I Just Wrote 5362 Words About The Last Eleven Days, For Some Reason

Did you ever have one of those nights when you drink way too much, and like the cocktails and mixtures that you drank were not compatible, like we're talking of the one bourbon, one scotch, one beer variety, and it kind of all sits really uncomfortably in your stomach, especially on top of the seven extra large mozzarella sticks with globs of marinara sauce that you just, like, insisted on getting at the end of the night at some shifty looking diner right down the street where the waitress looks overworked and probably has a few hungry kids at home she's trying to feed from the paycheck on this extra shift, but anyway she serves you the sticks and they just don't sit right with all the myriad of alcoholic beverages you had throughout the long night, and when you get back to your apartment you just run right to the bathroom and just refund it all, like, it just all comes up in one big heave because you don't want to do it of course you don't want to do it but like it's totally gonna make you feel better, that sickly feeling, that feeling that's been building up all night, it's just gonna like disappear, and throwing up of course sucks but tonight, tonight, throwing up just feels like the thing to do?

That's how I felt about blogging this week. I didn't feel like doing it. I still don't feel like doing it. But every day that I wait, there's more and more words to write, and maybe it's just about time I just go ahead and get it all out, and then maybe I'll feel better.

So here we are. Joseph K. and Pamela McD., reporting for the first time from The Can's poolside. I don't have internet here, so I'm writing on Wordpad (too cheap to buy MS Word), and I can't listen to the Phillies while I'm blogging (but they're up 9-3 in the top of the sixth, and let's hope I don't jinx it Hamels won't blow this lead) so we're listening to Bob Marley instead (it's good poolside music when you're just lounging; Bruce is the only poolside music you need when you are actively drinking and partying along the water's edge), and because the internet's out, I won't be able to use thesaurus.com while typing, so please excuse me if I sound a bit less academic today.

So without further ado, and hopefully without further splashes from that punk kid with the styrofoam noodle, here are the last eleven and a half days from our Luxurious Lives of Las Vegas.

Saturday, June 2nd, Or, Like, The Saturday Before Last, I.E., Club Time

Refer to this post for my first club experience here in Vegas. Note the time stamp. That's February 19th. Over three months later, I guess it was just about time for me to be clubbin' it up again.

Things you should know first and foremost:

- This wasn't a spur of the moment thing planned by either me or P.McD. It's not like we woke up that morning and decided to hit the fist pumping scene. This was a calculated endeavor, planned by associates in the nursing world, for someone's birthday, and I, for one, was excited to go. But not because it was a club. Because we were hanging out with friends. Friends are good.

- This was one of those few nights when I actually had to really give a crap about what I was wearing. Basically, the big red flag here was ABSOLUTELY NO SHORTS ARE TO BE WORN. You guys know what the weather is like here. I b**** and moan about it probably every blog post I've ever written. The heat hits like a solid 100 degrees Fahrenheit easy on a typical day, and then when the sun goes down, there's not much relief. But there's a lot of things I'd do in this life in order to have a good night with my Pammy, and if I had to wear jeans and thus wear a serious layer of swamp butt, so be it. Call me a martyr for a good time.

- There was no way we were going into this thing sober.

Here's where I'll give any nervous parental figure a moment to freak out about to what lengths we went to pre-club to make sure we didn't attend said club sober. (oh god what did they do did they finish a handle of bankers club before they left the house did they chug beers on the bus there did they oh no they wouldn't but did they like do something more insidious like popping pills like we saw on that one TV commercial where the kid snuck into his parents' medicine cabinet oh no what did they do?) What really happened was that we went out to dinner beforehand, at a brewery.

And the food and beer at The Yard House was awesome. The menu was pretty thick, and most of that was because the beer and drink menu was mammoth. You like a beer? They had the beer. We mostly stuck with the house brews, because where else can you sample Yard House homemade beers? Might as well drink them when you have the chance. We enjoyed both the bar and the booth when Pam's closest recovery room pals joined us for the actual meal.

Please note that the gentleman to the right has shorts on. At the club. He got away with it.

