Friday night, north of the Strip, heading to a rock show. Gonna see a badass band, the Detroit Cobras, with some local flavor opening, at the Aruba Showroom. Just one problem—where the hell am I supposed to park?

In front of the Aruba, two beefy security types flank a row of orange cones blocking the entrance to a postage stamp-sized parking lot, denying access to anybody but hotel guests. Down the road, I spy a mall cop wannabe grimly warding off would-be interlopers at the Walgreens and Wells Fargo lots.

A pair of wedding chapels bookend the Aruba—no way I can get away with leaving my car there for four hours. Even the Talk of the Town adult emporium is limiting its lot to customers. I mean, I am out of edible lube, but they’ll still catch me sneaking across the street to duck into the Aruba after I make my purchase.

I don’t really want to park three blocks away and wander back to my car alone at 2 a.m., so I turn left and head toward the 15. Goodbye, Aruba Showroom. I guess you just didn’t want my money badly enough.