Op-Ed
What Happens in Vegas...
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Tequila Sunrise
March 29, 2007 - 1:28am“Baldwin,” said I. “Carlos Baldwin.”
By informing the receptionist at the Bellagio that I was, in fact, the long-lost Baldwin brother who was birthed in Mexico and remained as yet unrecognized by the Baldwin patriarch — even though I could drink him and any of his assorted children under the table — I was able to assure that the hotel would bump my friends and me up to the penthouse suite.
The receptionist, understandably swooning, phoned ahead so that our Zegna suits would be pressed and laundered by the time we got off our private elevator and into our room. In addition, three blondes were presented to each one of our group. Several bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue Label awaited us at the edge of the Jacuzzi, which was all powered up and ready to go.
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Because we are Cornell students, and hella clever, we had phoned ahead and requested that they collegify our room, so several additional amenities were included. Words cannot do justice to the marble beer pong table, the golden keg or the fancy playing cards with the naked ladies on them. We even had a guy whose sole function was to be on the look-out for cops. The fridge, much like our own in Ithaca, was full of only beer and BBQ sauce. Here, however, we had premium beer and BBQ sauce which was not yet expired. We felt like kings.
Hell, there was even a pass for the little white chapel, so that I could find myself a green-card queen.
God Bless America.
Much of the week was spent in a haze. In between the penthouse, the private rooms, the diamond clubs, the $5,000-minimum Blackjack tables and the roped-off VIP sections, there was barely any time to realize what the hell happened. There are, of course, pictures, but they have been confiscated as state evidence. There’s also video, and I’ll probably be on TV next weekend. I might be hard to recognize, but I’ll be the guy in the suit and the blurry face on COPS. All in all, it was a successful week, only pieces of which — censored by either blackouts, conscience or concerned attorneys — I am able to relate now. Most days went as such:
Wake up at noon. Figure out who is next to me. Pump my arm. Tell [censored] she looks radiant and ask her nicely to [censored]. Have her scream and run away. Take bath in public pool. Forget bathing suit. Get thrown out of pool for fourth time. Stumble into restaurant. Stumble into restaurant kitchen. Get caught eating premium steaks, raw. Fisticuffs. Throw ketchup at A. Bourdain. Run into casino. Sit at poker table. Start drinking. Bet $500. Lose $500. Lose it. [Censored.] Bribe $500. Move on. Meet Gina. Fall in love with Gina. Make plans to marry Gina. Meet Stacy. Fall in love with Stacy. Run into Gina. Get dumped. Get dumped. Drown my sorrows. Buy goat. Run into [censored] Iglesias. Drinking. Ask for [Censored]’s phone number. Fisticuffs. Win. Celebrate at Strip Club. [Censored.] [Censored.] Figure out where I am. [Censored.] See Mr. T. Get nostalgic. Play Pac-Man. Get bitten. Back to casino. Luggage outside. Asked to leave. Told to leave. Forced to leave. Leave. Come back. Fisticuffs. [Censored.]
The above never happened. I wish it had happened. Vegas is fun, extremely fun, a place to go and lose your shirt, certainly, whether you do it intentionally or not. It is not, however, a place that gets to be that crazy every day of the week. It really is a weekend town. Sunday and Monday night, only three clubs were actually open. Those clubs had less people than Rulloff’s on a Tuesday night. On that account, I am certainly very proud of our fellow Cornellians and their indomitable capacity to imbibe on any and every day of the week. But Sunday and Monday night in Vegas were spent mostly in the following way:
Go to bar. Bar empty. Ask for drink. Pay $15. Go walk around. $25 tables. $50 table. $100 table. $25 table. $1,000 table. Ponder life. Curse lack of $10 tables. Spy $15 table. Linger. Spot opens. Hesitate. Hesitate. Hesitate. Spot gone. Walk some more. Hallelujah. $10 table. Wait hour for seat. Sit. Gamble. Three hours later. $10 ahead. Woo! Vegas! Go to club. Club empty. Go to bar. Bar not empty. Bar has dozen people. Dozen people all middle-aged men. Middle-aged men are all staring at empty wallets. Leave. Run into 50-year-old women. 50-year-old women very drunk. 50-year-old women invite you up to their place. Flee. Really. Go to sleep. Rinse. Repeat.
Such is Vegas. A Disneyland for adults, and, given enough bankroll, probably close enough to Heaven to make it all worthwhile. It has incredible restaurants, fantastic shops and the hotels are marvelous. People our age, however, are few and far between, probably due to a lack of that pesky little thing called money. At any rate, you’re sitting at the $10 dollar blackjack table with your hand shaking anytime you double down, and the doctor from Tokyo is just throwing down hundreds like they were napkins. And then he splits tens. And then he draws another 10 and splits them again. And he wins all three hands, drawing two aces, and you draw a 3 on your 11 and GAAH! And, of course, you can’t kill the bastard because it would be a third strike and we all know how that goes.
Then I put my head down. Then I straighten up and look around. Floozies ask for money. Middle-aged men look to throw away money. Old slobby people waste away hours at the slot machines. They aren’t even pulling the lever any more. They still can, but they’d rather just push a button. Wives are screaming at husbands. Kids cry next to them. Grandpa has a new, shiny bride. It’s almost like purgatory.
But then I get dealt a blackjack. And $10 turns into $25. And I realize I can’t wait to go back.
Carlos Maycotte is The Sun’s former Associate Editor. He can be contacted at cam98@cornell.edu. Tequila Sunrise appears Thursdays.