Sore

I'm going to dispense with the, "wow, it's been a while since I've updated my blog!" crap and get right to the point: I am sore. Mentally and physically. This post is going to be long, so don't start if you don't want to become emotionally invested.

This past weekend saw possibly the rowdiest crew I've had in Vegas, and I'm not sure if it would've been possible for me to have more fun. From Spearmint Rhino the first night (hi, mom) to a 6 mile hike through canyons on Sunday, it was overall a success in my eyes.

I'm just writing this as some sort of way to freeze fun in time, so my apologies if it doesn't necessarily flow too well. Take this as a journey into my journal, rather than a blog entry.

On Thursday night, I ventured to the airport to pick up Jon and Tom. After a few margaritas at Typical Airport Mexican Bar with Random Name, we headed to the Imperial Palace to drop off their stuff. Did that happen? No. Did we pick up Clint as he stood outside, swaying with a glass of bourbon in his hand? Yes. For the record, this is one of the first times I've ever let someone carry an open container of a liquid darker than water in my car. Sometimes you've gotta take a hit for the team.

We proceded to Nine Fine Irishmen at New York, New York (the stutterers' favorite casino). A check on the rollercoaster proved fruitless, as it had closed an hour earlier, but I was still able to steal the key from locker #21. Long story. At Nine Fine, we secured a table outside and began to drink what I like to call Real Beer. Smithwicks. Bass. Guiness. Black & Tan's. None of this namby-pamby Corona/Bud Light shit that people in this town seem to be obsessing over. The waitress was cool, I forget her name, but now have her number. Long story.

We met up with Jimmy, Jon's friend from Dartmouth, at Nine Fine, as well. Wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase tends to set you apart from the crowd there. Couldn't have fit in more with the personality, though.

Around one or two in the morning, we thought it would be a great idea to go to Spearmint Rhino. After cashing in our life insurance to get in, we wandered til a table could be found. This is no small accomplishment when half of Japan's aftermarket automotive industry is sucking up all of the leapord-print valour money can buy. As we later found out, it's also hard to get the hot blond to come over to you when Mr.Miyagi's waving $1,000,000 bills in her face. Damnit, we have personality!

Around sunrise, we parted ways and I went home. This is the first night of the weekend I went to bed when the sun had full-on risen. Apparently Tom and Clint thought it would be wise to go gamble til 7am. I'll admit there's nothing wrong with that.

On Friday morning, around 9:30am (after an hour and a half of sleep), I received a few calls from fellow G35ers in town, and from Jon. Oh yeah, there's that whole SEMA thing I need to do. Damn. I got to SEMA at around noon... no pass. I walked to the Media Registration in the North building, only to find it had been moved to the South building. To give you a little perspective, the North building is in Nevada, while the South building is located somewhere around Guadalajara. I flashed my snazzy photoshopped business card, my snazzy photoshopped tax license, and got my Media pass. Oooooh, all access.

Meeting up with the PT crew, I learned that Jon had agreed to have his head shaved with a tire-tread pattern. Why would you do that?? Oh yeah, he won $800 in free tires. Lucky bastard. I can't say I would've done it, but then again I'm Whitey McConservative. Point value awarded to Jon will be determined when I see what tires he gets for the Saab.

Post-SEMA, it was determined that a nap was in order. I concurred. We went to the IP where this plan was quickly thrown out. While we flipped through the 'hooker baseball cards' that the nice little illegals hand out on the strip, a few stood out: One which suggested a game called 'titty buster', and another which guarenteed you sophisticated ladies... in their 60s. This is when Merv ordered an Asian Lettuce Wrap from room service and Tom replied, "sounds kinky".

When the elders (This includes Jon and Matt) were down for the count, Tom, Jimmy and I decided to go gamble. Who else do you know, after all, who can both teach you how to play craps AND turn the table ice cold with just his mere presence? George, baby. We played at O'Shea's for a while, cramped into our tiny corner because the lady next to us had no depth perception. Fantastic. I kept praying that we'd establish a point and crap out just so she'd go broke and we could have her space. I've never seen someone last so long on $5.

I was done playing Tyhpoid Mary of the craps table, so we grabbed some grub and hit up... another craps table. Imperial Palace. I should have taken it as a dark omen when I almost lost an eye to a die thrown by a very aggresive player, but I try not to learn from history. One man at the table stood out a bit, but for entirely sketchtastic reasons. Jimmy made the estout observation that he would rub his nipple through his shirt before he threw the dice. I'd noticed that the dice hit the back wall before the felt (this means he threw them really, really hard), but I'm not one to stare at old men's nipples too often. I believe he was cristened "Sketchy McNipples" or something along those lines, and we made no bones about calling him that publically. The dealers at the craps table would actually move their hands in the air when he threw, as they didn't want to get hit. The pit boss came over and told him to tone it down, as he'd thrown a handfull off the table already, and hit a dealer and killed her. I may have made that last part up. This I did not, though: One of the dealers asked if I would kindly throw the dice so hard as to ricochet off of her boss's head. Nice.