This was all at Town Square. Have I mentioned Town Square yet in our chronicles? Maybe not. We'd only been there once before, back when we checked out Coconuts. Anyway, Town Square is like the third big party section of Vegas. If The Strip is the first born (that's who everyone thinks of when they think of the Vegas Family), and Fremont is the middle child (special in its own way but like totally misunderstood), then Town Square is the baby of the family. It's gets all of Vegas's hand-me-downs and totally acts all holier-than-thou because no way will it be overshadowed by its older siblings.

Anyway, it's way south, more south than the most southern Strip hotel, Mandalay Bay, and if you are drinking it is only reachable by the SDX bus (see how I subtly alluded to my and Pam's refusal to drink and drive?). And it's a big area of shops and restaurants and basically your equivalent to an outside shopping mall that turns into a club scene late on a Friday or Saturday night, embarrassingly enough.

So we were there. And we left the Yardhouse with nurse friends and with full stomachs and with fuzzy states of mind and basically just walked upstairs to get to the Blue Martini (which, aforementioned in a previous post, has nothing to do with the Bleu Martini in Philly, and I insist on pointing that out again because I freaking HATE the Bleu Martini).

And as far as clubs go, hey, it was alright. First of all, like I said, we were with a bunch of people, all of whom were really nice. Secondly, we had tables and waitress service and six dollar Miller Lites, so that saved us from having to deal with standing around awkwardly and crowded lines of obnoxious patrons at the bar and twelve dollar Miller Lites, respectively. Third, I dunno, I used the same optimism that I've been usually trying to use in these situations, when I'm not really in my element but I try to have a good time and keep a smile on my face, and it usually works.

So that was the gist of our night, I guess. We did eventually leave that club, and somehow we ended up the Double Down, a gay club next to the Double Down, a donut shop, and eventually, back at 341 Can. Not really much to report, other than this. Is there Pam? She shakes her head no. Onward!

POOL UPDATE: The kid with the noodle is now slapping his (I assume) younger brother on the head with said noodle, while father enjoys the chaos.

PHILLIES UPDATE: It's now NINE TO EIGHT Phillies, which means, I can only conjecture, that the bullpen is stinking it up, yet again. And yes, it took me two and a half innings to write about June 2nd.

Sunday, June 3rd, Or, A Day Of Recovery, Or, Not

"Waking up is hard to do," sings the 90s pop-punk band Sum 41 that for some reason I really love, and they never sang truer words for this Sunday morning. Well, okay, it wasn't that bad, but ya know, we're getting older, and hangovers are getting tougher to deal with in our old age (cue 50% of our readership rolling their eyes).

Only a Capriotti's cheesesteak could cure this disease, really, and that's exactly what we drove to get. I wrote about this before, and I did mention how these steak sandwiches were not even close to what we are privileged to consume back in our hometown, but hey, ya get what you can get. And as far as hangovers are concerned, Capriotti's will do just fine. 

Also: they are one of the few places that does not feel the need to add the word "Philly" before "Cheesesteak" on their menu. Then again: they spell it "Cheese Steak" in stead of "Cheesesteak." Then again again: I ordered Pam's Italian hoagie and actually said "Italian hoagie," and the cashier looked at me like I was nuts. Bottom line: I miss Philadelphia.

ANYWAY (man, I use that "ANYWAY" segueway a lot), this was our day plan, to eat and to recovery. Unfortunately physically and fortunately socially, some friends were coming into town, so that lame plan got shot to hell. Two old friends from the neighborhood were in Vegas for vacation, and damn is it nice to see some familiar faces at this point.

Honestly. We miss home so much, mainly because of the people that populate home. I love Pam and I love hanging out with her, but sometimes we'll be at like Gordon Biersch and we'll look at each and say man, I wish we had some company right now. So again, it was so nice having some familiar faces out here in Vegas. That hasn't really happened since the great Family Weekend of late April.

So we walked the Strip Walk - can we call it that now? - and ended up at the Mirage, in a lavish Presidential suite on the ninth floor, a suite that was probably about three, maybe four, times bigger than 341 Can. It was nuts. We got tipsy there around dusk OH YEA HAIR OF THE DOG YEA and hit the town for a bit, Pam and I playing the role of wise Vegas veterans. Ah yes, we should go to this casino right here because they have dollar beers, and oh no, we should avoid this casino right there because its crowds are outrageous, and hey, we know a nice little spot where we can polish off these margaritas right in this courtyard over yonder.

