You know what's fuckin' awesome? America, part III.c

Before you read, please be sure to check out parts 1 and 2. Cheers!

(So where were we? Ah yes, H-Squared and I just exited the Stratosphere, and we had begun to walk the Strip, which I had never done before. Also, women are teases, and rides in Las Vegas are ripoffs. I think that pretty much sums it up.)

Finally, here I am. Walking the Strip in Las Fucking Vegas. Granted, the Strip that everyone considers “The Strip” is still a ways off, but fuck it. I’ve got a few scotches in me, H-Squared is doing well on his Harvey Wallbangers, so a little mid-afternoon stroll is in perfect order. But man oh man, it’s friggin’ bright. (Las Vegas is in the desert, have you heard?) I could use some sunglasses.

It’s Friday, May 4, 2007, and tomorrow holds so much promise: Cinco de Mayo, the Kentucky Derby, and the biggest boxing match in recent history (De La Hoya vs. Mayweather). What better place to be for such a monumental weekend? After all, the centerpiece—the fight—is being held at the MGM Grand, where H-Squared and I intend to watch the Derby in the afternoon, then the fight on its megascreens later that night. Ah, I can’t fucking wait.

So first things first, it’s time to get me a hat. H-Squared already has this little straw fedora thing he showed me on the flight.So I know I’m gonna be second-class if I don’t have equally excellent headgear. Though I like what H-Squared bought, there's the slight possibility of being mistaken for (gasp) a hipster. And that just can't happen. I'm thinking about something a bit more rugged, a bit more manly. Something like...

Yeah, that'll do it. And since we’ve got ourselves a nice long walk down the Strip to get back to Vegas proper, I’m pretty sure we’ll pass by some establishment that treats in the hat-selling realm. So we walk.

Not soon after, it hits us. God, are we stupid—we don’t have drinks! Suddenly desperate to correct this horrific failure, we sprint across the street to a gas station, which, of course, has a huge beer selection. We toss around the idea of getting something exotic, maybe a rare microbrew we couldn’t get back East or something, but then we see it. The obvious answer: 24-ounce cans of Coors Light for one whole American dollar. Sweet. “And two brown bags, please,” I say to the nice Armenian-looking man behind the counter.

Now back on the street (and properly equipped), we resume our search for my fedora. As we brown-bag it down the street, we pass by numerous groups of people covering all ages and races. But no matter how different each group is, one thing stands out—Vegas. The people in these groups are inevitably smiling; they are clearly having a blast, regardless of where they’re from or what they look like.

Just like us. With each group that passes, H-Squared and I exchange some new variation on how awesome is it to be here with them. At a dry 76-degrees Fahrenheit on a cloudless day while carrying a cold beer and riding a nice buzz, it’s incredibly nice to run into like-minded strangers, even for a fleeting moment.

A-ha! A souvenir shop! This place clearly sells hats (the sign says “HATS,” among other things), so we trek through a parking lot large enough to fit my apartment 40 times over and enter. At first, I just see postcard racks and T-shirts with numerous variations of “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas.” But along the back wall, I spy hats. Sweet.

After looking at countless baseball caps and cowboy hats, I still haven’t spotted my fedora, when—

“Sir, can you come over here, please?”

The security guard has the whole hat/sunglasses/desert-style-uniform thing you might think the Minutemen wear along the border. I walk over, and he kindly tells me, “Your beverage is not allowed in here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say.

“You just have to go out to the sidewalk.”

What a punishment! What a town! “You can’t drink here! You just have to go over there, which isn’t far away!” In my dreams, these are the rules.

We walk for a while longer down the Strip, eventually extinguishing our tallboys, but we happen upon a friendly site: Margaritaville.

"Where's the damn salt?!"

Now, while I love Jimmy Buffett, I must admit that (sorry, Side Bar) H-Squared is by far the biggest Parrothead I know. (He and I once went to Buffett’s annual Today show performance in Rockefeller Center at 5 a.m. At 3:30 that night, he showed up at the bar where I was working with a floral shirt for me, so I poured us a bunch of frozen margaritas in giant plastic cups, which we then drank over the next two hours. It was a good time.) I’ve never been to a Margaritaville, and hey, we’re out of drinks, right?

In case you hadn’t guessed, this restaurant is fantastic. (Obviously) Buffet music plays nonstop, but the bonus is that tonight, the giant screen is playing one of his concerts. And anyone who knows Jimmy Buffett knows that his live music is far superior to the studio-album crap. We sit at the bar and have some margaritas. (Good, but surprisingly not exceptional.)

Out of nowhere, the music stops. Someone on the P.A. orders us to look up. On the second floor, there’s a superhot woman in a bikini. For some reason, she jumps down this big-ass waterslide and lands in a GIANT MARGARITA. Everyone claps. I’m still not sure what the hell is going on, but I clap. I guess that was…cool?

My phone rings. It’s Red Dragon, and he wants to meet up. He’s done golfing (ugh) and wants to start gambling and drinking. Way ahead o’ you, man, at least on the drinking tip. We agree to meet at the Bellagio, which is nearby. So H-Squared and I pay our tab and bounce, passing all sorts of pirate imagery. I nearly buy something, but I don’t because I’m smart. I went to a public school, after all.

The Bellagio is an amazing casino. While many of the places I’d seen so far were stunning, the Bellagio is a step up. Every detail of the architecture, the art on the walls, even the carpets, just oozes class and luxury. I’ve heard that Vegas casinos pump pure oxygen through the vents to get you slightly high, but the Bellagio seems to be pumping that which Ricky Bobby pisses: Excellence.

H-Squared and I tell Red Dragon about the cool new drink: the Harvey Wallbanger. Red Dragon LOVES it. As he and H-Squared sit down to play some Blackjack, he immediately orders one for each of us. This will clearly be our drink for the rest of the weekend. Boss! Since I don’t really gamble (as I’ve said, I have too many vices already, thank you), I decide to walk around. What a place. If you’ve been to Vegas but haven’t visited the Bellagio, make that your first trip next time. It looks and feels like one of the world’s great museums. Your eyes are constantly enthralled at each turn. Even the tiniest details of the molding along the ceiling are meticulously crafted. It is not the cheap, schmaltzy, neon-tinted stereotype of Vegas. It is the polar opposite.

I grab another drink and head back to my boys. H-Squared isn’t playing anymore, and it looks like—yep, Red Dragon just lost his last chip. So we get up and simultaneously realize that, holy shit, we gotta get back to the Palms. We’re going to the hottest club in the city tonight, Pure, and it’s getting near time to leave.

We hop in a cab, during which nothing interesting happens.

