They say you can never have too much of a good thing. "They" should move to Vegas. To celebrate the big two-seven, I decided to test my party resolve. I've been on six- and seven-day party marathons before, but inject a little birthday adrenaline and some close friends and you have a full-scale, holy party pilgrimage on your hands.
Monday morning, April 25, 11:30 a.m. "Oh crap." My first hangover in 367 days. Dizzy, cotton-mouthed and bewildered, I stagger on wobbly legs over to the medicine cabinet to search for a stray aspirin. The previous night, I had attended a party at Light strangely titled Ladies of The Night. Despite the prostitution reference, Light genuinely honored 60 of the top women in Vegas nightlife by inviting them to the Sunday industry night at Bellagio's club and giving them big ol' goody bags of cosmetics, lingerie and gift certificates. My arm needs little twisting so a few of us dames de la nuit gathered and toasted our own fabulousness. Apparently, we're pretty damn fabulous because we soon found ourselves toasted. That was Day One.
Tuesday, April 26, 3:20 a.m. As we "1, 2, Step" from one of Pure's sexy, white VIP booths to the next, my Wingmen are putting the moves on the Wingwomen and I'm scraping electric-blue icing from my satin pumps—and my dress and my hair. Promoter Blake Anthony set us up like royalty and even showed us his mad Martha Stewart skills by arranging cake and balloons. Earlier in the evening, we stuffed ourselves at Ra Sushi and grooved to DJ KC Ray, brought in early just for the festivities. (Thank you, Aaron and Mike!) Four hours and an equal number of bottles later, I'm watching the crowd enjoy Pure's locals night and I wax both poetic and cynic on the subject of aging. They also say 40 is the new 30, which makes 30 the new 20, which makes me 17, which means I need to stop drinking.
Wednesday, April 27, 2:05 a.m. Somewhere between Tabú and the car, my cell decides to take a much-needed vacation and vanishes. It's like someone has removed my right arm. Moments before, we had prime seats for Tabú's Boutique, where Zumanity presented its fashions to the hip, post-Epicurean Affair crowd. Sexy lingerie strolls by wearing hot models, as Alain Vinet, Cirque's official DJ, spins sultry, ethereal tracks. Brokenhearted over my missing phone, my party and I press on to the night's final stop, Forty Deuce's AM After-hours. We are greeted by VIP hostess Tiffany Masters and slick promoter Tony Verdugo, who gazes over smoky sunglasses and coos, "I treat my everyday Joes like VIPs and my VIPs like God." I like his style. Sexy dancer Dakota takes to the stage, as do two of my Wingmen, who deliver such a performance that I believe Ivan Kane is considering adding an all-male revue. Swinging from the pearl curtains, Dakota and the Wingmen shimmy and shake my mind off my cellular troubles. Until a call comes in to a friend: My phone is being held for ransom! Sometime after 5 a.m., the phone is delivered by a rather large transvestite, who we pay off with drink tickets.
Thursday, April 28, 1:15 a.m. All I want for Xanikah is a tight, little Rehab wife-beater. And the body to rock it. Body English promoter Jack LaFleur is famous for throwing a good fête at the drop of a trucker's hat. He could have thrown tonight's Rehab Kickoff Party in a high school auditorium and the ladies still would have showed up in lusty, busty, blonde droves: it's gotta be Jack's mullet. Though we began the evening at one of Chris Hammond's awesome Rock 'n' Roll Wine tastings, we still somehow manage to go through a bottle of Goose at English, but in the end, I score my prize. That would be the shirt, not the body.
Sunday, May 1st, 6:02 p.m. I've survived eight days. Languidly sipping my super-sized Rehab margarita, I'm a contradiction in terms ... and bikini. I'm also SPF'ed from nose to toes and thanking God that birthdays come but once a year. Paul Oakenfold is spinning the perfect bass-thumping background grooves for the season's first party. Dark clouds roll in and threaten to shut us down early. It would be a pity if the beer-soaked, oiled-up, sun-tanned and unfairly chiseled, siliconed masses were electrocuted where they posed. But instead of rain, a helicopter swoops down, pelting the pretty people with thousands of tiny, blue, rubber balls. Instant madness! The DJ calls out, "Hey Rehab, if you're holding a red ball, you've won $500! The rest of you just got blue balls!"
I left with three balls. Jealous?
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
[email protected].
Friday, May 6
Krave's Cobacovana changes names and days and becomes Reventon Latino
Sunday, May 8
Rehab, Week Two. More pool parties are on the way, including Moorea at Mandalay Bay on May 27 and Nirvana at the newly renovated Green Valley pool on May 29. Look for my pool-party column in early June.
Pre-party at Ra Sushi's Flying Fish Lounge
Industry Night at Light
Tuesday, May 3
Locals Night at Pure
Wednesday, May 4
Moonshine at Tangerine
AM After-hours at Ivan Kane's Forty Deuce
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