Clubbin' in Las Vegas

Besides myself, two close male college friends of Ira were at the bat mitzvah: Steve Zaintz (the "Z"; who had been in Mr. Norton's high school physics class along with Walt and myself) and Jeff Broffsky. The "Z" owns a Thai restaurant and Jeff owns a comic book store, both in Albuquerque. The two of them wanted to go out after the bat mitzvah and I wanted to join them.

Jeff exudes an air of mastery and control, a decided benefit in a place like Las Vegas, where velvet ropes and hired flaks control access to everything. Ira warned me that Jeff could take me places in Las Vegas that I had never heard of or even thought about. My inside voice said "duh, that's the entire point," but my outside voice said "don't worry, everything will be just fine."

I drove downtown, from the "Suncoast" to the "Four Queens," in order to pick up Jeff and the "Z", and parked in the parking garage. I had been pretty indecisive about what shoes to wear, so when I opened the door of my car, I decided to change shoes once again. Just at that moment, a group of people came to retrieve the car parked next to mine. "OH MY GOD!" a woman uttered, with absolute disgust, when she saw me all hunched over, squatting in-between the two parked cars. "It's OK! It's OK!", I reassured her. "Don't worry, everything is just fine!"

The three of us headed over to The Palms. For a change from his usual practice in Las Vegas, Jeff wanted to see a nightclub. Jeff said we were on a list for special entry to The Palms' Ghost Bar tonight. I was immediately impressed: the Ghost Bar is arguably the most-desired club in the entire city, one of the favorite haunts of celebrities and world-class beauties. How did we get on THIS list? Jeff said a good customer of his in Albuquerque had made arrangements with one of the Maloofs (the owners of The Palms, and who are also from New Mexico), and we were guaranteed access, even on this busy Saturday night.

When we arrived, though, we discovered Jeff's name was not on the list. The special access Jeff had been promised wasn't there. "Which Maloof gave you access?", I asked Jeff. Abashed, Jeff didn't know - his good customer had been responsible for all the arrangements. So, the Ghost Bar evaporated back into the Land of Phantoms and Ectoplasm, and we had to decide what to do next.

We proceeded to the MGM Grand, and tried to enter Studio 54, the main discotheque on the premises, but the lines were outrageously long, so instead we chose another, much smaller club inside the same complex, named Tabu. Entering the club was slightly tricky. Anticipating that Master of the Universe Jeff wanted a table of his own, the flaks quoted him a $250 rate for a table. They did not tell him that the normal cover charge was only $20. We eventually sorted it all out, however, and entered Tabu at the usual rate.

(left) Tabu at about 3 a.m.


Tabu is a lounge that features a row of four low tables surrounded by sofas, with (I believe) two bars. The low tables are cunningly designed to either be normal tables, dancing platforms, or screens upon which interesting lighting effects can be projected onto from above. Access to the sofas is carefully limited to those who pay for such access.

Jeff and the "Z" got drinks and stood gazing at the assorted beauties: I began dancing to the good House music, and tried to find some floor space in between two sofas, which was sort-of a gray border zone between two different parties. The "Z" said: "Marc, you should go dance on a platform!" and I said "Nah, I'd be too embarrassed," but after 30-45 minutes, sure enough, the young lovelies pulled me up on a platform, and there I was, shakin' my groove thing.

With their loud music and low lighting, nightclubs are purposely designed to disorient their patrons (hopefully mildly enough that no one gets hurt). Thus, it is always hard to figure out exactly what is going on, and everyone in nightclubs works to fill in their own knowledge gaps, often unsuccessfully. Same with me: I'm not sure I understood exactly what was, happening, but for the rest of the evening, here's what I think was going on....

Someone kicked over a glass, which broke on the floor. Management began glaring at nearby patrons, which included myself, since it happened nearby. Soon enough, I was back dancing on the floor, and I didn't go back on the platform again. I asked the DJ to play Roger Sanchez' 'Turn Up The Music,' and he said he would. About 1:30 a.m., Jeff and the "Z", already fatigued from the night before, decided to call it quits. I drove them back to their room, but since I had a bit of energy left, I decided to return to the MGM Grand.

(left) These athletic performance artists were built for trapezes, but the space at Studio 54 was a little cramped for THAT kind of circus action. What they're doing here is just fine, though.


By 2 a.m., entry to Studio 54 was feasible. I started dancing on the floor of this Sonic Cathedral to the Night Life, but within 30 seconds, a Woman With No Boundaries literally flung her body into mine. She was loud, funny, profane, and persistent, and indicated strongly that she needed a drink (a Long Island Ice Tea). I agreed to buy her one.