An early night. Chalk it up to jet lag on their part and drunk lag on ours. In any case, it's nice to have friends.

POOL UPDATE: The punk kid has now hit his younger brother on the head with the noodle enough times to cause the younger brother to cry. Oh, youth.

PHILLIES UPDATE: The Phils are still 9-8, somehow, in the top of the ninth. They have bases loaded with no outs. How many runs will they score? Over or under zero?

Monday, June 4th, Or, A Day Of Recovery, Or, Definitely

Seriously, we put our foot down. Today is the recovery day. It hurt. We both had work early Tuesday. It was time to lay in bed all day and watch The Sopranos (and hit the gym for a bit) and call it a weekend.

POOL UPDATE: The punk kid and the rest of his family are out of the pool. The pool is empty, so my computer remains dry. A genial neighbor just gave us a few Coors Lights, just for the heck of it ("Gee, people downtown sure are friendly"). The sun is pretty much down at this point. No sign of cockroaches just yet.

PHILLIES UPDATE: The Phillies had bases loaded, no outs, and did not score a run. "Will they ever win?" asks a hyperbolic friend via text.

Tuesday, June 5th, Or, Okay Fine Yes We Have Jobs

"Hey Pam, how many days left do you have at the 'Rise?" "Fourteen." That's the mindset here at this stage of the trip. We know how many days we have left. The end of it can't come soon enough.

But, like, it's not as if we don't like our jobs. As much as Pam hems and haws about headed to the post-surgery room in the A.M., I know for sure she likes her job and she enjoys working with the people she works with and she is satisfied with how things turned out here. And yea, my job isn't great by any means, nor is it anywhere close to life-fulfilling, but it's a job I am competent at and I can enjoy when I do well at it. I snagged another $25 bonus this week, and that's just for, I dunno, doing what my bosses tell me to do, so how can I complain?

At the same time, though, we're through with all this. A work day is not a fun day. We're ready to come back to JHN and [insert name of hypothetical place of employment for Joe here], respectively.

POOL UPDATE: It's dark now. There's just us in one corner and a bunch of folk in the hot tub, obviously a lot drunker than we are. We're not on vacation, so they should be way drunker, right?

PHILLIES UPDATE: Phillies win! Also, it just started snowing here in Las Vegas. Strange things happening tonight.

Wednesday, June 6th, Or, Let's Spend Time With People Our Age While We Can

When I first started this particular blog post, I at first was tempted to write a lot less than I am now. Because I started thinking: A lot of the stuff we are doing out in Vegas now are pretty much repeats - stuff we've already done and liked enough to go back. When we go to Terrible's to get food or go to the Double Down to get a drink, it's because that's where we usually go to get food or a drink.

But when we repeat like that, why should I write about it? That's the main question here. What more can I pontificate on the subject of crappy buffet food at Terrible's? Is there anything else to describe when we eat yet another taco at yet another Mexican restaurant? Do the folks at home really want another anecdote about a stupid generic casino we went to?

So I contemplated for a while whether to just say "[expletive] it" and, I dunno, maybe make a list of all the new things we did this week, and skip all the old hat, i.e. our jobs and the food we ate at Capriotti's and the casino bars we drank at.

But this day was the day that convinced me to write about everything. This day, Wednesday, was very much like a few other days we've already had in the past few months. We went to a pool. We drank a little bit. We packed it up and went to Fremont Street for dinner. The remainder of the night was spent at Fremont. A good time was had.

Yes, it was a day that we've known and enjoyed before, but yet also it was different in big and small ways. It was like jarring notes in a familiar song.

Our friends from Northeast Philly were still in town (not sure if they read this; in any case, I'm uncomfortable with the notion of posting anyone's name online without their permission, so "friends from Northeast Philly" they shall remain), and they were staying at the Mirage. Not sure if I wrote this before either, but the Mirage's pool is spectacular. It's in the same shape as the old Nickelodeon splat, complete with waterfalls and a myriad of swimmers relaxing and drinking.

