March 27th -Party Hoppin' @ The Palms

Oh love. Sweet love. A veritable kryptonite to the revelling mindset. So much so that since my return from Atlanta I've been in bed at 9:00pm and absolutely selfish with my out and about experiences. Thank goodness for party-minded friends reminding me that the National Society for Black Engineers (NSBE) is having its convention this weekend. How could I stand to miss something like that? A sea of right-brained, y chromosome-possessing, brown individuals with disposable income  all hungry for the sin that Las Vegas has to offer? I can't stay at home on a Friday night with that calling! I took a three hour nap starting at 5:30pm, consulted with my friend Lisa at 8:45 pm, selected my attire at 9:30pm, watched The Soup at 10:00pm and was out the door at 10:30pm.

N.E.R.D's You Know What was the first selection on my shuffle and I nearly turned around and went back to the crib when Jill Scott's Crown Royale played (it's so about you, Sweet Georgia Lover Man). But Dee Lite's Groove is in the Heart saved the evening and had me in a bouncy mood as I parked at The Palms. I adore being that mysterious lone lady dressed in black, hips swinging, CFM's strapped on tight, striking across the casino floor. Looking at nothing and seeing everything. I had no idea what I was going to do but not a soul would've ever known. I left my cell phone at home. I didn't see Lisa anywhere and there was a hell of a crowd at Rain. I had no idea which line to stand in. I had no idea whether or not I would be on the guest list. I had no cash money on my person. I just stood in there as if I owned the place and smiled. I was going to get in somehow. This is my city!

About twenty minutes later, after making the acquaintance of Cynthia, Brittany (Britney? Brittanie?) and Robert who just happened to be standing behind me in line, I discovered they had room for one more person on their guest invitation. The dear people were in town visiting from Valencia, California. They'd driven in for three days of partying. (What recession?) I told them what I knew about the other clubs at The Palms and urged them to return to Las Vegas in the warmer months. Afterwards, I received a hand stamp and an all access pass to all of The Palms' hot spots. Sweet.

The last time I was at Rain was for the MTV VMAs. You know the one where Britney Spears made her rather flatulent return singing about giving her more? I walked through the hot pink sequined corridor and spilled into the club. There was a drove of people in there dancing to rather nervous music. I made my way to the bar all ready to charge a vodka and cranberry when the gentleman to my right asked me what I was drinking. He gave me a disapproving look when I told him and insisted on ordering me the same of what he was having which was some sort of shot with a coke chaser. Fine. Bottoms up! Stuff tasted like hot rot. I shook hands with my drink sponsor. Olisa was his name. I don't know what it is with me and African men but it's like I put out an African-attracting pheromone or something. Olisa was Nigerian born and Igbo just like my Sweet Georgia Love and was one of those engineers with NSBE that had nothing better to spend his money on than drinks for my cute ass. We danced. He was rather clingy and I couldn't believe I was outdancing this guy. His rhythm had been Americanized away. Shame.

Anywho, Rain is something else. At one point this apparatus suspended from the ceiling shot out flames above our heads making it ridiculously hot on the dance floor. I decided I never wanted to be anywhere near Rain if that thing happened to malfunction. Olisa thankfully found some reason to get the hell away from me. There's no point in coming to Las Vegas and handcuffing some stranger just because you bought her a drink. Empower your pimp hand, Dog! Anywho, something told me to dance by myself for a bit when the fool standing next to me decided to make it rain...in Rain. How lovely. He didn't just toss up ones. He tossed fives, tens and twenties. I scored twenty-five and promptly left. I was not about to get elbowed or knock out someone's teeth over free-floating cash.

I went on to Playboy and Moon just for kicks recalling the antics of Eamon Springall and the wonderment of the electric dance floor. NSBE's were all about mouths open, hands in the air presumably because they just didn't care. I snapped a picture of this guy wearing the silliest suit I've seen in a bit (ain't freedom grand?) and then used some of my rained money to buy a medium fry from McDonald's. Ah! What a wonderful first night back in Sin City. Tonight, unless plans change at the last minute, I'm doing Whiskey Sky at Green Valley Ranch....

