It was my first “big” assignment when I came to Las Vegas a couple dozen months back—covering St. Paddy’s at Nine Fine Irishmen. Even though I know my way around a pub, I was nervous. Three Car Bombs later, the nerves gave way to a smile and an aching bladder. Unlike at most big gatherings, the line for beer disposal wasn’t queued up at the ladies room; it was the men’s room that had the 30-minute wait. Earlier I had seen three guys relieving themselves behind one of the Guinness tents on Las Vegas Boulevard. Now I knew why. Figuring I was out of options, I decided to follow their lead. No one would know I was working, right?
Unfortunately, midstream I got caught and screamed at by a Nine Fine manager. I wobbled to cut off the flow without cutting off the goods. I tried to get my zipper up and not reveal my identity as I stumbled toward the exit—this would be the last thing my boss needed to hear about. “Aren’t you Justin Jimenez?” she called. Shit. How did she know? It didn’t matter; she knew.
That was the first of many epiphanies I had about working in Las Vegas: This town is tiny, and when you are press, writing nightlife or not, you need to behave (a rule I would break several times over the next year and a half).
Now, getting set to leave Sin City behind, I figured there was no better place to have a going-away party than Nine Fine, no better place to get in trouble than the first place I found it. I hate goodbye parties, but I love a good Irish pub, so the two balanced out for a grand night. There is just something about Irish pubs, the charm of the dark woods, the Celtic music and the infinite sea of full pint glasses. My wife often calls me “wannabe Irish.” My pal Xania Woodman calls me the 10th fine Irishman. I welcome both.
After a pail of some of the best shepherd’s pie in the city things started to pick up.
Photographer Christopher Smith was the first to start up the Car Bomb engine. Who knew something so dangerous could be so good? With a shot of Baileys Irish Cream, topped with Jameson Irish whiskey, dropped into a half-pint of Guinness, the explosion is fierce.
My writing alma mater was well represented, as Las Vegas Magazine writers Jack Houston and Kiko Miyasato also partook in some Irish imbibing, and when Alyssa Bushey from Caesars Palace showed up and broke a glass, we shut the front door and started the party.
Random people stopped in and out throughout the evening; I even ran into a couple of folks who didn’t know it was a special occasion.
Vegas is such a bizarre place like that. Sure, it’s full of cotton candy, but somewhere within the fluff are some of the best people in the world. I looked around the table and we had folks from Seattle to Chicago to Philadelphia, all in Vegas chasing a few dreams. There will always be the cynics who will moan about the heat, the silliness, the excess and the sin—but there is something special about this city that goes way beyond beer pong and dollar beers at O’Sheas. Nothing against O’Sheas, of course, but for a man who has spent the majority of his time swimming around the watering holes of Las Vegas Boulevard, I have made friends that are more real than the Strip could ever be.
My wife, Tammy, and I are relocating to Costa Rica, and while I am sure there will be a moment when we wish we could go have another romp at the Rio, a quick tryst at Tryst or even a night with Cook E. Jarr at Carnaval Court, the past two years have been the longest weekend of my life, and it’s time to move on.
There was no line for the bathroom all night, so I had no need to feed the plants (the same manager who caught me with my pants down a year and half ago gave me a hug goodbye this time), but I realized one thing as we wandered out at 3 a.m. and saw the casino floor full of action: Vegas will always be here.
Justin Jimenez firmly believes we should draft beer, not people. And he always sees better through the bottom of an empty glass. If you’d like to wish him farewell, he can be reached at [email protected].