Throughout our craps play, Jimmy and Tom inquired about the qualities one must posess to be a "Dealertainer". A Dealertainer is a blackjack dealer who dresses like a celebrity, and occasionally lip-syncs to a song while standing on a stage in the middle of the "Dealertainer Pit". Apparently you must be an entertainer first, then you will be trained as a dealer. They lip-sync, so I'm not 100% sure about what we're putting under the "entertainer" heading, but I'm sure it's something more substantial than shoving your dress full of kleenex to look like Dolly Parton. Tom decided he could do a great Madonna, and we all agreed.

After one incredibly hot streak where I rolled more 6s and 8s than you could shake a croupier's stick at (har har), I went as cold as ice. This will only make sense if you know how to play craps, but I rolled: 3, 12, 8, 7. Nice.

Back to the room with a belly full of beer, thanks to our waitress who was a little heavy on the eye shadow and a little short on the vocabulary. "Honey", "Baby", and "Sweetie" were the mots du jour.

Jon joined our haggard crew, and we were off to the Monte Carlo. We walked in, through, and back out to the car. It's that exciting. Our next stop was Fat Burger to get Jon some grub. As we sat there and Jimmy began to recall his rickshaw story, I started laughing hysterically. I'm not sure why. I think it was the combination of the hilarity of the story, and the fact that we were all sitting in Fat Bruger with a "Cletus" receipt on the table, and "I'm Every Woman" came on the jukebox next to us. This was the most insane case of the church-giggles I've had in a while, and while I wish I could tell you where it came from, all I know is that I was crying from laughing for no apparent reason. Sweet.

Around this time, Tom asked about gay marriage in Nevada. It might have been at some other time, but the time is not important here, people- it's the sentiment. I informed him that no, even Nevada doesn't allow that stuff. When asked why he posed the question, he said "because I would totally marry one of you guys right now". This concerned me until I heard the rationale: The story. Think about it. You would have THE end-all-be-all story for any party. Someone tells you about how they got drunk and fell on a cactus? Psh. "One time, I got drunk off Wild Turkey in Vegas and married a dude". That, my friends, is a story. This leads to a hilariously disturbing moment later in the evening, but that's for another time.

Procuring 40s was next on the To Do list, and that was done with relative ease. Of course, mine was Heineken and was really only about 30oz, but it's the thought that counts. Fo-dees in hand, we entered the Bellagio parking lot. We checked out the conservatory and Chihuly ceiling, all the while sipping our uber-classy beverages. Jimmy's was still in the paper bag.

Of course, what trip to the Bellagio would be complete without the obligatory fountain viewing? Merv, Matt, and Doc Kling were outside waiting for us, and after a couple shows they headed inside to catch "O". This is where our trails parted for a couple hours.

I left and met Malida at the Rio. We were supposed to party it up in a suite at the Wynn or Venetian, but everyone decided they wanted to go to PURE. Bad call, people. Bad. Malida and I instead headed back to my place in Henderson where I promptly did two things: Chugged a redbull, and tried to take a nap. In that order. Bad call, George. Bad.

An hour or so later, we were haded back to the Strip, where we parked at the Bellagio and met up with the guys. A friend out here had set up a line-skip, free admission, and free drinks all night at Coyote Ugly, so we ambled/sauntered/perambulated in that direction. The monorail/tram in the back of the Bellagio got us there relatively quickly, and we found ourselves passing the line and being led through employee- only areas to our private bar pretty quickly. What was step 1? Round of Jaeger bombs, s'il vous plait. Oh what the hell, let's have another round. And another.

From this point on, all reports are somewhat spotty, but I know I had a blast. Malida was a good sport and took the necessary compromising pictures with us (chinese fingercuffs, anyone?), and we decided to take some stupid pictures of our own. You'll see them some day during a political campaign I'm sure, so I needn't bother you with details *cough*

Jon, Matt, Doc Kling, and Mervis left us early on in the evening, as they were going climbing at Red Rock in the morning. Tom, Jimmy, Malida, and I however, were not. We pretty much cemented that fact when Tom ordered us a round of Wild Turkey shots. Michelle, our bartender, was fantastic. Quick to the draw with triple-pours, and she even warned us "You guys are going to be sick tomorrow with all this mixing". Jimmy's response to this statement was to order a Hypnotiq & Hennessey. My reaction to that will be described later. I was kindly told that our tab had reached an excess of $800. We didn't have to pay it, but at least we broke a good number. Not bad for 4 people, as 4 of them had left pretty early, and two of them don't drink.

