unfortunately, i have to defer to my brother for an account of vegas. i am sick on day 10 and the only thing i see is the inside of our hotel room. this is a tremendous bummer because i am supposed to see ryan adams and oasis tonight.
I started to worry when I returned to the room after scarfing a cheap McDonald’s breakfast to vaguely notice Stephanie head to the bathroom and not return after several flushings. Eventually, I asked if she was okay to which she stated the obvious: “I’m sick.” I wasn’t feeling that great myself after having lost a couple hundo at the blackjack tables the night before. I should have known better, but as has always been the case, once I arrive in Vegas, it’s go time. One only needs to watch “Swingers” to understand this phenomenon. In fact, on our approach to Vegas the night before, we crested the hill to see the city in the distance only to quote Trent and Mikey, “Vegas, baby, Vegas.”
Finally, she emerged and it was determined that Steph wasn’t gravely ill, but had just caught a bug. Perhaps it was the Subway sandwich she had before leaving Riverside. But the thought ran through my mind that the realization that she was leaving Cali to make the journey back east had finally sunk in. That, or she had a tremendous case of the butterflies at the prospect of seeing Ryan Adams in person. After all, she owns every recording he has ever appeared on—you would have to ask her directly to get the straight dope.
Steph seemed content on staying in the room and resting and I decided that it would be best to go out and give her some space. We were in Vegas after all. After walking the short distance to the strip, I tried to think of some diversions to keep me away the tables for the remainder of the afternoon until show time. I figured I’d grab a cab to the Palms to see if I could bear witness to some pre-show rustlings, be it the bass rumblings of sound check or the random celeb/rock star sighting. Neither panned out directly upon walking the floor of the casino for a short time so I was pleased to notice the movie theater adjacent to jangling slot machines and obligatory food court. “Four Christmases” was showing in fifteen and that would kill a couple hours until cocktail time…er…dinner.
I called Steph after the picture and was pleased that she was going to make an effort to meet me shortly. Several minutes after we hung up I texted her to report my Charles Barkley sighting. He was handing over a rather padded envelope to the concierge along with some sort of laminated V.I.P. pass. I wasn’t sure of Sir Charles’ id, as he has definitely gained quite a bit of weight since his playing days, until the concierge confirmed. I later thought I saw Carlos Santana too until I approached him, “Carlos?”
“No…but that’s who everyone thinks I am…,” as he patted me on the shoulder. Despite the pronounced American accent, the resemblance was uncanny, down to the black, banded derby hat and flowing short-sleeve button down. He even walked off with two “handlers.” Even celebrity impersonators roll deep in Vegas.
About half way into my second Heineken, I tried my luck at the tables one more time. Apparently, playing by the book wasn’t working in my favor on this trip and I finally cut my losses once and for all after handing over another $75. That’s when I received the dreaded news. “You’d better come and pick up the tickets. I’m not going to be able to make it.”
Despite not having the company of my sister, the show at the Pearl Concert Hall did not disappoint. There’s a come and go policy at the Palms whereby you can step out for a smoke or grab a drink at a less crowed bar and re-enter at will. Prior to the show I struck up many conversations with those who were trying to get rid of spare tickets. One guy was a writer/actor from Chicago who used to appear at Second City and had since transplanted to L.A. There were many Brits and Aussies in attendance as well. Locals or travelers, I couldn’t say but they always seem to appear en masse in Vegas.
Halfway through Ryan Adams’ set I phoned Steph once again at the urging of the frat boys who were seated in my section. “Stephanie must come out!” Unfortunately, no dice.
Oasis’ set was the more memorable for me by far. I’d wanted to see them for many years, largely because the brothers Gallagher are, to me anyway, the last of a dying breed of rock star. Where has all the swagger and attitude gone? Between songs, Liam would move lyric sheets in front of him on the stage with his foot. Ipso facto, Liam Gallagher is too cool to bend over.
It’s clear when watching an Oasis show how much the two brothers need one another. Noel deftly handled vocals on many of the tracks and is clearly the musical leader, but it’s Liam’s snarl and statuesque pose—often with his back to the crowd—that really “pulls the room together.”
After the set of obligatory hits and new songs, Oasis concluded with “I Am The Walrus.” I was by then three RBVs in and the night was not over. “Koo koo kachoo.”
What next after an Oasis and Ryan Adams set? The Playboy Club, naturally. Or so I thought. I was informed that the cover was forty dollars and that I had to wait in line “over there.” Way over there. “Come on man, I’m a lot prettier than those people baby…” The doorman smiled. He’s heard that kind of shit before. “Over there.” But I wasn’t going to wait in line; I had already been there before.
Caesar’s Palace sits just off the strip on Flamingo between the Palms and the Westin, where we were staying. For some reason, I decided to walk off some of my RBV buzz by ambling along Flamingo to Caesar’s. Some black cat in a flashy white car pulled up beside me and asked me where I was trying to go. “Oh, I’m cool man. I’m just cruising.” Apparently, so was he in a sense, and I cringed later at my poor choice of words.
Caesar’s is massive and can be quite confusing to the uninitiated, but I was still able to make a b-line to the Pussycat Dolls Casino having spent a little quality time (this is Vegas) there the night before. Almost as titillating as the Playboy Club, the PCD casino offers one stop shopping for many a manly vice.
Who knows how long I could have stayed and watched the gyrating cage dancers while feigning interest in the gaming tables; moving in a slow perimeter from table to table so as to not arouse some sort of pervy suspicion. I thought I was clever, but not quite convinced that I had a chance with one of the dancers. Maybe next time. A slice of pizza from the “Slice Bar” and a drive through the desert to Tucson were the only sure things in my future.
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