So we hung out, we foursome somehow finding four unoccupied lounge chairs in a row, and smuggled drinks in with our official Mirage 64 oz. cups unofficially filled with beer from the ninth floor suite. Hey, man, drinks are expensive poolside. It's nice to drop a few measly dollars on a bunch of beers when the cabana bar adjacent is selling beers for like $20 a pop.

And no day at the pool would be complete without a subsequent night out on the ol' Fremont Street Experience. In keeping with the theme of doing the same thing all the time, we took the bus there. In keeping with the theme of doing things a little bit different, we took the SDX instead of the Deuce. The difference? The SDX half as many decks and half as much travel time. (I actually had no idea the SDX {The Strip Downtown Express} existed until after our first two jaunts on the Deuce; man, the Deuce is sloooow.)

Fremont was, once again, awesome. Our friends did the zip line (we decline - the first two times we did it were great, but, like, diminishing returns and all that, ya know?), and then we hit dinner at the Heart Attack Grill. Yup! I said dinner! Our usual modus operandi is to hit up the Grill for their relatively cheap drinks. But nay, on this day, three of us ordered a Single Bypass Burger (Pammy's Mediterranean wrap was waiting for her right afterward; burgers make her sick, and the HAG doesn't provide much alternative to the meat and cheese variety). Nary a one was stupid enough to order more patties than one. Seriously, the Single Bypass Burger, with it's huge patty and numerous strips of bacon was more than enough. Do people seriously eat the Quadruple Bypass? Do they live to tell the tale?

Ah man, Fremont is awesome. I love the party atmosphere. I love the characters with their KISS outfits or their lack of clothing, expecting tips all the same. I love the concerts happening on every corner. I love the hourly shows on the huge canopy screen above your head. I love the $2 beers at the crappiest and most fun casino. I love the bars at the end of the block that I actually feel could be my bars, like the Griffin or Beauty Bar or, the one we visited on this night, Insert Coins. I love all this because to me, this is Vegas.

And we made it home alive, so that's nice too.

Oh right! Also: I called out of work for this day to happened. First time I did that for this job. Totally worth it. (Hey, they actually expect people to call out a maximum of two days a month. I had never called out until this day. I think I deserve a pass on this one.)

POOL UPDATE: Okay, full disclosure. We're not at the pool anymore. It's three hours later and we're up in 341 by this point. The noodle is still floating in the pool though.

PHILLIES UPDATE: Last Phillies update too. Hey, Chase Utley is due back approximately July 2nd. I really doubt he'll do anything significant upon his return, but then again, maybe it'll give the Phils that mental boost that they so dearly need. They've still lost nine of their last eleven, ya know.

BLOG UPDATE: This is getting way too long. I've already crushed my record for the longest blog post ever, and it's not only halfway through the eleven days we need to cover. Sorry, readers.

Thursday, June 7th, Or, One More For The Mirage

Walking to work isn't that bad in the morning. It's about a mile and a half from 341 Can to [place of employment redacted]. What they say about this "dry heat" is mostly true. I don't sweat on the walk to work, despite the fact that it is 100 degrees out and I usually sweat like a hog. However, what they don't tell you about this heat is that your sweat pores are still wide open, and it's just the dry atmosphere that evaporates that sweat right away. So as soon as you step into an air-conditioned room (at, say, a random telemarketer center), you instantly are soaked with sweat. This is my Thursday morning.

But hey, I'm still getting that paycheck, so who's complaining about a little sweat?

Thursday night was another version of "Can We Please Stay In Tonight I'm Tired" because, like I said, we're getting old and can't handle our hangovers. So basically we walked to the Mirage for one beer - okay, maybe two - and for our swim clothes that we left there the day before - what, should we have carried them to Fremont? - and to say our goodbyes to our dear friends who let us crash their vacation a few times. We had a great time with them while they were here, for sure.

