YEE-HAW!
I was bored two Saturdays back and had no clue as to what to do besides hit McMullan’s. I had a friend in town but he was equally clueless about the next move and his actions were dependent on the movements of a larger group. Besides, last time we hung out, we ended up at a club, I hit on a mother/sister combo at a hotel restaurant and I ended the night looking like this {ref pic}
Needless to say I feared for my sobriety and the innocence of moms and daughters in Vegas for fun. Irregardless, I had to get out of the house so I twittered and hope for the best.
JACKPOT!
My friend UAD1 was going out to the grand opening of the club/bar at the Hooters Hotel/Casino. I had been there maybe three times and all I remember is
1)I ALWAYS lose my signal as soon as I step through the door (this may be purposeful)
2) The bartender made powerful drinks
3)That was the half-way point of the night of my old roommate’s birthday celebration where I spent a lot, got wrecked and tried to fight everyone on the southern end of The Strip.
Good times, good times.
UAD1 and his wife, KITTYKAT, scoop me up and we navigate our way through a labyrinthine route to the parking garage. We get on the elevator and I immediately think “Projects. I’m back on a PJ elevator.” Bare walls, fucked up ceiling and I’m just searching for the familiar smell of urine. I am literally transported back home during the harrowing 3 floor ride down to the casino proper.
The whole time we were praying we made it down safely I thought “Man. My brother would like this joint.”
Don't let the scarf fool you, he's hood.
We get to the ground level where your vision is assaulted by the familiar orange glow to everything that is Hooters. We make our way through the slot machines and meet up with Smashley, her boyfriend and the late arriving Roberto Suave in front of Dixie’s Dam Bar.
Why Dam and not Damn? Because fuck ‘em that’s why.
As everyone makes their last minute wardrobe adjustments I prepare my fifty to slip to the bouncer in front of the long line at Dixie’s. I mean it is the opening night, right?
Sike!
We get our wristbands and that’s when I realize there is an open bar.
As I raise my clenched fists to the skies, I scream “Curse you, Lords of Kobol!” (I’m a geek-sue me)
Suave asks what I’m up in arms about and I tell him my year long goal of being booze free. He looks at me like I’m from another planet and we enter the establishment.
Everything is wood and new. I mean, I really expect to see sawdust on the floor. There is some chick in “the Beer Garden” with a mic trying to keep the beginning party pumped.
I'm pumped. You pumped?
There is no DJ, just one of those newfangled jukeboxes. (I’ll get back to the error of this as pointed out to me by UAD1 later)
I immediately head to the bar to get some soda. Somewhat packed but the bartender is nice and doesn’t give me a quizzical look like I normally get when I just order the mixer part of a REAL drink. She got a good tip for that.
I get my drink and stand in the dance area just enjoying the scene. Such a smorgasbord of sights to bear witness to. There are the black people who we’ll just call The Inkwell for now, in their corner of the room. There is the SUPER drunk guy and his mildly embarrassed wife. He is dancing and I’m encouraging. There are the guys who belong here, ie drinking beer and keeping it real hill-billy. There are the douchebags because there are ALWAYS douchebags. There is the short dude who looks like Dog the Bounty Hunter with a stupid ass hat.
I would be remiss if forget to mention the Elvis twins- one guy is obviously an Elvis impersonator in a gold suit, his pal is a black guy in a very similar suit.
I decide to call the black guy Jerome in my head for the remainder of the night in honor of the member of The (motherfuckin’) Time. You know, Morris Day's manservant?
Dude on the right. Singin' Jungle Love.
They somehow have a drunk groupie following them-this older brunette- and at some point Jerome and I lock eyes. We look at the chick and he winks at me.
I am sure an old, dry, disgusting Devil’s 3-Way is poppin’ off later with Elvis keeping his glasses on and saying “Thank you very much” a lot- shudder)
Sorta like this but nekkid. With a sweaty black guy.