Back at the Palms, we wait for the elevator. When it opens, who walks out? Amanda (the married cocktease) and Elisa and their whole bachelorette-party crew. I stop and chat with Amanda for a second, we exchange numbers, and agree to meet up later on that night when we’re both done doing the whole bachelor/ette party thing. For some reason, I think this is a good idea. Fucking women…argh.

We go upstairs, get our party clothes on, and do some pre-gaming in our various rooms. After a bit, our whole crew of about 20 guys heads downstairs. There’s me, H-Squared, Red Dragon, Goliath (the bachelor), JV (the best man), and lots of other people, most of whose names I forgot within two sentences of meeting them. (If, during the duration of this story, one of them does something blog-worthy, they will get a cool nickname. Ah, the honor.)

Pure is located in Caesar’s, one of the more well-known casinos. When we finally arrive, we still have a bit to wait before our appointment, so we head to the casino bar. We have drinks. Harvey Wallbangers, of course.

"Just like what I get my mom for her birthday every year.
But with Vodka!"

JV soon comes by and informs us that it’s time to go.

To get to Pure, you have to exit the casino and walk around a bit to its entrance. And HOLYFUCKINGSHIT are there a lot of people there waiting to get in. It’s not like the typical line outside a club in New York. No, this is a gigantic mob of several hundred drunken idiots converging from all directions on the small opening of velvet rope that two bouncers are guarding.

“How the fuck are we gonna get in?” I wonder. After all, this is Friday night at Pure. Why in the world would they let a group of 20 guys with NO WOMEN (women usually being the key to being allowed into a club, as far as I’ve experienced) in when all these other people are here first? “This ain’t happening,” I say to H-Squared. “We may as well be wearing fur coats trying to get into the PETA awards—”

“You!” someone shouts. “Come on!”

I look up and some enormous black guy who I can only assume is a bouncer has cleared a path for us. (By the way, he is wearing some outstanding sunglasses. I wish I had a pair like that.) Literally, it looks like the Red Sea has parted. And JV is Moses. He smiles and points us in the direction of the entrance. Our group of 20 guys now walks single-file through the mass of idiots around us, escorted by security. JV, in my opinion, is like Hercules—less than a god, but more than a man.

This has never happened to me before, and I can’t help but take advantage of the moment. I look at each and every person I pass who can’t get in and smile the most-mockingest smile I can conjure. Fuck all those pricks. Hey, when the hell else am I gonna have this opportunity to scoff at “people who go to clubs”? Trust me, if you ever have the chance to do this, DO IT. It feels great, and even better afterwards, because you know you weren’t making fun of people less fortunate, you were making fun of douchebags. (To this day, I sometimes jerk off to that feeling.)

After passing through the throng of fuckheads, we finally enter. No one ID’s us. No one asks us any questions. We are simply led. Led through the first floor. Led up the stairs, passing the second level. We finally reach the top and, oh boy.

We have an entire section on the roof to ourselves. Just as we’re all congratulating each other on the astounding view, a couple of Mexican guys (natch) roll out a tray full of all that is good and holy: bottles of tremendous liquor, Red Bulls on ice, fruit juices and mixers, and plenty of ice.

“Here you go,” Paco says. (Paco rules, incidentally. A good man. After a few hours, he and I were hombres.)

Needless to say, we all dive in. I come away with a Stoli and Red Bull, and other people get other stuff, blah.

By the time I’ve had my fifth such drink, we begin to hear rumors that Jessica Simpson is there. Apparently, she’s performing with the Pussycat Dolls at some point. Awesome, I think, and then immediately forget that fact.

"Seven. Minute. Abs."

As I head to the bathroom, I happen upon H-Squared and Red Dragon.

“Dude, we just met Van Pelt, he’s awesome,” H-Squared says.

“Wha…?” I mutter.

“Scott Van Pelt, from SportsCenter. He’s here, we just saw him. We were standing next to him, and I just yelled ‘Hey, Van Pelt!’ and he turned and we said hello and he was cool. Not a dick whatsoever.”

"Cooler than the other side of the pill--damn you,

Stuart Scott and your lazy eye. Boo-ya!"

“After you just yelled out ‘Van Pelt’?”

“Yeah! He shook our hands then walked away. What a guy.”

I finish my piss, reflect on how cool Scott Van Pelt was to placate a couple of drunken idiots screaming “VAN PELT!” and head back upstairs. On the roof, it’s kinda lame. We’re all hammered, yes, but no one’s doing anything stupid and ridiculous, you know? That kind of lame. So, like Robin Williams told me, I seize the day.

I jump on one of the couches, in full view of everyone out there, and begin to do my best attempt at a split. Fairly soon, I’m sitting there, spread-eagle, with my shoes rubbing the two armrests on either side of the couch as I lean back and sip my elevendy-fourth Red Bull-Vodka. I remain in that position for the next hour or so. Or ten minutes, who knows?

So after that, a bunch of things happen. (Editor’s note: Writer blacked out and cannot remember.) As everyone is leaving Caesar’s to go back to the Palms, H-Squared and I decide to stay put. And by stay put, I mean we literally sit down on the asphalt outside some exit. Why, you ask? It’s clearly time to reflect. And we let people know as they pass us.

“What are you doing?” asks some old woman (who just lost her grandson’s inheritance playing the slots).

“Reflecting,” H-Squared says.

“On what?”

“On…our lives,” I answer. She is stupefied by the brilliance of my answer and walks off, shaking her head in amazement.

Some other idiot walks out and asks us the same question, and we give him the same answer. Man, we are changing people’s lives, one at a time. Another guy walks out, looks over, and before he even asks, I yell, “REFLECT! (Pause.) On your life.” He goes home and finally calls his father, whom he hadn’t talked to in 25 years.

Eventually, some guy we talk to is so dumbstruck that he elects to sit down next to us. Which is a bit weird. I’ll call this guy Fucky. Fucky’s about 40, half-bald, and looks like Vegas has taken its toll on him. But he’s really digging our “Reflect” message. So much so that with every sentence, I’m getting more and more creeped out. I just want to tell people to reflect, I don’t want to actually hear about the things on which one might subsequently reflect. But there he sits, describing the wife who left him, the kids he hasn’t seen, the battles with the bottle, the blah blah blah… Go away, please.

Suddenly, H-Squared loudly farts. And it’s like we just discovered how to get into level 8 of Zelda (blow the whistle!), because Fucky gets up and leaves. Though the stench is abhorrent, I’m happy sitting there with just my friend, reflecting, sans creepy weird guy. Oddly, that gets boring. So we get up and leave.

