibly drawn to the goldfish and Alice in Wonderland slots machines with their sequins and cartoon figures respectively, Sam went old school with his choice of machine.
Look ma! We won!
Well, we won a little bit. Enough to cover dinner, anyway. And, come to think of it, a pretzel before dinner too.
So much pretzel-y goodness. Hot crispy doughy salty goodness. In all the ways.
You might think that a sunset such as this would be enough to soothe my soul upon emerging from the chaos of a mid-afternoon casino gambling den, but no. No.
It was something else entirely that gave me a restorative boost that afternoon in Vegas.
My people! My people!
For dinner that night, our group congregated at Dick’s Last Resort, a restaurant whose shtick is comedic rudeness to its customers, often in the form of novelty hats upon which are scribed ingenious, yet certainly not blog-appropriate, insults.
As an Australian, I didn’t grow up eating Mac and Cheese, but I will say that Dick’s version seemed like a good’un. The barbecue beef, however, was too sweet for me.
KETCHUP. There must always be ketchup in America.
And salads comprised of iceberg lettuce, cucumbers, tomato, croutons, cheese, and ranch dressing. But hey, at least I managed to find something green in Vegas.
After dinner, we dashed back to our hotel to gussy ourselves up for a night of Las Vegas clubbing. (Big thank you to Matt’s girlfriend for lending me a dress so that I didn’t look like an Australian country bumpkin!)
1. Befriending a nightclub promoter earlier in the day means that, when you arrive that night, your group will get escorted past the crowd of people waiting for over an hour to get in. You will even skip the VIP line in order to go straight into the club. This will make you feel like a fancypants celebrity of awesome proportions, particularly when the staircase to the club is all dark sultry red/blue shimmering lights.
2. The whole “girls enter free and drink free” mentality of clubs in Vegas makes you feel a bit queasy, but then again that could be all the Vodka Cranberries you drank. (In truth, only two. But dear heavens they packed a [delicious] punch.)
3. That bouncer whom you thought was angry at you when you tried to sit down for a moment and Sam took your hand to help you up? He wasn’t angry; he was checking that you hadn’t been roofied. Yay Vegas bouncers!
4. Feeling safe with the people you go clubbing with is an absolute necessity.
5. Vegas can be ridiculously fun, but remember this well: no matter how much you think “enunciate! enunciate! enunciate!” to yourself whilst talking to your cab driver, he’s never going to be tricked into thinking that you haven’t just been clubbing.