Thank god for Vegas. Seriously.

A lobotomy wasn’t as effective as a weekend three hours of Red Bull away, where I wore the thinnest pinned stilettos, gambled like a sweaty degenerate mobster in black loafers, drank like Amy Winehouse and Charles Bukowski’s baby and snorted throat dripping lines of coke in a Hard Rock Hotel bathroom with four new best friends.  I would giddily rub off any one of those with my thumb from the to-do list I wrote in eyeliner on my hotel bathroom mirror.

The last time I was in Pure I was alone.  One of my oldest friends, Abbey, the most sophisticated gay guy I knew, lost me after we ate steak cooked in front of us in a Japanese restaurant at the Hard Rock.  With two more shots of Don Julio in hand, we migrated, (by migrate I mean walk - will never do that again), to Caesars and Pure.  An hour later he got tangled up in the net that was the mayhem in front of the club.  I worried for ten minutes before I spent the rest of the night and the next morning around a low to the ground polished black table, drinking, laughing, dancing and smoking.  At 1 a.m. my cocktail waitress, Apricot, asked if five 40-something Canadian business men could sit with me. 
“Of course!”  Laid to rest in my catacombs, the reality I might have married one of them at the Viva Las Vegas wedding chapel two blocks away.


Hecticity.  We stood near a tall fake marbled column, surrounded by 5000 square-feet of hedonists ready to occupy the next five hours with concepts so alien to their Monday through Friday lives, anarchy was guaranteed.  Frat boys, Latinos, Hollywood types (businessmen and wannabes), celebrities, old men fish out of water and women masquerading as hookers, most holding yards of frozen, substandard margaritas.  Some had their arms up, rocking out in the front row at an Aerosmith concert, mouths opened, eyebrows up trying to get his attention.  ‘His’ being the doorman/list guy, barricaded by five apocalyptically burly UFC types.   
“You talk to him.”  Back on his Blackberry. 
I texted the Pure manager a half hour earlier. 
Cress handed me a hundred.

 “Drinks first.”  The bar reminded me of the bar in the Whiskey on Sunset.  Dark, set back, riant to be a first stop and obligatory to people who weren’t pre-table service drinking.  Men passed back red, pink, brown, green, blue and clear drinks to ladies and their already broke guy friends, as if to say,
Take one and pass the rest back, two minutes before a pop quiz in high school.
Lips mouthed Kanye and went wide as they took their first sips.
Pure consisted of levels and those levels had colors.  Black, red, silverfish grey, electric blues, and white, illuminated with Hollywood cerise.

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