So when the last weekend of the month came I decided it would be a pretty terrible idea to go rage in Vegas. This 15 bro Vegas trip has been brewing for roughly 6 months, the email chain that was started 4 weeks ago is 217 posts long. People were extremely excited. Not me. If Little 5 this year taught me anything it's that I can't party the way I used to. When people used to say things like "I was so drunk I couldn't stand," I always assumed they were over exaggerating. But I found out race day that it is definitely possible to get that drunk, pavement 1 me 0. I don't know if it's because gambling gives me terrible anxiety, my general hatred of strip clubs or the fact that I am routinely poor, but Vegas has never really been my scene. Every time I go there I get really fucked up and just leave with a terrible physical and moral hangover. Usually the debauchery gets past the point of fun.
Also Vegas is kind of "been there done that" if you live in LA. It's a 4 hour drive (there) people are going every weekend, it's just not as much an endeavor as it might be for someone from the East Coast. So I think to myself "hey, I just have to endure 3 days of tweets and a couple weeks of stories." This will be fine, I can do this.
Wednesday night the Chicago crew comes to L.A. We go out, they talk about Vegas all night. I develop slight FOMO. Thursday night, Team New York arrives in Las Vegas. Team LA drives to Vegas. Team Milwaukee arrives in LA and convinces my roommate to go to Vegas. I get super drunk at the Santa Monica pier black out and am an hour late for work on my 3rd day (I told my bro of a boss I was late because I had to drive a shacker back to Redondo Beach) My FOMO develops a bit further, but I commit to going to Disneyland on Saturday instead of driving to Vegas. Friday night I go to a hotel opening open bar, end up drinking and playing Jeopardy until 6am. I decided at 545 in the morning on Saturday that I'll come.
We arrived in Vegas at 7pm. On the way there we arrange lodging and book a 3 story bungalow inside of Marquee night club for a Krewella show. The bungalow comes with 15 bottles because apparently that's how much you need with 15 guys. I have to say the next 12 hours were the hardest I think I have ever raged in my life. I don't know if it's the atmosphere of Vegas or just the 14 people I was with bringing out the best (and worst) in me, but what followed was a blur of euphoria, highs, lows and questionable realities.
Part of the unfortunate thing about having a non-anonymous blog is that anyone who wants to can read this and know who I am. I would love to tell you who got laid, who lost thousands gambling, who passed out where, who attempted to score drugs from bathroom attendants, but I can't because despite the life that myself and people like me lead, most of us will probably be captains of industry some day. I would hate for a buddy of mine to lose a promotion because a blog post from when he was age 25 surfaced about him licking Sassafras off of a girls nipple in a club. Lucky for me I have chosen an industry in which personal skeletons don't really count for shit, you show me a high up in entertainment that isn't a terrible person and I'll buy you a beer.
But Sunday, it always arrives whether you want it to or not. For a while you think this isn't that bad, we'll grab some In N Out and then cruise back to Cali. And then you see the traffic, and then the hangover begins to set in and then all those feelings of guilt. Oh I have done some very terrible things in my life. Many of my crimes have been victimless but I have definitely dragged some people down with me along the way. But nothing compares to the guilt one feels while leaving Vegas. It seems to manifest physically as you start pouring sweat (if there is any water left in your body) in the middle of the desert as temps soar to 110 degrees. Of the 15 of us that eventually appeared in the group picture Saturday night 12 of them went for 72 hours. Thursday party day and night. The same Friday. The same Saturday. And then 5 day partied Sunday before their red eye. Those are heroes. I am not a hero. 12 hours in Vegas is my max, and I think once every 2 years is also my max. I have no desire to go back there for a very long time. But I will always cherish the memories of this trip.
But until I make that brutal 7 hour drive home again some day, it's been real Vegas, thanks for kicking my ass.