I'm not a parent but I might as well be, considering the antics of my cats. Berenstein, perhaps under the influence of Spring, decided to try to mount his sister, Buttercup. Buttercup wasn't having it; thus she put the smack down on Berenstein to the tune of $250 in vet fees. In order to make sure Berenstein didn't try to remove his e-collar (again) and scratch out his stitches, I've been playing nurse...at home... devoid of nightlife, complimentary cocktails...or encounters with crazy tourists. Alas, I do have my memories.....
While in the midst of a rather nasty breakup, I decided that the "mack" in me was due to make a return. I called up an old friend from the Bay Area (let's call her "Candy" ) to go check out OPM at Caesars Palace. World-renowned Kid Capri would be handling the wheels of steel so I knew there was going to be a good mix of music. (OPM no longer exists. It is now Poetry Night Club.) I went and picked up Candy, put a fast-forward on her wardrobe selection and whisked her away to Caesars. I was eager to let off some steam on the dance floor plus I refused to pay cover or miss out on the free champagne until midnight. We must have gotten there right around 10:30pm.
Champagne in hand, I recall scanning the crowd. I knew that half of the ladies had gained entry on the strength of borrowed IDs. Ghastly. I was pretty disgusted for a half hour because Kid Capri had not yet begun to spin and everyone who had gotten there early enough to get a seat was sitting there with that "I have a seat and you don't" look on there faces. OPM was one of those clubs that was designed to look packed no matter how many people were there. There could have been 150 or 1050 people there and it would still feel like the cozy confines of a sardine can. Meanwhile, Candy was convincing some dude to score us some shots. I knew she'd come in handy.
The night progressed and Kid Capri made his entry. (It's amazing how we're all aging, isn't it?) The dance floor was ridiculously packed thus prohibiting any movement that could remotely be considered dancing. I just stood there for a while looking around at the people. I noticed a guy walking by with a cigar hanging out of his mouth. I asked him what kind of stick it was. He gives me this totally smug half-grin and proudly announces, "It's Cuban, Baby." I asked him to let me take a look at it. Being a cigar snob of sorts, I have the ability to smell the savory decadence encased within an authentic Cuban tobacco leaf. That was no Cuban. The cigar band didn't even have a brand on it. I handed his cigar back to him and advised him that he was mistaken. I then watched him approach his friends and ask them what kind of cigar it was. That's when I knew I had to get the hell out of there. I was in a room full of faulty "flossers" and "posers."
I ended up staying for about another two and a half hours.
I would gladly go see Kid Capri spin anywhere. He was playing all of the East Coast sounds I like even as he mixed in some Bay Area favorites. After throwing a few 'bows and slapping more than a few people in the face with my dreadlocks, I was able to clear a space for myself to get down. I worked up a good sweat and then found Candy talking to some guy who apparently had at least three STDs. I had to drag her all the way down the stairs and out of the casino by her forearm....and she was no skinny Minnie.
On the way, I had to listen to Candy talk about how many guys had hit on her and how she was afraid that someone from the Bay Area had seen her and would probably report it back to her seasonal lover. She then kept insisting that we stop and get something to eat. I refused. I guess I could've stopped after all but I just didn't want to. Besides, Candy had the situation under control. She pulled a half-eaten Arby's roast beef sandwich out of her purse and sated her appetite. I didn't even begin to comprehend what I was witnessing until the next morning. Yes, she had brought that sandwich to the club. Yes, she had danced around the club for at least three hours with that thing in her purse. Yes, she smacked as she ate it on the ride home.
Honestly, I think that's what made my night.
While in the midst of a rather nasty breakup, I decided that the "mack" in me was due to make a return. I called up an old friend from the Bay Area (let's call her "Candy" ) to go check out OPM at Caesars Palace. World-renowned Kid Capri would be handling the wheels of steel so I knew there was going to be a good mix of music. (OPM no longer exists. It is now Poetry Night Club.) I went and picked up Candy, put a fast-forward on her wardrobe selection and whisked her away to Caesars. I was eager to let off some steam on the dance floor plus I refused to pay cover or miss out on the free champagne until midnight. We must have gotten there right around 10:30pm.
Champagne in hand, I recall scanning the crowd. I knew that half of the ladies had gained entry on the strength of borrowed IDs. Ghastly. I was pretty disgusted for a half hour because Kid Capri had not yet begun to spin and everyone who had gotten there early enough to get a seat was sitting there with that "I have a seat and you don't" look on there faces. OPM was one of those clubs that was designed to look packed no matter how many people were there. There could have been 150 or 1050 people there and it would still feel like the cozy confines of a sardine can. Meanwhile, Candy was convincing some dude to score us some shots. I knew she'd come in handy.
The night progressed and Kid Capri made his entry. (It's amazing how we're all aging, isn't it?) The dance floor was ridiculously packed thus prohibiting any movement that could remotely be considered dancing. I just stood there for a while looking around at the people. I noticed a guy walking by with a cigar hanging out of his mouth. I asked him what kind of stick it was. He gives me this totally smug half-grin and proudly announces, "It's Cuban, Baby." I asked him to let me take a look at it. Being a cigar snob of sorts, I have the ability to smell the savory decadence encased within an authentic Cuban tobacco leaf. That was no Cuban. The cigar band didn't even have a brand on it. I handed his cigar back to him and advised him that he was mistaken. I then watched him approach his friends and ask them what kind of cigar it was. That's when I knew I had to get the hell out of there. I was in a room full of faulty "flossers" and "posers."
I ended up staying for about another two and a half hours.
I would gladly go see Kid Capri spin anywhere. He was playing all of the East Coast sounds I like even as he mixed in some Bay Area favorites. After throwing a few 'bows and slapping more than a few people in the face with my dreadlocks, I was able to clear a space for myself to get down. I worked up a good sweat and then found Candy talking to some guy who apparently had at least three STDs. I had to drag her all the way down the stairs and out of the casino by her forearm....and she was no skinny Minnie.
On the way, I had to listen to Candy talk about how many guys had hit on her and how she was afraid that someone from the Bay Area had seen her and would probably report it back to her seasonal lover. She then kept insisting that we stop and get something to eat. I refused. I guess I could've stopped after all but I just didn't want to. Besides, Candy had the situation under control. She pulled a half-eaten Arby's roast beef sandwich out of her purse and sated her appetite. I didn't even begin to comprehend what I was witnessing until the next morning. Yes, she had brought that sandwich to the club. Yes, she had danced around the club for at least three hours with that thing in her purse. Yes, she smacked as she ate it on the ride home.
Honestly, I think that's what made my night.
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