A cab ride back to the Palms later, and we’re back, baby! It’s about 7 a.m. now, and we have no idea what to do, so we go to the bar. And—tell me if you saw this coming—Amanda and Elisa are there. At the same table as the night before. (Have I mentioned that Amanda is both married and a cocktease?)

After a bunch of “Hey!”s and whatnot, we’re all sitting down drinking. I’m still a bit annoyed at the shit I had to deal with the night before, but then again, I’m wasted and talking to a hot chick. So who gives a shit that she’s from Nebraska and married, right? We tell them about the awesome pool that opens fairly soon, and this excites them. We all agree to go upstairs and get our pool shit on, then meet downstairs at the entrance when it opens. I ask them what room they’re staying in, just in case there’s a problem, and it turns out they’re on the floor above us. So they go, and, once again, H-Squared and I finish their drinks. No manners on these girls, I swear.

We get back to our room and put on our swimming attire. “Wait,” I say, just as we’re about to leave. “Let’s get ready.”

“What?” he asks.

“Let’s do some push-ups. That way, our muscles an’ shit’ll be all swelled up, and we’ll look fucking hot.”

H-Squared needs no further convincing. We both hit the floor and start. And as someone once said about Chuck Norris, we weren’t pushing ourselves up, we were pushing the Earth down. Yeah.

Now properly swelled up (and totally fucking hot), we head downstairs. It’s about 9 a.m., just when the pool is opening. We wait for a few minutes, and the girls aren’t there. So we decide to go get them. We hop on the elevator, find their room, and knock on the door. And by “knock,” I mean "bang very loudly." And continue to bang loudly. Eventually, Elisa opens the door and tells us they’re sleeping and will continue to do so, despite the genius plan we had concocted not much earlier (and our push-ups). Bitches.

So, it’s about 9:30. We have no girls to enjoy the pool with (or “fuck”), and it dawns on us that it is now, in fact, Saturday. The Kentucky Derby will be starting shortly. It’s time to get out of these pool clothes, and into our Derby gear. Though I did not acquire the fedora I sought, we both still have some proper Churchill Downs-style apparel to wear.

Oh, and "sleep"? Fuck it. We arrived last night (two nights ago), slept for 90 minutes, partied all day, and now all night. Here we are, the morning of May 5th, going on no sleep at all, but that won’t stop us. There’s an amazing fight to behold, a horse race to bet on, and a town that invites such debauchery.

In fact, the only thing I care about at all is that I still don’t have a nice pair of sunglasses. Let’s go hit the breakfast buffet, figure it all out, then we’ll go and figure it all out.

(To be continued…)

You know what's fuckin' awesome? America. Part III.b

Before you read, please be sure to check out the first part. Cheers!

(So where were we? Oh yeah, that dumbass bitch who had been flirting with me for a few hours was just about to kiss me when she decided to say she was married. Argh. And women wonder why men are assholes.)

So I get back to the bar where H-Squared is chatting it up with that Elisa chick and (fucking married) Amanda. I’m a bit miffed at what just transpired outside the bathroom, but I’m a gentleman, so I’m sure to do nothing but be polite and what have you. Because “being a gentleman” in this case means “being a pussy.”

Before long, the two young ladies head upstairs to retire (without fucking us) for the evening. And by evening, I mean it’s about 9:30 a.m. Vegas, baby. (And fuck anyone who actually uses the phrase “Vegas, baby” in Vegas. Dude, lame.) (Parentheses!)

H-Squared and I finish both our beers and the girls’, who didn’t even have the courtesy to finish theirs. Sluts. We are forced to decide to head up to bed.

When we get to the room, we do that thing where you fall asleep before you hit the pillow. Yeah, we’re tired an’ shit. But in the midst of my slumber, I’m awoken quite brutally by H-Squared screaming, “WE GOTTA GET UP!”

I struggle to gather my thoughts (I was having a wet dream!). “Angelina….?” I ask.

“Dude, we’re in Vegas, let’s go. Buffet time. Then we’re going to the Stratosphere.”

Those are three excellent points, so I get up. We are, in fact, in Las Vegas, where I have never been before. The casino has a breakfast buffet that ends at 11:30 a.m. (I look at the clock—11:12.). And the Stratosphere, from what I’ve heard, is supposed to be this awesome ride where you go to the top floor of some casino, and there’s a ride on the roof that brings you way up really friggin’ high at some kinda super-fast speed, then drops you back down just as fast.

In any event, it’s time to get up.

"I just want to make sure that we can hit the Strip today," I say as I brush my teeth. "I wanna walk it at some point, I've never done that." I don't think H-Squared even hears me.

"Fine, whatever," I hear him say. He's been to Vegas before, he doesn't need to walk that walk again.

Though we both look worse than a Hunter S. Thompson hangover, we throw on some clothes and head downstairs to the $8.95 breakfast buffet. Which is awesome. First of all, the girl who seats us looks like Angelina Jolie. And by that I mean her lips look like Angelina Jolie’s lips. The rest of her…eh? But those lips!

I get my plate and fill up on some sausage, bacon, eggs, and toast. But I am totally outclassed by H-Squared, who has gotten all that and more: a three-egg omelette, hash browns, a bagel, and some kind of cake-type thing. He finishes all of it before I’ve even touched my toast. Anyway, all this food talk isn’t very interesting.

But what is interesting is that the Palms has this pretty amazing pool setup. Though H-Squared and I have no desire whatsoever to go swimming, we head over toward the pool. We have been indoors now for the last however-many hours, and I’m quite used to the dark-casino lighting. But when we take our first step outside in the noon-time sun, HOLYFUCKINGSHIT is it bright. The kind of bright that literally stings to the point that your eyes tear up like you’re cutting an onion that should’ve been in the X-Men. Fortunately, I’m wearing sunglasses. Because I’m cool, baby.

After collecting myself, I begin to take in what is around me: This is your classic Las Vegas pool scene, full of incredibly hot chicks in bikinis tanning as three or four roid-raging orange-tanned guys in big-ass sunglasses glower over them. It’s not even like anyone’s putting any moves on the girls; rather, the guys seem more intent on intimidating the poor cabana boys who bring them their dumbass drinks—Coors Lights all.

Aside from that bullshit, man oh man, is it cool. Coming out of the dark, dank casino, it’s a huge exhale to be outside and in natural light again. But fuck, I don’t really want a drink, do I? I still feel like a rhino raped me, then shit in my mouth. But yes, I do want a drink. That will make it all go away. I go to the bar and ask for the drink that just rings right in this pseudo-beach circumstance—a margarita.

