A+E

It must be nerve-racking to open a new bar. That first night, either people will show up or they won't. Downtown locations in particular have probably fed the most fingernails to anxious bar owners on opening night. The latest test of that theory is the Downtown Cocktail Room.

The lounge is marked only by a low-key sign that says "downtown," like some sort of geographic marker that informs you that you're officially Downtown. I am unable to find the door. If the doorman hadn't pushed open the handle-less silver slab, I might still be wandering the area.

Inside, I'm greeted by the mellow, down-tempo beats of DJ Mike White. I negotiate around the silky red curtains overhanging the center tables and take a seat at the bar. There are only a handful of people there at 9:30, so I dwell on the African-style mural behind the bar. The décor is stylish enough that I instinctively order wine.

"That's a neat-looking book. Is that leather?" a woman asks, sidling up and pointing to my notepad.

"No," I confess. "It's leather-colored paper. But the mood lighting sells it." Secretly, I hope the lighting does the same thing for me. In a T-shirt and jeans, I'm the most underdressed person in the room. And suddenly, there are a lot of people in the room. By the time the lounge dims a few lights at 10, the place has hit its stride.

"It's magic hour—cocktail hour," owner Michael Cornthwaite says as he stops by my barstool, handing me his card with the un-nibbled nails of a man filled with confidence. I joke about my troubles with the door, and he tells me the subtlety was deliberate—though he was advised against it, he thinks it'll help to keep out tourists.

"This bar's for locals," he says.

It's rather audacious to limit patronage in this part of town, but he's absolutely right. It would be a shame to let this perfect ambiance be threatened by guys in loud Hawaiian shirts and, God forbid, flip-flops.

Tonight I've eavesdropped on the reunions of many acquaintances who've run into each other without planning it. It's uncanny—as though this lounge is some sort of subliminal mecca for cool socialites. Ingrid, the bartender, catches up with a few of her UNLV teachers who just happened to stop by. My former Weekly colleague, Pj Perez—who also knows Ingrid—shows up and scribbles notes in my faux-leather notepad. Apparently, I love donkeys.

By the time things wind down in the early a.m. hours, the only other customer left is a local stand-up comedian who knows all the same guys I hang out with. This bar is six degrees of separation with two or three of the middle degrees cut out.

As I leave, the door stumps me again, and I wind up absent-mindedly pressing on the glass beside it. That's probably the Chardonnay's fault more than anything else, but it is a difficult door. It's a good thing the inside proves to be worth the trouble.

Downtown Cocktail Room

111 Las Vegas Blvd S.

300-6268

100-to-1

That we'll be enticed into drinking Gatorade by commercials showing athletes dripping urine-colored sweat.

10-to-1

That someone is already pitching a movie treatment based on the case of the Rev. Georges Chaanine.

1,000-to-1

That Chaanine will be played by an uglied-up Heath Ledger in a performance hailed by GQ as "a brave attempt to broaden his post-Brokeback repertoire."

Even money

That David Hasselhoff (The Producers) would take John O'Hurley (Spamalot) in a cage match.

Sorry, Killers. The first Vegas band to ever grace the cover of Rolling Stone is ... Panic! At the Disco. The February 8 issue features a five-page spread on what the once-relevant magazine calls "the biggest new rock band in America," revealing, among other vital info, that singer Brendon Urie drinks Red Bull; that guitarist Ryan Ross and drummer Spencer Smith used to play with remote-control cars; and that the quartet's favorite sandwich joint is Port of Subs. Which leaves us wondering, where's the Capriotti's love, fellas?

In addition to being a very provocative work, the Oscar-nominated Jesus Camp (PG-13, $26.98 aaaa) was more timely than anyone could have expected upon its release last fall. It was showing in several dozen theaters when one of the film's centerpiece figures—the fire-breathing Rev. Ted Haggard—was relieved of the presidency of the National Association of Evangelicals for soliciting gay sex and using illegal drugs. Haggard was viewed as a hero and role model by the young evangelicals followed by filmmakers Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady in Jesus Camp. The title refers to the summer retreat in North Dakota where Pentecostal Pastor Becky Fischer would train children to be soldiers in "God's Army." (In this case, at least, the campers were volunteers, not draftees.) Although Ewing and Grady appear not to have taken sides, it would be just as difficult for a liberal not to be horrified by what they see as it would for an evangelical to find fault in Fischer's mission. The extras include deleted scenes, commentary and extended coverage of Haggard's rant.

You Suck: A Love Story


Christopher Moore

Is this about me? Did my ex-girlfriend write this under the obviously fake name "Christopher Moore"? Because, from the title to the bared fangs, it's exactly like that time we broke up (minus the autoerotic asphyxiation).

The Castle in the Forest


Norman Mailer

Credit the canny marketers at Random House: They know that in a nation filled with avid readers willing to grapple with big, difficult novels—I speak of America, of course—more people would be drawn to the words "Norman Mailer" in large type than to a reference to Adolf Hitler, subject of the book.

The Audacity of Hope


Barack Obama

Sure, Obama looks presidential on this book cover, but as Asif Mandvi pointed out on The Daily Show: His last name is one letter different from the first name of our No. 1 enemy. Can we really afford to take that chance?

Born on a Blue Day: Inside the Extraordinary Mind of an Autistic Savant: A Memoir


Daniel Tammet

Clearly, too much math. Pass.