BLOG UPDATE: I seem to be a big fan of run-on sentences tonight. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Friday, June 8th, Or, JOE DAY

I feel bad sleeping in when Pam has to wake up early for work. Kinda bad. I feel bad when I wake up at noon, in any case. I do. And I feel bad as I get out of bed an hour after that, and make myself a big breakfast. And I feel really bad when I watch a little TV, then stretch and hit the gym for an hour, and then lounge about in my undies and listen to the Phillies play a little baseball (overstatement). And I feel bad just about to the point when Pam walks in, and then I don't feel bad anymore, because my weekend ends, and our weekend begins.

OUR weekend usually starts out real easy. Like, it's rare that we'd go out on a night when Pammy's getting home late from work. But we try to do something at least. So this particular Friday we decided to hit up a casino we hadn't been to yet. It was called Tuscany and it is located just right down the street on Flamingo. It looks exactly like every other casino off-strip, and the dining area that we went to looked the same too. That's not to say that the food was bad. As per usual with casino dining, the food was very good and the price was very good.

I got the Reuben sandwich. I always get the Reuben. I'm a bit obsessed.

BLOG UPDATE: We seem to be winding down a little bit here. Sometimes there's not much to say after you reach a certain point.

Saturday, June 9th, Or, ....Lake Mead

Now that I think about it, I'm not quite sure who filled our head with thoughts about Lake Mead. Was it one person, or was it a bunch of people? Or did maybe I read about the wonders of Lake Mead online or something? In any case, I feel like we've been hearing about Lake Mead for a while now. It's been on our list of things to do pretty much since we got here. Who wouldn't want to take a nice dip in a cool lake on a hot Nevada summer's day?

So we were excited that an empty Saturday on the calendar turned into a trip to ol' Mead. It was a can't-miss day of fun. Everyone that had anything to say about the ol' Lake assured us that it would be a pretty awesome experience, and that we wouldn't regret it (again, this could all be in my head, I can't even recall one instance of someone saying this).

So we drove to Lake Mead in Fashionette (Pam's car - do you still not get the reference?) and got there and .... it.... ugh.

Not good, folks.

Okay, back up. The scenery was nice. Look at this picture. It's just shy of being beautiful, really. So when we pulled up in the car, we still had high hopes.

We step out of the car. Winds intense. Sands blowing. But hey, this is not unnatural at a beach. Sand is always blowing all up in your grill on the beach.

This wasn't quite the sand you know and love. I'd describe it more as dirt. Look at the beach. Wait, let me retype that. Look at the "beach." It's a bunch of rocks and dirt along the water's edge. It's not a beach you'd lie out on to get a tan. It's the type of beach that you run across quickly to get to the water, and hope to God that before you get to the water you don't stub your toe or get peed on by a mongrel dog roaming the coastline.

We got to the water. We look back quickly. Our chair had already blown over in the high winds. All our possessions are in the sand. Onward. We step into the lake. The first few feet is sand between our toes. Okay. The next few feet is just pure rock. That's okay too. After that we step into what can only be described as mud. It was unpleasant. It was like, imagine if you were stepping into a lake full of pancake batter. That's what the ground we walked on felt like under the murky brown water.

We looked to our right. A huge rusty pier rose above us, and jutting out was a rust pipe with an ominous liquid pouring out of it. We looked to our right. A mangy looking dog was rolling around in the shallow water while mangy looking kids throw mud at it. We looked in front of us, saw the winds whipping the sand/dirt onto everyone trying to enjoy a day at the "beach," and basically called it a day. This wasn't worth it.

Lake Mead was a bust.

Hey! Even bad days are good, I'd argue. First of all, we tried something new. At this point, it's so hard to figure out new things to do, that even visiting the worst lakeside recreation center constitutes a success. Secondly, it's a good story. We were at this abomination! It was funny! Third, we were together. I'd rather be at a crappy Lake Mead with Pam than on the crystal sand beaches of the Caribbean by myself.

Fourth, I never thought I'd say this, but we finally found a place that makes the Jersey Shore look good. As much as we lovingly talk smack on the quality of the beaches and the oceans of Wildwood... seriously, Lake Mead made Wildwood look like a five-star, National Geographic-recommended beach. I love it.

