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The Bartender in Las Vegas
On a roll in Vegas;
just don't ask what time it is.
Does anybody really know what time it is?
Does anybody really care?
It's 4 a.m., or maybe 5, and the waitress has just delivered another
free cocktail in between plays at the craps table and my flirting with
a tall blonde from the North County part of San Diego whom I have nicknamed,
enthusiastically and somewhat creatively, 'North County.'
This is Las Vegas, and The Bartender is on a roll. Literally.
This is Las Vegas, and I've been drinking since late afternoon, have
had a beer in exactly six locations during the day and have yet begun
to fight. So what if I donıt wake up the next day until well past noon?
What am I going to miss? It's all going to be there whenever I return.
Besides, there's something cool about ordering a drink at 5 in the morning
in a place still buzzing with activity.
To be sure, The Bartender is far better suited to be at a bar than
a gaming table. In fact, the only time I could be considered a high
roller is when I fling at 10 at the craps table.
But there's something very James Bond-ish about downing a few beers
with the beautiful crowd at, say, the Hard Rock Cafe, then slipping
down to the tables for some gambling.
 Yet
what is really intriguing about this place is the simple fact that it's
Las Vegas. Just the sound of the place makes one feel obligated to cut
loose. "Hey, we're in Vegas" is the calling card heard 'round
the city. It's almost as if your parents, the boss or some other authoritative
figure are not watching, like you are getting away with something behind
someone's back. Maybe that's the reason I often don't make it back to
my room before daylight.
The constant availability of alcohol, and the ease at which is obtained,
is remarkable. Pick a time, pick a place and go there. Beer is waiting.
Because of its fairy-tale existence, Vegas attracts an interesting
crowd. The classic gold-chained guidos are still here, walking blindly
past what has to be the worldıs geekiest tourists. Sloppy rednecks co-exist
among well-dressed movie executives. Does this place really exist? Am
I really here?
I keep pinching myself to confirm my reality. (Or could it be North
County doing the pinching?)
I recall, some years ago, consulting a Vegas veteran prior to my first
visit on what I might find in the way of entertainment. The friend,
a fairly well-known retired professional athlete, responded, Man, you
can get anything you want in Vegas."
Asked to clarify, he simply repeated himself: "Anything."
Within a few hours of my inaugural arrival, I understood. I was being
given a lift to a place called the Shark Club by a sharp-looking "working
girl" who spent the trip informing me of her many professional
skills. When I politely rejected her offers, she ejected me at the club,
but not before kissing my cheek. How many people can say they were given
a free ride by a hooker?
Little has changed over the years, except that the Shark has swam
off to deeper waters. In its place are several other giant creatures,
lurking to pull you into their many adventures.
 Next
stop on the Party Bus: PubClubbing
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