H-Squared gets one as well, and we lean up against a fake palm tree. For the first time since we exited the casino, we can relax. Our stomachs are full, we’re sipping margaritas, farting a lot (but it’s outdoors), and looking at all the scantily clad ladies doing their scantily-clad-lady thing. All is well. Ahhh…

And who’s that? Goliath and our buddies are over at the other bar! Boss! We amble on down the walkway, passing by Jessica Alba making out with Beyonce.

I'm totally lying about that!

And before we know it, we’re all hanging out together outside some sort of grilling setup (mmm…hamburgers…) recapping the previous night. Blah blah blah, then H-Squared and I leave.

It’s time for the Stratosphere. I’m pretty psyched about this thing, so we hop in a cab. (Which takes way longer to get there than I’m used to. It’s like 4 miles away. I might as well be going to Brooklyn or some other God-forsaken borough.)

When we finally get there, delirium is definitely sinking in. This is a good thing. We had been drinking all night, barely slept, then started drinking again. Excellent. (If you’ve done this, then you know how it feels.)

When the cabbie tells us we’re at the right place (I hope he’s an honest man), we struggle for a few minutes as we try to figure out where the hell to go. Oh, the casino! Let’s go inside of it! We walk around awhile cluelessly, but somehow luckily find ourselves in the line to purchase tickets to the Stratosphere. When we get to the booth, my deliriousness is in high gear. As I purchase the tickets, I start flirting with the lady. “Fifteen bucks? But don’t I get the good-looking discount?” I smile at her. She smiles back and says no. It’s almost as if she’s heard something like that before. Weird. “But I am pretty handsome, right?” Smile. Smile. Wink.

She chuckles a little to herself as she hands me our tickets. I chuckle back at her, and she points toward where we’re supposed to go. I know it sounds like I’m being an asshole, but really, it’s charming. I’m not normally like this. For some reason—the delirium, I’ll bet—I’m on. Whatever I say right now, works. That woman in the ticket booth? She loved me. I can bang any chick in this whole city if I want.

So rather than do that, we head over toward the escalator that takes us up to an elevator, which we then ride up about a million floors before we can get off. (Seriously, no pun intended whatsoever.) Upon exiting, there is a gift shop to the right and a “scenic view” type thing to the left. We go into the gift shop, since apparently that’s where you have to go to get to the ride. (Shocking, in Las Vegas, they would make you walk through a gift shop just to get to the place you already paid to go, huh?)

So then we have to take another elevator up to the ride, which we do. Then, after the doors open, it’s another floor with a gift shop and scenic view. Where the hell is this friggin’ ride already? We walk around the floor, which, of course, has no signs directing us to the ride. I don’t even bother looking at the (amazing) view out the windows. (Keep in mind, we’re on the top floor of some casino, with a 360-degree view of the city.) We eventually find an official-looking person. “Where do we go?” I ask.

“Oh, take that elevator there,” he says.

“We just took that elevator, and it brought us here.”

“No, you took that elevator,” he says. The two elevators are adjacent. Prick.

We take the newly-recommended elevator (which has an attendant) and finally find ourselves on top of the building. I can tell because it’s outdoors now and therefore feels different from indoors. Finally, I can see a sign that says “Stratosphere,” so we head in that direction.

Some guy checks our tickets and directs us to the ride. He straps us in, just like a roller-coaster, except it doesn’t look like any roller-coaster I’ve ever been on. I look up, hoping that this thing is gonna shoot me up some 100 feet or something, but that isn’t the case. It’s only about 25 feet or so. But still, there’s another factor.

I look around and, yes, I can see all of Las Vegas before me. We are very high up on top of a building, and this machine is going to take us up even farther. That much is undeniable, and very cool.

We’re strapped in, sitting side-by-side in a semicircle around this machine which sits on the top floor of a building that is very tall. Not New York-skyscraper tall, but then, there aren’t any other skyscrapers around, are there—

WHOOOOOOOOOSH!!!!!!!

We shoot straight up and suddenly I can see something blurry, then the city, then the whole fucking desert. We pause there, suspended for a moment as I look out upon the gorgeous view of everything around, then come down. Then, WHOOSH back up again, then back down.

After a few up-and-downs, we get back to where we started. I take off my restraints and walk away from the ride.

“What’d you think?” asks H-Squared

“Eh, can we go walk the Strip now?” I’m a little disappointed. I had heard some great things about this ride. I was hoping for some proper exhilaration. I can tell H-Squared is a bit disappointed too. He and I are big roller-coaster aficionados, after all. (Little did we know that we would soon encounter the greatest roller-coaster ever made soon after.)

We head downstairs, and try to leave, but goddammit, this place is still a fucking maze that won’t let you leave. We go from elevator to gift shop to elevator to scenic view to gift shop to elevator about 73 times before we finally find the right combination. It’s like that board in Legend of Zelda (the Lost Woods) where if you don’t go North-West-South-West, you just keep seeing the same shit over and over again.

Finally, we find the down elevator, get off, and take another escalator. At this point, I’m telling all the people heading up on the other side to NOT GO BY ANY MEANS, IT SUCKS. I don’t think the casino people like me very much.

So we go to the bar. Thankfully, it seems like a regular bar. A regular Vegas bar, meaning there are touch-screen video-gambling machines embedded in the bar, but whatever. There’s liquor on the shelf, and that’s all that matters, right?

“What do you want?” I ask H-Squared. He hesitates, and a plan forms in my mind. (Something you must know about H-Squared and me is that we used to watch this show called Ed, and on that show if one of the two main guys bet the other 10 bucks to do something, he had to do it. No excuses. H-Squared and I do this to each other, and we take it very seriously.) “Maybe a beer,” he says.

“I’ll have a Dewar’s on the rocks,” I say.

H-Squared approaches the bar, and just before the bartender comes over, I say, “10 bucks if you order yourself a Harvey Wallbanger.”

I don’t know about you, but I have absolutely no idea what goes in a Harvey Wallbanger. I can barely remember where I’ve even heard the term. But I’ve worked the bar in New York and other places, and I’ve never heard anyone order one. The bartender comes over.

“Oh, hey, I’ll have a Dewar’s rocks and a Harvey Wallbanger,” H-Squared says, keeping a straight face.

The bartender doesn’t even fuckin' flinch. He pours the Dewar’s and hands it to me. He grabs a highball glass, fills it with ice, pours some house vodka and O.J. into it, then walks away. He walks down and grabs the bottle of Galliano, comes back, and tops it off. He pours the drink into a shaker, shakes it, then pours it back into the glass, and hands it to H-Squared.

