Vegas, Labor Day ‘08: Day 4
Can I grind on you and rub my tits in your face?
September 3, 2008: Wake up and head down to the casino for what’s become my usual morning VP session. I hold even, neither winning nor losing.
We head to The Country Club for lunch, where I order the Open Faced French Dip. Like everything at Country Club, it’s delicious. Seriously, this restaurant can do no wrong.
Next, we head to the pool, where we enjoy a few drinks while lounging and reading. Our chairs are just outside a cabana that, judging by the drifting conversation, might be occupied by the founder and CEO of Airwalk.
After the pool and a nice nap, we ponder what to do for dinner. Since we hadn’t planned on staying the extra day, we don’t have reservations anywhere. We consider Alex, Wynn’s gourmet equivalent of Picasso, but neither of us has anything to wear.
In the end, we opt for Social House at Treasure Island. Part restaurant, part sushi bar, part ultra lounge, it was recommended to us by our waiter at Picasso, who raved about the Kobe Sliders with Banana Ketchup.
The restaurant is almost empty, on account of the early hour and the fact that Wednesday is a slow day in Vegas. The trendy interior reminds us of Matchbox back home as we snag a nice table by the window with a view of the Sirens of TI show below. We order the sliders along with some tuna rolls.
Boy, was our Picasso waiter on the money. The sliders are fabulous and the sushi is great too. It’s a perfect dinner—filling, but not too heavy—for our last night.
After dinner, we head out into the TI casino, where I proceed to learn a very expensive lesson.
In the high-limit room, I sit down to a double deck Blackjack game similar to the one I was so successful with at the Mirage two days earlier. This time, things don’t go as well and I’m down, though they do comp me a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue.
I cut my losses and move over to Baccarat. Baccarat is the game you frequently see in movies, especially the older James Bond films. It looks complicated but it’s really simple, requiring no strategy. It also has one of the lowest house advantages, as, in essence, you’re betting on a coin flip, with the house edge derived from a commission taken on any winnings.
I’m the only player at the table and after about ten minutes of pressing my wins, I’m up big. Real big.
Now, I have a rule about gambling. When playing games with an inherit house edge, like Baccarat and Blackjack, the longer you play the more likely you are to lose, as that edge is guaranteed to eat into any short-term winnings. It’s how casinos stay in business.
To mitigate that edge, my rule is thus: if I win more than three hands in a row, or more than double my bankroll, I walk away. Take the money and run. Likewise, if I lose three hands in a row, I’m gone as well.
Well, here I am, up big and, true to my rules, I get up from the table and head to the bar. I’m there, with the money, away from the table. All I have to do is walk over the cage and cash out. But of course, I don’t.
I sit back down. I go up even more, but then I start to lose. Then I start chasing the losses. Soon I’m down to the felt, having lost all my winnings plus my buy-in. An expensive lesson indeed.
Disappointed, but wiser, we head back to the Wynn where I double the remainder of the evenings gambling allowance via a combination of VP and Baccarat. I also talk to the slot host, who comps half my food and beverage expenses, no small sum.
From there, we head to the concierge, who calls over to Bellagio to find out who’s playing in the Fontana Bar. We’re delighted to hear that it’s once again Diane Diaz, and we quickly cab over to enjoy a few drinks.
Since it’s our last night in Vegas we want to do something different and a little crazy. We knew from one of the Vegas specials on the Travel channel that one of the topless clubs on the strip has a male revue upstairs for the ladies, with female dancers downstairs for the guys. What the hell? We’re feeling adventurous.
We arrive, pay the cover, sit down and order a couple beers. Olympic Garden, now known as simply “OG” may not be as nice as some of Vegas’ ritzier clubs like The Spearmint Rhino, but it’s no dump and far from seedy. After a few minutes, my girlfriend’s ready to go upstairs and insists that I go with her. Reluctantly, I agree, figuring it’ll be good for a few laughs.
We wind our way through the club and up the stairs. The room is reasonably large and uncomfortably bright for a strip club. On stage, an oiled, well-muscled man’s dancing, wearing only the smallest of briefs. Only, the man is dancing for an empty room.
We’re the only customers.
Panic grips me, but my girlfriend shows mercy and sends me back downstairs. I head back down and reclaim my seat, but quickly tire of having to fend off the dancers looking to solicit lap dances. I move to the bar.
Surprisingly, the bar-tops have VP and I decide to play a few hands. Yes, that’s right; I’m playing video poker in a strip club. I might have a problem. Unfortunately, though, the smoke at the bar proves to be too much and I move back to the floor.
Some of the girls are very impressive, climbing up the pole all the way to the ceiling than spiraling back down upside down using only their legs for support, but I’m still turning away dancers at a rate of one every four or five minutes. Their approaches range from the subtle “Hi, where are you from?” to the not so subtle “Can I grind on you and rub my tits in your face?”
After a while, my girlfriend returns. I ask her if she got any dances and she replies that she’s short on cash. I give her a 20 and tell her to come back with a good story. About half an hour later, she returns with not only a story but also the dancer’s name and phone number. Yes, my girlfriend got a stripper’s phone number. Sorry she never called, Fidel.
Once we get through laughing, we head back to the Wynn where my girlfriend orders room service but I fall asleep before it arrives.
