Saturday, June 25, 10:35 p.m. "What's the secret password?" The doorman seems amused at getting to deliver such a childish, comic-book sentence. "Chewy," we offer in unison. I, too, take a certain amount of pleasure in even being asked for a password. I'm directed to the elevator and ascend 28 floors, along with my friend, Yvette Brown, now a reality-TV celeb on I Want To Be A Hilton and who has toted me along as her companion. I'm as good an accessory as a million-dollar pocket-pooch, any day.
With the Real World having moved on to new, oversexed casts and other cities, their vacated pad at the Palms has become the quintessential location for exercising the last rites of singledom: the bachelor party. This weekend's band of brothers has paid $10,000 per night to call the 2,900-square-foot suite with six beds in three bedrooms, their home. And it seems they've given out the password to every hot chick they've met this weekend. The door is unlocked and we enter, along with six other girls heading to the same place.
In one room, there's intimate conversation (a nookie nook, if you will), music and dancing in another, a full bar has been set up in a corner, and in the bathroom, one intrepid fellow is filling the Jacuzzi, praying, I'm sure, to re-create the infamous Real World Vegas hot-tub orgy. I'm rooting for him.
The door opens and another group of girls enters. I scan the kitchen, bathrooms, communal shower, bedrooms: all scenes of lustful acts captured and broadcast to teenagers in quaint farming communities and on huge college campuses. I truly hope the Palms has given this place a good scrub.
The place is coolly decorated, funky and young, much like the women who are still filing in. I get the feeling some of these girls may be on the clock, which is confirmed when a busty blonde hints that she's on the clock. But maybe I misunderstood. Sage fatherly wisdom has told me I can't put my head on someone else's shoulders, but I think that if the price were right, she'd let me put my head wherever I'd like. Around the kitchen table, a woman with curvy, powerful legs and a micro-mini is treating each guy in turn to a lap dance, though the conversation miraculously never pauses; the guys simply peer over her outstretched leg or arm and continue talking about sports, stocks and pressing matters of state. She, in her glitter and heels, is serenely oblivious.
Over at the bar, we are assisted in making our drinks—hey, sometimes it takes a big, strong Texan to open a can of Red Bull, and far be it from me to turn down chivalry. Even more girls join the party; we have now officially achieved an 80-20 ratio—raw numbers, not percentages. We even get to meet our host and he really does call himself Chewy, though I'm disappointed to find he bears no resemblance to his fuzzy, alien namesake.
We watch as the husband of some woman in San Francisco gallops like a horsey, spanking himself with a decorative flower arrangement. Last year, this same group of guys spent $2,000 to $3,000 each giving him a proper send-off in Cabo. "I think we've both seen much worse," I say to Yvette.
Yes, the young men are having a grand ol' time but shockingly, they appear to be in relative control. Some bachelor parties get so wild, it's hard to believe the men are our brothers, husbands, doctors and accountants. Ladies, before you agree to let him come to Vegas for the big event, remember: He's not wearing a telltale engagement ring this weekend. But this group seems content to just dance close with strangers, eat hot wings and see how many females they can lure into their den of moderate deceit and forgivable debauchery. Bragging rights are always at stake over who spent the most and who passed out first, and they all discuss who they need to swear never to rat out.
Las Vegas has a long history of being the place to get hitched, un-hitched and hitched again. It's also the place to say farewell to ultimate freedom (in anticipation of ultimate joy, of course). Here, everyday is a nice day for a white wedding. And decades after the Rat Pack, men still invoke their spirits: "Frankie, baby, be with me at the craps table. Be with me when I've had too much Jack. And especially be with Bob, the best man—he really needs to get laid."
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
[email protected].
Xania's Hot Spots for June 30-July 6
Thursday, June 30
Singer Chris Clouse, Simon at the Hard Rock, 9 p.m.
Tease at the Pussycat Dolls Lounge, featuring new lead singer Willa Ford, Caesars, 9:30 p.m.
Friday, July 1
Desert Model Search, Ivan Kane's Forty Deuce, 10 p.m.
Tangerine's one-year anniversary featuring Carmen Electra and the Bombshell Babes
Playmate Carmella DeCesar's birthday with Jen Walcott and Ava Fabian, Pure
Saturday, July 2
DJ Dan, Ice
Sunday, July 3
Welcome new resident DJ Sezana to Nirvana, Green Valley Ranch
No. 5 DJ in the world, Ferry Corsten, Ice
Wednesday, July 6
Decorating party, bring "bras, bras, bras!" to the Hogs & Heifers Saloon, 10 p.m.
For more Hot Spots and weekly parties visit
www.TheCircuitLV.com and sign up for Xania's free weekly newsletter.