Galliano. That long-ass bottle of yellowish shit you see from time to time in bars that never, EVER gets used.

“Thirteen-fifty,” he says, and H-Squared pays him.

We both turn and head to a table, where I hand H-Squared a ten-dollar bill. I’m still in shock that the bartender wasn’t in shock hearing such a shocking request. Fucking Vegas, I guess. They’ve heard it all.

As I drink my Scotch and H-Squared discovers his love for a new drink (okay, me too, I was taking swigs), we discuss a few things.

1. The Stratosphere is a fucking rip-off.
2. How cool is the Mayweather-De La Hoya fight gonna be tomorrow night?
3. The Kentucky Derby is tomorrow, we need to get me a fucking Fedora somewhere.
4. Remember those chicks from last night? That was cool. Up until I found out that whore was married. Who does that? Fuck her.
   
5. Tonight, we're going to Pure, the most exclusive club in Vegas. That should be fun.
6. Wait, we're going to Pure?
   
7. But before then, there's something I want to do.
   

And we leave. As we exit, I ask where the hell we are. "We're on the Strip, but we're pretty fuckin' far away from The Palms," H-Squared says.

"Well, we could just just walk down the Strip, right?" I suggest.

"Absolutely."

After all, who knows what kind of trouble we might get into?

(To be continued...)

You know what's fuckin' awesome? America. Part III.a

As I sit in the back row of my Jet Blue flight to Las Vegas, I take a sip from my fourth scotch-on-the-rocks as we pass over Kansas or Colorado or some state below that I can’t see due to the whole sun-not-being-out-at-night thing. I’m heading out there for my buddy Goliath’s bachelor party. It’s Thursday, May 3, 2007, which is rather significant because it means that my trip will allow me to enjoy:

• Cinco de Mayo
• The Kentucky Derby
• The aforementioned bachelor party, and all the trimmings
• The most anticipated boxing match since Tyson-Holyfield: Oscar De La Hoya vs. Floyd Mayweather—which is being held in the same city I’m about to enter
• My first trip to Vegas

So yeah, add it all up, and I figure I’m headed for the closest thing to a Bacchanal any single guy can ask for.

Sitting next to me is Hollywood Squared (or H-Squared), who always seems to be around when I take a great road trip. Incidentally, as I sip my Dewar’s, he—for some reason not likely related to Snoop Dogg—is drinking gin and juice. I’m not a big gin fan. In fact, I hate the stuff. The only memorable time I can think of involving me drinking gin, ironically, is the last bachelor party I went to. That time, I was in Montreal, and somehow wound up swigging from a Tanqueray bottle at the end of the night and chasing it with fucking Pedialyte. (And yes, I just threw up into my hand after typing that.) But that’s another story for another day.

Believe it or not, this is my first trip West of Pittsburgh. And what a trip it should be! The best man, JV, who’s arranged the whole trip, has booked us at The Palms:

The Palms is possibly the coolest casino in Vegas (or so I’ve heard), and JV has apparently set up some tremendous events for us. At this point, I’ve got a nice buzz on, and I just can’t wait to get there.

Las Vegas. How could this city and I not be a perfect match? Though I’m not really a gambler (I have too many vices already, thank you), the various other allures of the city are extremely, well, alluring. And what better weekend could I possibly have? The bachelor party, the Derby, the fight… Anyone who’s anyone is supposed to be there. And I qualify as “anyone,” so AWESOME!

At last, we land. H-Squared and I take the shuttle bus to The Palms, which, of course, is the last casino on the route. But no matter. We’re both wearing our suits, as we learned from watching Swingers ("You bring something nice to wear!") Upon entering and receiving our room keys, we’re feeling pretty fucking money, baby. This casino looks outstanding. Women are everywhere, but their clothing isn’t. I know it’s the desert and all, but the amount of bare flesh on display is mind-blowing. Low-cut shirts, short skirts, short shorts… Basically it’s a feast for the heterosexual male’s eyes. (And for the heterosexual woman’s too, I’m sure. And the homosexual male’s. And the…)

After dropping our bags off in our room, we head to the party. At this point, it’s about 2 a.m., which for H-Squared and I means 5 a.m., but the adrenaline is pumping. We’re in Las Fucking Vegas, bitch, dressed in suits, staying at a totally boss casino on the best weekend in years. (Yes, I’m trying to bring “boss” back into the vernacular.)

We take the elevator up to the 55^th floor and enter the bar. Ghostbar.

“Holyfuckingshit,” is my first thought upon entering. I’m not normally into swanky-type places, but this is different. This is cool. This is fucking splendid. Unlike trendy bars in New York, we're not packed in like the 1-train during the morning rush. The music is loud, but not at an ear-bleeding level. And the people are all hot and under control. No one's picking fights because you grazed their elbow when passing. And there are no hipsters in sight! It's like everything I've ever hated about most "cool" New York bars refuses to exist here.

Before long, we run into Goliath and the whole crew. After the requisite pleasantries are exchanged, I head to the bar. I quickly surmise that trying to get a Bud bottle and a shot of Beam, as I normally do, at Ghostbar would be futile. The lowest-quality bourbon in sight is fucking Knob Creek, which sits on the top shelf of most bars I frequent.

“Macallan 12, rocks,” I request.

"Sixteen dollars,” the impossibly hot barmaid (whom I will call “Hot Bartender” in subsequent discussions) replies. Out comes the credit card, where I imagine it will remain until it curls up into a ball of despair before long.

Sixteen bucks for a drink? Now normally, I spend a bit less, I will admit. But I am in Vegas for the first time, and I happen to be at a highly exclusive bar on the top floor of the coolest casino in town, enjoying the company of friends who, with me, are about to embark on a weekend of indulgence worthy of Saudi princes. So fuck it. Money is nothing more than little pieces of green paper, right?

The best man, JV, leads me from the bar through the throngs of dancing, gorgeous people to—and I didn’t even know this was there—the outdoor balcony. And oh my, the view. The fucking view:

"HOLYFUCKINGSHIT," I say. It’s a near 360-degree view of the whole city. Now I realize why The Palms was the last stop on the bus ride. From this vantage point, I can see every casino in Vegas. I can see the outlying desert. I think I can even see Indiana if I squint. Wait, is that New York? This is weird. Reminds me of something...

Goliath is having a blast. So am I. So are H-Squared and JV, who buys us a few shots. (Boss!) One of my best friends, Red Dragon (who introduced me to Goliath), is there as well. And so after many drinks have been drunk, some folks start heading to bed. It’s about 4 a.m. now, but I’m still in full-on party mode. Fortunately, so are H-Squared, Goliath, and a few others. (Red Dragon likes to golf and therefore went to bed early. He says he had a tee time; I say he's a gaping vag. But that's for history to decide.)