My two favorite moments in Dixie’s though occur when the servers/dancers dance on the bar. (I have to pause and say I blame Coyote Ugly-the bar and movie- for this ubiquitous bar behavior. I mean, I enjoy it but is it necessary? Just serve me my drink) They are dress like a mix of NASCAR drivers/wrestler/super-heroes/strippers and for all I complain, it is AWE-SOME.
This could bring about world peace.
My favorite is the blond who looks like a character in a comic book. (To be fair, the one I do want to see dancing doesn’t- guess she is the boss superhero/stripper lady) They have the routines down and it’s a good diversion from getting bored.
Especially, when we are watching the redhead dancer grind on the bar. She always keep most of her face covered. Me and the crew spend the better part of the even trying to figure out if she is a post/pre-op tranny, a straight up dude or just an ugly chick. KITTYKAT swears she sees the tell-tale sign of a package. I can neither confirm nor deny the validity of this. I hope I have vid of that on my phone. Gonna have to check it.
I think I would have liked the whole “wild women dancing on the bar” thing more if I was drunker but I would also have probably did some crazy shit as well, like dance wildly, so there you go. Which brings me to my second favorite part there...
For the majority of the time we are there, the Jukebox is playing a combination of country songs/’80s hits and generally music I, as a black man, shouldn’t know according to society’s prejudices.
Fuck that, son, and fuck society.
I’m shaking my ass and belting out the hits. I’m getting curious glances from The Inkwell and a few good ol boys, particularly when Kid Rock comes on, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m enjoying myself and my friends are enjoying the spectacle. Suave even joins me and he is a pretty damn good dancer.
Then it happens.
Me, UAD1 and Suave put in a request for some hip-hop and r&b earlier. I guess some of the members of The Inkwell did too because suddenly Play by David Banner comes on and the whole dynamic of the venue SHIFTS. The people who were just shouting out lyrics a few minutes ago melt into the sidelines and the floor becomes predominantly black, with a few sprinkles of larger white women (because, well...that’s just how it is).
Me and Suave continue dancing and I turn around to talk to UAD1. When I turn back Suave is gettin’ his grind on with a member of The Inkwell.
I’m beaming at this point and just enjoy the next 2 or 3 songs before the music changes again and we leave.
This is when the observation that a DJ is vital because they can gauge the mood of the whole party and not just factions. The DJ's role is to keep the whole party rolling and having fun. This jukebox bullshit only works at pool halls.
As we go to return to the project elevators, we make a pit stop at the bathroom. That’s when I notice the two framed collections of Hooters’ Girls. I go through them with KITTYKAT and we start inventing backstories for each of the ladies. Strangely a lot of inappropriate touching and Daddy issues in my tales.* I also learn what names NOT to give my future daughters.
Smile if you had a creepy uncle.
We leave the hotel of hot wings and I request to get dropped off at my Irish version of Cheers before returning to home and potential noise. As we are driving back, we notice an exchange between cars. First thought, drug deal. KITTYKAT agrees and I think that that might be a slick way to get around the cops if I’m ever forced into that line of work.
I say adios to the Dynamic (Married) Duo for the night and enter McMullan’s. I order my final Sprite of the night and take in the remainder of a rugby game. Excuse me, rugby MATCH. I really want to play that sport one day but first maybe I should gain a few pounds.
There is also a new smoking hot bartender trainee there. Need to get more intel on that front....not that I’m going to do anything but it’s just good information to have.
I leave and enter into the emo-fest that is my home. I shoot the shit for about five minutes before I decide I’ve had enough of watching Call of Duty.
I crash with the haunting visions of gold Elvis love hurting my brain before a blond superhero/stripper rescues me. She is quickly knocked out of orbit by her redhead she-male archenemy who proceeds to give me a lap dance. I wake up in a cold sweat.
GROAN...
God. I could use a cold brewski right about now.
* Don't get me wrong. I'm sure most of those girls are there just making a living and have NO issues. Or just REALLY like hot wings.
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