We went to dance for a while, and Malida has reminded me that at one point her legs were wrapped around my torso as a guy behind me cheered and yelled, "Break her!" Tom, Jimmy, and I then got into a game of grab-ass with Malida. Apparently I slapped her juicy bee-hind and then implored my friends to follow suit. They did. Technically it's not harassment, as she grabbed us right back. I think she got her money's worth. That's all for my memories of dancing.

Finding our way to the tram was fun. Jimmy insisted, "I don't wanna ride the tram, I want to go HOME!". Calm down there, Cochise. Malida and I did some fancy footwork (albeit not much of it with our feet) while waiting for the our ride, then Tom and Malida showed off their stripper-pole skills on the tram. Pictures to follow.

We got Malida home, then went to the Imperial Palace. Did you know there's a breathalyzer built into their parking garage? Uh huh. We took that as a contest, and decided to try it out. Of course, we kept feeding nickels into the machine which clearly took quarters, so that should've been an instant failing grade. Seeing three twenty-something guys standing in a hallway blowing frantically into a wall-mounted machine would normally trigger some sort of physical or social alarm, but hey, this is Vegas. Up to the room, where I passed out for a good stint so I could get my car and drive home. By the time that happened, it was again sunlight.

Cumulative hours of sleep: 3.2

I returned to the strip around noon the next day, toting a bag of In-N-Out burgers and a Bud Light. Before I got there, Jimmy was dancing to the easy-listening that they pipe into the area outside the Forum Shops. I wish I had seen this, but alas I had to settle for pictures. A quick wander through the mall and attached Exotic Car dealership (Where they don't carry McLaren wife-beaters, as Tom found out after asking the sales rep) and we were off again.

Mandalay Bay is a must-see here, so we checked out The Hotel and Tom won some dosh at a slot machine. $32.50 off of a $2 investment doesn't hurt around these parts. The stomachs were grumbling, so we grabbed a seat at Georgio, a semi-posh Italian eatery in Mandalay. Sitting at the bar and looking like hell, we swapped war stories from the preceding evening and drank from the carafes of water that the bartender determined each of us needed. Somewhere around this point, Tom decided to go ask a sleezy man and his wife (or hooker) why they were pointing at us. Little did we know it was all an elaborate plot on his part. Sneaky Tom. Within ten minutes, there were shots of Wild Turkey on the bar in front of us, compliments of The Sleeze from Belize. After we had dispensed with them, Tom honed in on the next target: the hard-up, middle-aged female sales reps from the mid west who were drinking themselves to death at the bar.

I'll take this time to mention that I described the Hyp & Hennessey concoction as "poo warmed poo on poo, served with a side of poo". I also discovered that there had been a proposal the previous evening. Names of offending parties withheld for dignity and security purposes.

I wrote "free shots from old chicks" on my arm to remember this later, however the C and H fused oddly together, and I forgot to dot the I. I subsequently walked around with "Free drinks from old ducks" tattooed on me for the rest of the day. Jimmy had "poo warmed poo" written on his arm, so I didn't feel so bad.

After we had finished our food and Tom was still chatting up the Illinois division of Desperate Housewives, we joined him. I'm all well and good for twenty minutes of chatting up middle-aged ladies, but I want my booze if I am going to do it, so we steered the conversation in the direction of Jimmy 'needing a shot'. Of course the women were all-too keen to buy a round, so we graciously accepted. Let me tell ya, Solo Tequila- fantastic. Trying to hide your arm for half an hour because you've written something about old ducks on it, not fantastic.

Liza/Lisa/Wheezey, the lady who bought the shots, told us that her daughter would just looove us. And by 'us', she meant Jimmy. He flashed her Blue Steel from across the room earlier, and she had a dimple fetish. She gave her daughter's cell # to us, and Jimmy promptly called and left her a message. It should be noted that the woman, in describing her daughter, neglected to mention any mental acuity Stephanie (daughter of said ho) might possess. She did, however, let us know that her daughter was 5'2" (Tom had to correct the height at which she held her hand when she described this, as it was about 6 inches over his head), blond, and had a great body. Way to go, Pimp Mom. Jimmy gave her his card, which he'd been pawning off on unsuspecting porn-wranglers all weekend. It lists his profession as "Arbitrageur". She seemed to think this was normal.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say this is about the time her sister offered us drugs out of an Rx bottle, because she was a "freelance nurse" or something of the sort. I'm not in the habit of taking vicodin from kind ladies, I guess it's some weird thing my parents must have taught me. At least she wasn't making any bones about trying to get us impaired for purposes of molestation. It's not like she gave us an X-laced Jolly Rancher and said "here, little boy". It was a bottle of pills.