As we exit Ghostbar, I wave goodbye to Hot Bartender (who doesn’t wave back, but only because she’s playing hard-to-get, I’m certain).

Even in New York, not much is open after 4. But we're not in New York. We're at The Palms. Granted, none of us know what's there, but fortunately for us, there is Rain.

As I mentioned before, I’m not particularly into swanky places. I’m also not into “clubs.” But right now, I’m intoxicated. Not just on the magnificent scotch I’ve been imbibing, but on the entire atmosphere of this desert town and all it has to offer. Rain is a nightclub on the ground floor of the Palms. So off to Rain we go.

On any other night in any other town, I would not be caught dead in a place like Rain. But as I enter and begin to behold the thumping base of “This Is Why I’m Hot” by MIMS, I see a venue full of sweaty, drunken people grinding…and I can’t complain. This is somehow, I dunno, fantastic, in spite of MIMS. We all get some drinks and begin doing some serious people-watching. The kind of people-watching you can’t really do anywhere else. We’re up in the balcony, looking down onto the Gomorrah that is the dance floor. I spot an incredibly hot chick wearing a red tank top with a jean-skirt, and I begin to wonder why that isn’t required daily attire for all women. And the way she’s dancing makes her even hotter. I decide that this girl (I’ll call her "Bambi") will be my own personal eye candy as long as I’m there. She’s just dancing with some friends, but whether or not she knows it, she’s made another friend. (I’m talking about my penis, by the way.)

Incidentally, good luck trying to have a conversation in Rain. You know how when you’re out in the woods at night, you sometimes can’t see your hand in front of your face? Well, here it wouldn’t matter if I shouted directly into your ear—you wouldn’t hear shit.

Despite all these apparent negatives, Rain is marvelous. I can’t help but smile the entire time I’m there. (Did I mention that I'm drunk?) But after about an hour or so, many of our party have already left. It’s down to H-Squared and me. We say our goodbyes to Rain. As we leave, I wave goodbye to Bambi and get the same (non)response I got from Hot Bartender. Ahhh, the ladies of Las Vegas—a classy group, to be sure.

H-Squared and I head to the main bar on the casino floor. We order a few Miller Lites, sit at a table, and begin to go over the events of the night. But lo and behold, two young ladies sit down at a nearby table. Interesting…

After discussing various ways of approaching them, we decide to take the layman’s route.

“Hey!” shouts H-Squared. And for some reason, they turn and look over at us. “You guys wanna come over here and have a drink with us?” [Editor’s note: I’m absolutely certain that’s not what he said, but the transcript I’m reading merely reads “Hhheee cmmmonn ovvvvvaaaaahhhh theaoiuhadaflk;jdslk." Okay, read on.]

Miraculously, the two pretty young ladies come join us. I go to the bar and purchase some drinks (4 beers, 4 whiskey shots) and return to the table. We down our shots, chase them with our beers, and are instantly great friends. At 5 in the morning at the bar on the floor of The Palms, I guess that’s just how it goes.

The girls get up and do that going-to-the-bathroom-together thing that girls do. So once they're out of earshot, H-Squared and I do that thing that guys do: debate which sexual position would be best with each girl. Then we both admit that we’ve completely forgotten by this point what they look like.

“Let’s just hope that two attractive chicks come back and sit in these same two chairs,” I offer, hopefully. “That’ll probably be them.”

H-Squared agrees, and we begin discussing important matters, like who’s funnier: Stewie or Brian? The ensuing argument nearly comes to blows.

Eventually, the girls come back. Their names, apparently, are Amanda and Elisa (and they're attractive!). So I’m talking to Amanda, while H-Squared deals with Elisa. Things seem to be going well. We have another round of drinks. I find out that Amanda lives in Nebraska, which puts me in an awkward position: This chick is hot, but I also like making fun of people from Nebraska.

Argh, my mind struggles. I choose to let the Nebraska thing go. But just as I’m feeling good about myself for being a good person, Amanda and Elisa head to the bathroom again. What the fuck is this shit?

By now, I’m drunk as a Viking on a bender. Looking at H-Squared, so is he. We start up a discussion about how dumb chicks are, peeing all the time and whatnot, when I realize that my bladder is about to burst. Does that ever happen to you? Like, out of nowhere, you have to FUCKING PISS AND NOW GODDAMMIT! Well, I feel that way, so I get up and head to the bathroom, which, of course, is a good two-minute walk from the bar.

Just as I get there, who happens to be walking out of the women’s bathroom? Amanda. She stops and smiles when she sees me. For a second, the piss that had lately been most urgent recedes. She and I start chatting, and I tell her I think she’s absolutely smokin’ hot. She blushes (literally—I see her cheeks flush an’ shit!). I move in, thinking now’s the time, and she accepts my arms around her waist. We’re face-to-face now, grinning like idiots at each other. I lean in to seal the deal when—

“I’m married,” she says.

To say the least, I’m slightly taken aback. I release my hands from her waist.

Numerous thoughts enter my head at this point:

• Holyfuckingshit.
  
• Just bang her anyway.
• Nah, dude, she’s married.
• But it’s Vegas, bang her!
• This is fucked up, I don’t want anything to do with a married chick.
• Bang her, you fucking pussy.
• Is there any way I can bang her and not feel horrible about myself?
• Feelings? You pussy. Bang her.
• I wonder if the Mets won.
• Bang her.
• No.
• Bang her.
• Is the capital of Minnesota St. Paul or Minneapolis?
• She wants you, BANG HER.
• Minneapolis, I think.
• Oh for God’s sake, you’re gonna pussy out, aren’t you?
• No, it’s St. Paul, isn’t it?
• Nice, first trip to Vegas and you elect to not bang.
• Definitely St. Paul.
• Way to go, champ. Champ of the not-bangers.
• Wow do I have to piss, NOW.

“You’re married?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sorry. I should’ve told you.”

“Okay, well, I’ll see you back at the bar.” And I run into the bathroom and, upon reaching the urinal, unleash a stream of liquid that would make a fire hydrant jealous.

I then proceed to wash up and gather my thoughts. Phrases like “lying bitch” and “deceptive slut” and “should I still try to bang her?” go through my mind as I dry off my hands and exit the bathroom.

As I head back toward the bar, my mind eventually eases as I think about the simple fact that I am in Las Fucking Vegas, for God’s sake, and no matter what happens with this cocktease, I still have a lot to look forward to.

