Diary of a Low Budget Superhero

Easter Sunday, April 4th. Joe had gone to his sister's place for dinner, and I was packing for my flight to Las Vegas later that day. Not an easy pack -- a multi-purpose trip, not to mention really long -- so it would take a good while to figure out exactly what to bring. I flipped around cable until I found a movie that could play in the background while I sorted through every article of clothing I own. I didn't even think about it until the scene where Cameron Poe makes Swamp Thing crash the hijacked plane into the Hard Rock Hotel, but there I was, watching Con Air, while getting ready to go stay in the Hard Rock Hotel for two weeks.

Follow up:

By the time I left the Hard Rock two weeks later, I was praying for a gang of insane criminals to crash a plane into the fucker.(*)

Have you ever BEEN to the Hard Rock? It's a trip, man. Okay, whoever programs the music has exquisite taste, there's not a clunker on the constant soundtrack to your Hard Rock experience. But it IS constant -- hard rock tunes at 6:30am on my way through the lobby to catch a cab for the convention center, well, it's early, dudes. And it IS everywhere. Not just the casino but the elevator, the hallways, the bathrooms, the restaurants. And it's deafening -- and that's not 'cuz I'm an old dust fart now -- I've been complaining that the music is too loud since Back in Black blasted my forehead through the headrest of the passenger seat in Hub's VW Rabbit in high school. Seriously, looking back, we spent more time in that stupid little car...and when I think about it, I don't know how we got to be friends. I didn't hear a word the guy said in that car. Just the steady assault of hard guitars and the sweet stereo howlings of Brian Johnson, Geddy Lee, Roger Waters, Stephen Pearcy, Rob Halford, Vince Neil, Diamond Dave and Ozzy. Well, that hatchback had nothing on this hotel. Besides the rock, they've got about a thousand photos of rock stars and about a hundred really cool museum quality displays of outfits famously worn by everyone from Slash to Santana.

When I checked in, I got into a rock discussion with one of the bell men. Neil? Nick? The conversation must have been triggered by whatever tune was playing, but we talked rock all the way to my room, and since it takes forever to get to anywhere from the bell desk, it was a long talk. The guy stopped and said, "You're the only guest who's ever known ANYthing about anything." I said, "You're kidding. This is the HARD ROCK. I would think being a music lover is half the reason someone would want to stay here." He assured me I was wrong about that. He implied that the clientele couldn't tell a guitar from a bass.

I started to get the impression the Hard Rock would not be populated with "my" people.

It's not.

On weeknights it's not an impossible place to be, but Thursday through Sunday the whole place from casino to pool is crawling with clones of the cast of Jersey Shore.

Sure, normal-volumed and perfectly respectable folks were mixed in here and there, but what dominated was the club set. The ravers. We couldn't tell which tribe was worse, the boys or the girls. The boys clustered around the doorways and bars, a cloud of Axe body wash and Juicy Couture clinging to their Ed Hardy shirts, casino lights glinting off the highlights and lowlights in their gelled faux-hawks as they milled about comparing bling and trawling for babes. The girls traveled in packs, apparently after having been all in one room upstairs making sure their micro-skirts were short enough, boobs plumped enough and that everyone got an equal share of the hairspray, mascara and body glitter. Also, no one was unpracticed in their woo'ing. They said "woo" many times, at a very high shrieky volume. If it weren't a business trip, if I were in the mood for a party, maybe the Hard Rock would have been a hoot? But not after working all day. By the time we got off that convention show floor, we wanted relaxation, dinner and a drink, not a woo'ing douchebag parade of cocktastic proportions.

Some of you read that and can't wait to check in and get your party on, right? Well have fun! Be sure to be there on a Sunday, because that's when they have Rehab. Rehab is a massive pool party, basically like a nightclub rave, only in the water. When I heard about Rehab I didn't go near the pool at all, especially after I saw the T-shirt you can buy as a souvenir from the gift shop. It reads, "I Rubbed One Out At Rehab." Yes, you read that right. I RUBBED ONE OUT. AT REHAB. I wasn't about to step one toe into that churning STD frappe they call a pool. Not enough chlorine in the world, my friend.

Well, once the business trip part was over, I changed hotels. This was on Saturday April 17th, the day before Rehab while the hotel was starting to fill up with half-naked pool partiers, I checked out...nay, I fled...to Henderson, outside the city of Las Vegas altogether. I needed a breather, spent a very quiet, recuperative day and night speaking to as few people as possible and remaining as prone as I could. It's a tough show, everything hurts after, and I wanted to be refreshed, as Joe was due to arrive the next day. I checked out of the quiet Henderson place and moved to the Flamingo, where Joe and I stayed from Sunday through Tuesday. Then for our last two nights we checked into a downtown hotel. That was new to us! We'd only stayed on the strip before, never downtown. I'm sure I'll have some stories about this part of the trip in the next few weeks as I think of stuff.

Oh and in spite of the clientele it draws, I still would GO to the Hard Rock, just not STAY there again. They've got some good restaurants in there, namely DeNiro's Italian place called Ago (best handmade pasta ever) and the Pink Taco, a Mexican place which sounds like a lesbian joint but doesn't seem to be; it's got about a hundred kinds of Tequila. I really want to try this $75 shot. Assuming someone buys it for me or else I win at the slots.

Speaking of slots, I won $160 at one slot machine in particular, and I knew I would, too. At the time, my coworker Jeff was texting me to come to dinner, but just as I sat down at this slot machine, "Tom Sawyer" started to play. "Can't come, at slots, feeling lucky, Rush just came on!" Cha ching!

And by the way? Now that I've seen it and driven the road about fifty times? In Con Air, I don't think Cameron Poe and the convicts could have landed on the strip like they claim to in the script. The direction of the airport, the direction the plane was going and the angle at which they sheared the top off the neon guitar growing out of the Hard Rock? They totally landed on Paradise Road. I raised this issue one morning while driving my crew to the convention center. Everyone agrees with me.

(*)Exaggeration for humor. No one wishes any planes to crash into any buildings, even ones filled with douchebags.