January 30 - Moon Nightclub / Playboy at The Palms

Last night started at 7:30pm after bubble bath and quiet contemplation. After dismissal of what havoc my work week tends to wreak. After deciding to choose irresponsibility... if only for a few moments. I went to party #1- a private affair hosted by a dear friend and business associate out in the boondocks of Henderson. I never really know what to expect at these types of house parties. Friends of friends are still strangers and unknown energies. I approach these scenarios as I do all others; with shoulders back, head high, and the aggressive intent of scaring the "niceness" out of anyone who dares to form a concrete assumption about me. I shake hands with everyone in the room, repeat their names back to them and look them squarely in the eye. It could very well be that I will not remember a single name of anyone I met unless it is attached to a business card. That is not my goal. I am the one who is not be forgotten. That's my special brand of Ego-trippin.'

There was good conversation on the personal experiences of 9/11, the state of marketing in Southern Nevada and getting better acquainted with the local networking scene. Then sadly, I was forced to school an Australian dude on the constant contributions made by blacks throughout American history since Crispus Attucks because according to said Australian we darkly-hued individuals didn't get involved until Barack Obama threw his hat into the ring. Bless his heart. (February is Black History Month. Black History is American History. Find a friend. Exchange ideas. Be enlightened.) I left at 9:10pm.

The main event of my night would be held in the Playboy Club of the Moon Nightclub at The Palms. I arrived at about 9:33pm. I called my boyfriend as I walked alone from the parking structure to the casino. I wanted to hear his voice before once again being submerged in this LV scene.... and just in case someone knocked me in the head, he would be able to properly alert the authorities. As I neared the elevators, some random man decided to sing The Righteous Brothers' Unchained Melody to me. His face bore the expression of acute constipation. I, amazingly unsurprised, just looked at him. This is Las Vegas.

The Palms was bustling with Friday night traffic. Concert here. Movie there. Nightclubs farther on. What the hell was I doing here? Oh yeah. A local businessman by the name of Eamon Springall was celebrating his 30th birthday at Moon. This soiree was being promoted by The Executive Lounge. There would be an open bar from 9pm -11pm. I was there to freeload. I rendez-voused with the rest of my party, allowed myself to be photographed on the red carpet, rode the elevator up to our destination and stopped at the first bar I saw for my complimentary libation. Great. The "open bar" was free drinks compliments of a tequila manufacturer. That meant the only free drinks were tequila sunrises, margaritas or tequila shots. The tequila sunrise tasted like hot ass. So did the margarita. I don't know if the tequila or the bar tending was to blame. Perhaps a mixture of both. You don't make good free drinks when you can charge for good costly drinks. Damned casinos and their blasted tricks!

The Playboy Club portion of Moon seemed to be a place where the sleek and sexy could get their gambling on without interference from "normal" players. There were even slot machines in the corner. I'm not sure why anyone would want to gamble away their money in the dark. It was hella dark in there! Hella! I did, however, manage to spot an Asian dude with a haircut a la ex-Governor Blagojevich. What is the world coming to? I also ran into my general manager from my direct sales days at CBS Radio. He was now at Beasley Broadcasting. I told him that he didn't look a day over 65. I believe he's 52.

After participating in the birthday boy's champagne toast, I delighted in making obnoxious faces in the background of his pictures taken in front of the cake. I played a little pinball , took some pictures from the outside observation deck and then proceeded to Moon's dance floor. I selected my victim fairly quickly. One Anthony from Nevada Partners. He made for a very fun dance partner and managed to keep up with me pretty well. Kudos to you, Anthony! Oh, if I were twenty-one again, Moon would have easily been one of my favorite spots to party. The music mix was tops. The dance floor had panels that lit up in rhythm to the tunes being spun and the ceiling above featured an amazing laser show. I could have danced all night. I left at 12:15am.

I had three unopened love letters and two special "mix tape" CDs to get home to... sealed with a kiss from Georgia. I wish I could share some of the poetry in those cologne-scented missives....but they are MINE. I will just say this to any men who happen to read these blogged revelations. Gentlemen, if you'd like to start collecting that special girl's panties then do yourself a favor and draft her a sincere love letter using actual paper and real pen-generated ink. Mail it to her home no matter how near or far away she lives. Feign surprise when she calls with high-pitched declarations of appreciation. Tell her how much she inspires you to send such writings. Collect aforementioned undergarments. (It works every time.)