Immediately, I had second thoughts: I was breaking Feynman's Law. In the book "Surely You Are Joking, Mr. Feynman," the Nobel-prize-award-winning physicist Richard Feynman explained his counterintuitive cardinal rule regarding nightclubs: no man should ever, under any circumstances, buy a woman a drink in a nightclub. To do so marks one as malleable, weak, and therefore worthy of scorn. But a Woman With No Boundaries gains an advantage of surprise, and tonight, I fell victim.

I bought her a drink, and she immediately fell into an argument with a boyfriend/agent, who came loping after us to the bar (apparently the Woman With Ill-Defined Frontiers was having a border conflict). Small sums of money were exchanged between them. I tired of this, and drifted back to the dance floor. The woman pursued me, and asked a few questions, apparently to assess whether my hotel room was in the near-vicinity (it wasn't). In a flash, she ducked out the exit and disappeared. So, I lost $12 (a small sum by Las Vegas standards) but gained newfound respect for Richard Feynman.

Rather soon, the DJ stopped playing House music and began playing Rap music. Snoop Dog wasn't my cup of tea so after a few minutes I made my way back to Tabu. By 3 a.m., the crowd there had thinned out. The DJ said he had already played my song (about half an hour before) - shoot! Nevertheless, the DJ was playing a good mix of music, so I lingered for awhile, but soon enough, the crowd was no longer at a critical mass. I returned to Studio 54, where the DJ was once again playing good Trance and House music. Excellent!

(left: I need to get a gig like this)


Many people were working through the informational haze that night, laboring on their particular knowledge gaps and trying to answer questions. The many stone-faced young men gripping beer bottles, I don't know what they lacked - their glassy eyes conveyed nothing. (Rather, I know exactly what they lacked, having been in their shoes more than once, but they needed to dance!) There were others in the crowd whose needs were easier to read, however.....

Among the most interesting clubbers were two tall, statuesque beauties who passed along the perimeter of the dance floor, hand-in-hand, ignoring the crowd, meticulously examining the edges of the dance space. At first, I thought this was SO cool: almost like 'vogueing'. But then, I noticed the expression on the faces of these beautiful, beautiful transvestites: grim - they weren't having any fun. The knowledge gap they were working on was 'where's our stuff?' Mislaid - or stolen? Who could say under the flashing lights? I hope it all worked out OK for them.....

Then there was a young Japanese couple. The question they were working on was "what is the best course of action in a foreign nightclub?" They were trying to fit into the system. The logical course of action, of course, was to find the best dancer on the floor, and mimic that person, but that particular woman (an amazing ball of fire) was at the other end of the dance floor.

So, the next logical course was to find the best, or at least the most senior, dancer at the near end of the dance floor, and imitate that person - and I was that senior person! So they began, not precisely an imitation of my moves, but trying to catch a bit of my fire; the fellow enthusiastically so, the girl, afraid of causing offense, a little less so, but both working real hard at it. I envied them both, because, if they were actually living on Tokyo time, their evening was just starting, even as everyone else here was nearing collapse. There was a bit of 'Dance Dance Revolution' (the arcade game) feel about the whole episode, but it was all fun.

Then all of a sudden, there she was: I was dancing with the best dancer on the floor, an amazing blonde fury. We danced up a storm. She told me two things. One was "Don't Touch": unlike the other woman, the blonde had well-defined (and gorgeous) boundaries, and it was difficult to resist crossing the borderline, even if only an instant. The other thing was a prediction, in the form of a compliment, but I somehow missed a word in the din, and so now what she said is a riddle: "Someday you're going to get a (blank)". I've been trying to fill in the blank ever since. It wasn't something like 'hernia' - that has three syllables, and what she said had just one syllable. It was probably either 'girl' (which would be patronizing and therefore not a compliment at all), or, most-likely, 'job.' A job as a dancer? Very nice! Very strange for a compliment, but flattery will get you everywhere, as they say. Who knows? Maybe she's right!

Here is a sign high above The Strip. Makes me think of all the possibilities in Las Vegas. When some people retire, they take on small jobs, like clerking at a convenience store, to make ends meet. Maybe I should start a dance gig, say, at the 'Chippendales Leisure Retirement Home and Golf Resort' in Tonopah when I retire. Nothing much: just something to pay the electric bill. I'll even take the afternoon show.

Anyway, it wasn't until 5 a.m. when I finally toppled into bed at the "Suncoast," dreaming of trapeze artists and brilliant blonde bombshells and big, big tips.