And I’m dead-on-balls accurate on that. Over the next two days, I will encounter some strange and amazing things. Some real boss shit.

(To be continued...)

You know what's fuckin' awesome? America. Part II

So I'm riding shotgun as Hollywood Squared (you remember him from the PCH, right?) and I are driving down the Blue Ridge Parkway (pictured, above), curving through the western mountains of North Carolina, and I can't help but be reminded of our last road trip (the aforementioned PCH ride). Here I am again, marveling at the beauty I see on either side of the road. No Pacific Ocean this time, but the mountains on one side and the valleys on the other certainly qualify as "Shit y'all gotta see sometime." Ever see Last of the Mohicans? Remember the last shot, of the beautiful Smoky Mountains?


Yeah, it looks like that.

As anyone who loves New York as much as I do knows, it's always great to get the hell out, even for a weekend. A nice 11-hour drive to Banner Elk, North Carolina (just outside of Boone, home of Appalachian State University, defending Division II football champs!), seemed the perfect idea, and boy is it turning out great.

We check into our hotel and, since neither of us know where the hell we are, decide we might as well take a drive. See the area. Maybe check out one of those amazing scenic overlooks to view what would surely be an amazing sunset. You know, something like this:

On our way there, though, something appears.

"Whoa! Check out that chick in the red tank top!" I say, subtly.

She walks on the opposite side of the road and turns, heading up some road we can't see since we've just driven past her. As I think of the Michelangelo-esque painting I will someday draw of her from memory, the other side of road -- which had previously just been thick woods -- suddenly opens up into a clearing, revealing a large pond and an even bigger open area. It is filled with tents and lawn chairs and tables and all kinds of genteel-looking Southerners. And is that a stage? But before we know it, the thick woods return, and we can't see a thing.

"What was that?" says H-Squared.

"I dunno. But we're going," I respond.

"Absolutely."

We quickly turn around and head back to where we saw the gorgeous red-tank-top girl entering. We turn in and weave our way through a tiny paved road which, upon straightening out, reveals a security guard at his gate. We slow down and notice a sign to the right describing some event we've (obviously) never heard of, but the kicker is: "Tickets required."

"Just go, man," I say.

We go. The guard, an elderly gent whose few remaining strands of pure white hair stick out beneath his standard security-guard hat, raises his hand. We stop. He approaches my window.

"Where can we get tickets?" I ask, before he can question us.

"Y'all don't have tickets yet?" he says, with a smirk. It is clear that by not having tickets, there's no way in hell we should be here. But then, he looks out toward the pond, now slightly visible a few hundred feet away through the thinning trees. He looks back at us and says something marvelous.

"Just go on ahead, see if y'all can get in."

We thank him and do as he says. As we continue, the woods disappear, and we can see the whole scene. And then I hear it.

"Is that an orchestra?" I ask, as we roll the windows back down.

Sure enough, there is a full 90-piece orchestra on the stage we saw earlier. And what are they playing? Struass's "Thus Spake Zarathustra." You know, the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey. (Or Ric Flair's entrance music, for you wrestling fans.) Perhaps this evening could be...interesting

"Where the hell are we?" H-Squared asks, smiling the kind of grin you can only get when you know you're about to dive in head-first with a fuck-the-consequences attitude.

But we still don't know where the hell we are, who the hell these people are, or what the hell this "event" thing is. We manage to drive on past the next wave of security, which apparently thinks we must have tickets, having gotten this far. So we park and get out and start walking around. Everywhere we look, there are people of all ages walking around. There's a bunch of big tents set up, each with food or trinkets or something underneath -- whether they're for sale or what, we don't know -- but it seems like you have to know someone to get something, know what I mean? We walk along a path along the rear of the celebration-type-thing. In front of us are the tents, then the large open area -- now filled with people on their lawn chairs listening to the orchestra, about 200 feet farther ahead -- and the pond to our right, near where we drove in.

What should we do? Get drinks. Now.

We spot a tent which displays all sorts of beer and liquor (and a cash bar, apparently), so we march over and buy a few Michelob Lights. We walk down a small hill in the direction of the orchestra and find a small patch of open grass, and sit down.

It's beautiful. About 7 o'clock or so in the evening, a few clouds in the sky, the sun beginning to set, a nice breeze, beautiful symphonic music playing, and about 1,000 people there who we don't know. We look around, and no one seems to think we're intruders (despite our blatant underdressing). But wait -- there's one person who smells something fishy. A 12-year-old girl is eyeing us from about 10 feet away. No one else seems to even notice us, but the look on her face is clear: What the hell are you two frauds doing here?

Coincidentally, we are just finishing up our beers, so we decide to get up (and run away). I don't look over at the little girl, but I can feel her icy stare as we hurry off, trying to be discrete. We get back to the first path we were on, when it becomes clear to me.

"Okay. Time to score some free booze."

At all the tents, wine is being served. There are bottles everywhere. At a huge gathering like this, which local businesses have clearly sponsored (hence all the tents serving food and hawking products, etc.), you just have to know someone and you can get a drink, right? At this point, H-Squared and I wish we were John and Jeremy from Wedding Crashers. They'd be drinking with the town mayor in an hour, for Christ's sake. Whereas we...stand there, clueless.

H-Squared has an idea. We go back to the car and retrieve from the trunk two lawn chairs that we can carry in bags over our shoulders. This way, we can "fit in," right? But we momentarily debate whether these props will ruin our "mystique," as up to this point we have clearly looked like a few oddballs -- and drawn some unlikely stares from several young beauties. We decide that fitting in is better for getting booze, and that is the priority ("Sorry, ladies!"), so we go get the chairs and head back to the party.

At this point, the orchestra starts playing the theme from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I love it. H-Squared isn't quite as familiar with it, but if you know the movie well, then you remember those key five notes that were so important, right? We walk around for awhile, unsure how to act. It's the South, right? So who knows? As the great Stanley Rothenstein

once said, "The laws are medieval down here."

The orchestra wraps up its first set. During intermission, we walk around "casing the place." There is clearly free booze to be had, we just have to find a way to get it. As we stand there pondering our options, a woman approaches us.

"Excuse me, but will you take a picture with my niece?" she says. H-Squared and I look down, and there's an 11-year-old girl smiling up at us. The older woman who approached us continues, "She thinks you guys are cute, but she's embarrassed to ask."

"Sure!" I say. And this adorable girl in a cute little white dress comes over and stands between us. We bend down and her aunt takes the picture, and the girl prances away giggling. All you can say when something like that happens is, "Awwwww..."