The realization that she wasn't buying another round set in, and we left. Since we were under a time crunch, we raced to the Bellagio by way of every casino we could stop in, only to find our party was no longer meeting us there. The time was 5:50, and we had dinner reservations at 6:30. So here I stand in shorts and a "Hope happens... one screw at a time!" shirt, and I realize I'm probably not in the appropriate attire for Smith & Wollenksy's.

Cut to me racing down I-15, getting home, changing, and being back on the strip within 30 minutes. I still beat the guys to the restaurant. Don't know how.

Our waiter was obviously going for the gold medal in the Schmuck category, but the food was pretty good. One dessert was described as coming with a wafer that was, "worth the dessert alone". I attempted to mention that he should have said, "the wafer alone was worth the dessert", but instead of correcting him I belched out, "Way to dangle your modifier". Only this group would laugh at that.

We had a fantastic dinner for Clint's b-day, courtesy of Mr. Parker, and then set sail for the Wynn. As everyone piled in the limo, I took Jimmy back to the IP and the airport. Did you know you can't get from the self-parking garage at Imperial Palace to the front door? I do now. It also took me about ten minutes to make this realization. Also, JetBlue flies out of Terminal 1, not 2. Sorry, Jimmy.

At the Wynn, we watched their water show, which I can only classify as "craptastic", and some of the guys played blackjack while I rested in the lounge with Malida and Ty. Noticing how soft and long the pillows were (8 inches wide or so, three feet long), I mentioned that it might be wise for me to saw off my leg and smuggle a pillow out of the lounge down my trousers. Three seconds later, a man whose leg had been amputated waltzed by. Well, he wasn't really waltzing, but you get the picture. I felt like a real winner.

2am. Tired. I left the Wynn and crashed into my bed so hard the neighbors thought I had fallen into the wall, which technically I had, but I bounced off of it into my bed.

The next day I met up with Matt and Jon to go hiking in the hot springs in Arizona. Hindsight being 20-20 and all, we thought the 6 mile round-trip trek, with hot spring soaking, would leave us enough time to get Jon to the airport at 8. It was 5. The drive to the airport is an hour. You do the math.

We ended up jogging down 90% of the trail. I had to call a halt to jogging activities when I rolled my ankle one too many times and determined that running downhill through a sand-and-shale-filled canyon with barely enough natural light to see three feet in front of me was not in my best interest. The view was worth it alone (ha ha), and the hot springs were amazing. Yes, it was night. Yes, we were blind for all intents and purposes. Yes, we were scrambling up and down rockslides. Yes, the Japanese tourist group we ran into thought we were insane. Yes, it was fun.

And yes, Jon made his flight, even with me playing Senor Drag-ass on the hike back out of the canyon. Matt actually crawled up the wall and jumped down next to me, screaming as I walked by. Beacause my heartrate needed that.

Over all, it was one of the most memorable weekends I've had. This Fall has been fantastic- my Nashville trip was too awesome for words, as was this one. I've really come to understand that there are some poeple in your life that will always just be real. No matter how much time changes our circumstances, it doesn't change who we are. Weekends like this make me wonder why I didn't dedicate more of my formative years to not being a douchebagel, but that's all water under the bridge.

And now for the kudos:

Hats off to the elder Burneys for having two sons that not only put up with my shit, but manage to be some of the most well-rounded people I've ever met in my life. Jon, of course, will always be the crazy influence in my life. We've determined that around every four years we get together and get stupid, I'll be happy to continue that trend, if not make it more often. Clint's definitely turned into exactly the guy I thought he would. That's a good thing. Anyone that can always find humor in sticking quarters up his nose, yet pull off the suspender/suit combo is bound for unbridled success in life. Though I've known James/Jimmy/Slappy for all of two days or so, I can honestly say I'm glad I can put him in the 'friend' category, and I've never met someone with a sense of humor so parallel to my own. Not sure if that's a good thing, but I feel like I spent a weekend with brothers I never had, and as Tom mused at Fat Burger, I'd be content to freeze moments like that in time.

Seacrest out.