Firstly, San Bernardino has some mountains.
Now, the city o' sin (as opposed to the most excellent Robert Rodriguez movie) was washed in splendor and lights and the constant haze of intoxication. Must be something in the air that both sucks out moisture and drives men to insanity.
The first night was a sojourn of exploration, bouncing from one casino to another. I only did a little bit of gambling, having neither the funds nor the luck to indulge in games of chance... I did have a few "Make me rich, make me rich, make me very rich!" moments, though. It was funny as hell to watch Sleve bounce from slot machine to slot machine, like a hyperactive Jesus-loving asshole bee, chiming about "his system" whenever he'd be up... just before losing it all on one hand of blackjack.
Me, I was in it for the sights. I dug the Bellagio... big ol' fucking hallways with more wood in the crown molding alone than there is in my entire neighborhood. They had artworks and bolts of drapes and carpet thick enough to fuck on... and nice soft couches and chairs and little coffee tables just scattered around, like they wanted you to sit and chill and have a little party right there.
That first night, we walked down to the MGM Grand and hit up Fat Tuesday's, for some 190 Octanes. These are big giant goblets, like a fucking sceptre, a yard long and full of sweet, fruity orange stuff... and a few shots of 191-proof Everclear. Christ. I even had an extry Everclear shot in mine... just one put me on my ass. I got back to the room a few hours later and just lied down on the bed - didn't even pass out - just lied down for the next four hours. I was glad Flip hauled his computer up at that point, 'at's for sure... I was listening to... um... I don't even remember what I was listening to. I was just tossed.
The next day was a fucking sweet buffet at Mandelay Bay. I think this might be my favorite hotel there... it's got a crazy-ass jungle motif going on, with plants and little waterfalls and nice, dark, cool colors everywhere. And babes. Scantily-clad. With or without parrotry. Babes.
While waiting to get into the buffet, myself, Chris, and Flip were accosted by a strange man that looked a cross between Joe Pesci and Mickey Rourke. "You boys know this area?" Uh, no, this is our first time... "Know where I can get some girls?" This dude, apparently, thought that the three of us were pimps or something, and he wanted us to hook him up with some whores. "Isn't there, like, some street I could go to where I could just take my pick? A red light district?" Chris finally dropped the name of some brothel outside of town and got the guy to leave.
Lunch saw lots of us chowing down on crab legs. Not me. But everyone else got crab legs by the plateful. I just wanted to point that out. Me? I made goddamn sure that I got a slice of lemon meringue pie.
Then we got to our suite at the Stratosphere. This place was awesome. The bathroom was more than twice the size of my bedroom. There were two rooms in the suite, each of which was way bigger than our one room from the night before. Full wet bar, two big ol' TV's with gigantical cabinets and shit (not that you want to watch any of the shitty programming in Vegas... ugh), couches softer than a chorus girl's nipple. Everything big, everything awesome... it was a shame we didn't get a view of the strip, however.
We relaxed in the suite for a while, then went out for our Activity: We shot guns. Perfect bachelor party activity, I should think. They had the typical GTA-esque guns on the wall presentation. They had dozens of pistols and crates of bullets behind the counter. I was in heaven, and then I heard the most beautiful sound of my life: "Which one you want?"
I let a few people go ahead of me; they picked Tommy Guns and MP5's. But I didn't want any of this 9mm nonsense. I wanted strong kick. I wanted punch. I wanted a beautiful crack that would pierce the body of mine foes with ease. I picked the M16. Sure, I got fewer shots for the money, but it more than made up for it in sheer kinetic energy. I'd need hundreds of rounds on this thing before I started to feel like I had it under control. It spews fire and death just like you'd expect it to, if you've seen movies like Heat. I had to resist the temptation to just burst the whole clip. I wanted to savor this.
Afterwards, I had to rent a pistol and a few cliploads just to settle down... sort of like a post-coital cigarette.
Later on, a bunch of our party went to a strip club. As much as I would have liked titties in my face, my wallet wasn't really in the mood. So while they were either all gone or in the casino, I took advantage of the luxurious accomodations: For an hour, that bathroom was my bitch. The giant bathtub with the massaging jets of water was my first target... I got my white russian, packed a massive fucking bowl, stripped down, and got more dah than I'd ever been before in my life.
I didn't want that awesome shower to go to waste, either, so I spent another fifteen minutes in that thing. And then I stood at the suite window for a few minutes, just giving Las Vegas a good, ol'-fashioned buck-naked stare. They all looked like ants ("They are ants!"). And then I set down to smoke more and watch Spider-Man.
After that (y'know, when I got clothed again and everyone returned), we got trashed in the suite and then went out on the town. We crashed through the Palms, the Sahara... every so often a few of our guys would settle down for blackjack, or roulette, or... shit, it's Vegas. You know what they were doing. Me, I just enjoyed being drunk and people-watching. The thing with Vegas and the humanistic sights is that for every attractive person you see, there's five hideous people, oozing over their two stools while breaking in their fifteenth straight hour at the slots, or leaning on the table with the bags under their eyes brushing the green felt... so while the hotties were very hot, they were outnumbered by these grotesque disfigurations. And the cute ones were never alone, so nuts to that.
That was the weekend. Disgusting amounts of Homer, boisterous amounts of liquor, ridiculous amounts of money lost at the tables, and stupendous amounts of being fuckin' messed up and charging through the casinos like madmen. We encountered a cab driver that talks endlessly to the voices in his head, a limo driver that was considering taking us to the Palms for $45 until she found out we were from LA, Chris and Flip almost got in a fight with a drunk, and we found two abandoned crack pipes left behind in our suite, apparently by the previous party that had been there...
I do regret, however, my inaction regarding the discovery of the North Star coffee lounge.