CRACK! Thunder strikes. Out of nowhere, dark gray clouds start closing in. A man gets up on stage and announces, "The next set will be starting momentarily! Please don't say the 'R' word!" ('R' for rain, in case I was unclear.) But no one seems to care. People start packing up their lawn chairs and heading for cover.

This is perfect. In the chaos of everyone moving around so suddenly, I simply walk over to a tent where I see ample bottles of red and white, and I ask for a glass of red. The woman whom I ask -- who may or may not have worked at the tent -- clearly just saw us getting our picture taken with the darling little girl, and simply says, "Help yourself, hon." So I do. Two very tall glasses for me, two for H-Squared. Now, not only do we have drinks, we have an "in" at that tent. As I said, perfect. Finally, free booze!

Now with drinks, we once again wonder, "Where the hell are we?" Smiling, we start to walk, cutting straight in front of the stage with the intent to head back up to the path, when -- without any sort of further announcement -- the orchestra starts up again. And what do they start with?

The "Imperial March" from The Empire Strikes Back, one of the most badass pieces of music ever. Hell, it's Ramon Castro's entrance music when he goes to bat! Immediately, we decide to sit down and listen. Thank God we brought those lawn chairs! And hey, why not sit right smack in the middle of everything, right?

So there we sit, drinking our hard-won free booze, sitting on our lawn chairs, as this orchestra goes through a whole series of amazing pieces of music. And throughout, some distance away, we can hear thunder. As was hinted at by the earlier Close Encounters piece, the conductor eventually announced he was a good friend of John Williams. Whether or not you know him by name, you know his music (every Spielberg movie you ever seen). We go from "Imperial March," into the theme from Superman, into some Mozart (he's good, too), into Star Trek IV. This is all pretty goddamn amazing. Meanwhile, far back behind the stage, seemingly across the far-away street, we see a few guys with flashlights fiddling with something. We have no idea what this is. (HINT -- this will come back later.)

Finally, the conductor announces that this next piece will be the finale. And what is it? More Star Wars! First the Princess Leia theme (eh), but then we get the grand overture from Episode IV, the one that always opens every installment as the crawl plays.

Then God enters.

Just as the orchestra begins playing, literally right over the stage, lightning explodes. (It's a bit off in the distance, I don't mean to imply it hit the stage or anything.) Imagine this with me -- sitting there right in front of a giant orchestra playing a hugely dramatic piece you're totally familiar with and love, and BAM! BAM! BAM! Freakin' lighting provides a perfectly natural pyrotechnic show.

The orchestra finishes, and H-Squared and I stand up immediately -- unintentionally leading the crowd in a standing ovation. After the applause dies down, we start to pack up our chairs when some guy comes on stage and announces something rather...interesting.

"Thank you all for coming. Please stick around for a bit longer and enjoy the fireworks!"

We're both out of booze now, and not particular eager to watch some meager redneck fireworks show that lasts all of five minutes. I mean, we live in New York City. Ever seen the Fourth of July display on the East River? But we decide to sit back down and give it chance. Who knows?

BOOM!

BOOM BOOM BOOM!

Wow. This is off to a helluva start. But nothing I haven't seen before. As I said, I'm from New York -- I know what a real fireworks show is. However, it turns out those guys we saw with the flashlights were setting up the real finale.

The show resumes, and just keeps getting better. Every time I think they've done their best, they up the ante. Fireworks are innately amazing, as Chuck has pointed out, and once they start, it's impossible to look away. But this show is starting to blow me away. They literally do everything I've ever seen at the big New York Fourth of July extravaganza, and then they pull something out that I haven't seen before.

They shoot up about seven or eight in a row, which each end in a huge eruption of sound, but you can't really see them -- they don't have the typical huge explosion of light -- but the little POOF and spark leave behind a huge, growing smoke trail as it slowly falls to the ground. Now, individually this would not be impressive, but when all eight smoke trails slowly begin to merge and flow with each other, it's transfixing.

It becomes not eight different smoke trails, but one beautiful, ever-changing "smoke being" (or something). First it's a palm tree; then a multi-headed snake monster; then an octopus; then a weeping willow tree; then, as it fades, it becomes whatever you want it to be. It's like your own personal skyborne Rorschach Test. For the first time tonight, I really wish I was tripping on some serious mushrooms.

This incredible display finally ends after 20 minutes of pure amazement. After another standing ovation, we pack up our lawn chairs and start to leave with the crowd, feeling more fulfilled than we could possibly have imagined back when we were simply looking for a sunset and spotted some girl in a red tank top.

After all that, I once again ask, "Where the hell are we?"

You know what's fuckin' awesome? America

There isn’t a cloud in the sky. Humidity? I left it back in New York. I look to my right and see mountains. To my left, the Pacific Ocean. I’m fairly certain this highway is prettier than the New Jersey Turnpike.

My feet rest on the side of the car as I recline (sideways) in the back seat of a black Volkswagen convertible cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway. I’m halfway through a six pack of Tecate that I keep in a small cooler behind the driver’s seat, trying to figure out what’s more stunningly beautiful – the ocean or the mountains. But mostly, I’m enjoying the ride. Sunglasses, sunblock, and West Coast hip-hop radio.

My friend (Lexy) is driving me and my friend (Hollywood Squared) from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara, which should be about a 90-minute drive without stops or traffic. But we stop for about an hour to eat fresh crabs (and by fresh, I mean crawling in plain sight) at Neptune’s Net, a beach restaurant along the PCH, right at the border of L.A. County and Ventura.

I drink a 24 oz. Pacifico and feel great. The crabs are amazing. H-squared orders some steamed clams—also amazing.

Surfers and bikers love this place as well. And by bikers, I don’t mean Schwinn—I mean Harley. But it’s all cool. Apparently, Hells Angels dig fresh seafood as well. Everyone is welcome at Neptune’s Net.

We get back on the road, farting all sorts of beautiful, shellfish-smelling scents. My forehead is clearly getting sunburned. But every time I look around, there’s something incredible to see. The bluffs, the piers, the cliffs, the sand, the hills…

By the time we get to our hotel, I wish we could just make the drive again. If you’ve ever driven along the Pacific Coast Highway, you know what I mean. I love New Jersey, but driving down to the Jersey shore doesn’t hold a candle to the drive I took along the West coast.

Taking that drive reminds me once again how many different things you can see driving around this country. Every time I drive through a new state, I feel like I see something unique and special. I've never driven across the Midwest, or the Plains, or the desert out in Arizona -- all things I'd like to do soon. The people I know that have tell me that it's amazing, and I believe them 100 percent. This country boasts so many different environments. I can only wish to see all of them.

Just another reminder, I guess, of how special it is to live here.