We drove immediately home and immediately jumped in our pool to wash off the Lake Mead germs (and quagga mussels?).

Dinner that night was fiesta chicken in the crockpot. Pam and I are now like the King and Queen of the Crockpot. At least once a week we cook something in that darn thing and it always spits out an amazing meal.

Dessert was a power hour.

BLOG UPDATE: Pam is now asleep. I'm trying to blog quietly so as to not wake her. She has to wake up for work in about five and a half hours.

Sunday, June 10th, Or, Sports!

On the seventh day, God rested, and He apparently says we should too, but hey, not when the Phillies are playing a day game and you live three time zones behind them.

My parents and grandparents were in Baltimore for the big Phillies-O's match-up, and even though the game started at 10:35 a.m. Pacific Standard Time, we decided it would be a good day to wake up early and watch them at Lagasse's Stadium.

Yes, Emril has his own sports book here in Vegas. And it. Was. Awesome. Check it out:

We had our own little section to watch the game, our own TV and everything. The chairs were comfy. The food was delicious (it better be, Emeril). The beer was plentiful. We had such an amazing morning, despite the fact that 98 people out of 100 there were soccer fans who were watching a documentary about the two worst things in history (soccer and the Holocaust) in between bouts of European soccer, both games in which the two teams tied and soccer is so bad and ughdsufdsagsgdsagsanjgnfd...

Breathe. Breathe. It's all over.

We had a great time. Okay, the Phillies lost. So let's say up until the bottom of the 10th inning, we had a great time.

BLOG UPDATE: Wow, this is getting boring. I think it's because the few beers I had tonight are wearing off. I write better tipsy.

Monday, June 11th, Or, Woke Up, Fell Out Of Bed, Dragged A Comb Across My Head, Found My Way Downstairs And Had A Cup, And Looking Up, I Noticed I Was Late

Pam worked an extra shift Monday. BOO.

I cooked chicken and waffles (PA Dutch style) for her when she got home. YAY.

But really, Monday was all about finally getting to see LOVE.

Pam's been raving to me about the Beatles' Cirque du Soleil show since she got home from her Vegas vacation last November, so I was thankful that we finally got to see this supposed spectacle instead of just get annoyed when a freaking song from the soundtrack would pop up on her iPod.

I was not disappointed.

First of all, I love the Beatles. But then again, if you don't like the Beatles, there is something seriously wrong with you, so it's a given. So a show set to Beatles tunes is obviously going to win my heart.

But what blew me away about this show was just how visually explosive it was. My only other circus-type show I've seen out here was Absinthe. That show was all about the ten-foot stage, and the one or two actors that were on that stage at any given time. Your focus was laser sharp. With LOVE, there was action everywhere. Every which way you looked there was a character doing something funky or an acrobat doing something crazy flip or dance.

During "Help!" rollerbladers did flips over the quarter pipes while a dude high above did acrobatics on a 260 degree spinning platform. "Revolution" featured a battle between hippies and riot police between five trampolines and an obtrusive telephone booth. The opening number had people running through brick walls and driving cars and flying high on tight ropes and god knows what else I missed.

LOVE was a true sensory experience. It was almost overwhelming. It had heart, too. But really, did you expect anything different from a show based on Beatles songs?

Highly recommended.

BLOG UPDATE: Oh god, two more days, almost there....

Tuesday, June 12th, Or, Work, Because Tuesday Is A Work Day

We had tuna sandwiches after work.

BLOG UPDATE: No.

Wednesday, June 13th, Or, Today, Kind Of

We hung out with some more familiar faces today. That was nice.

We went to Main Street Casino Brewery, and dinner was great, and their beer was great.

We hung out at the pool for a while, and I started to blog.

Seriously, guys, I'm really tired at this point. I've been typing pretty much the entire night, besides the minutes I took a break to do the laundry, and that one hour that Pam and I watched our favorite mafia show. It's one a.m. I'm done.

No one cares at this point. Did you seriously just read all that?

P.S., I'm not going to proofread. Pam can do that for me in the morning. I'm afraid that if I read it all again, I'll think I came off as too pretentious and delete the whole thing.