Saturday, July 1, 12:30 p.m. I'm blind! No wait, that's just more sun. For the umpteenth week in a row, I am willingly subjecting my pale, freckle-prone skin to harmful UV rays, and all in the name of journalism. When my eyes adjust to the searing rays and focus squarely on the sparkling pool now lapping over its infinity edge and onto my sandals, I get the tingly sensation that this is going to be a good day. So, why am I crying? I also get sunscreen in my eyes.
The launch of the Palms Pool & Bungalows coincides nicely with the one-year anniversary weekend celebrating 944 magazine's Vegas launch, and thanks to an impressive itinerary of activities, the masses have turned out to pay their respects. Along the balcony VIP teepees, revelers drape their towels over the white-hot metal railing for protection, giving it an old-world laundry-day charm the designers probably never intended. Occasionally, one of the towels slips silently from its post and lands in the waterfall or on the head of someone fetching drinks at the bar below. Meanwhile, all around the numerous pools, voices blend into a kind of happy static, with short, unplanned silences that only accentuate the heat, like the chirp and drone of cicadas in summers back east.
I have just enough time to check out the celebrity action in the Palms' Sky Villas' gifting suite before the Salinas Swimwear fashion show begins by the pool at 2 p.m.; I even pick up a little schwag myself. "What's in the bag?" someone later asks. I lay out some yummy, musky massage oil; cinnamon lip gloss in a nice shade of harlot; and a small, white box. Is it lotion? I open it and tap the contents into my hand. Much to everyone's delight, I am holding a small, gold vibrator. How nice. As part of the Booty Parlor starter kit, I recall creator Dana Braverman-Myers saying the item is named Trevor. "Bye, Trevor," I say and then put him away.
Faced with ordering a cocktail, like many times before, I go blank. There are no blenders behind the bars yet so I ask, "Make me something not too strong and not too sweet," knowing that leaving it up to the bartender will probably be way more interesting than anything I'd come up with. "I'll make you something from Northern California," Todd says, flashing his most assuring, Ken-doll smile. He delivers with a tart-n-tangy pink Chico lemonade that I know won't put me facedown in the Astroturf.
At Pool One, the wide slate dock is cleared of its woven chaises and is lined—strangely—with pineapples and bananas. Soon enough, a parade of tall, bikinied models are high-stepping down the stone runway to some energetic rock, punctuated by the sounds of famed percussionist Ravi Drums. I'm just about to make a joke about pineapples as projectiles when one crashes to Earth next to me with a sickening thwack, spraying my foot with ripe juice.
Ravi, who's been banging away in the background, somersaults headfirst into the water, drum and all, signifying the end of the fashion show and the beginnings of a tidal wave. The fruit fight continues for just a second before the crowd goes back to the important business of tanning and picking up on their neighbors.
It's towards the end of the day, when the straw slurps lazily at the bottom of my plastic cup, that new friends quickly want to become close friends. Backing away from some overly confident males trying to make a point, it is I who get the point, accidentally leaning against an ornamental cactus. I chalk the boys' zeal up to anticipation of tonight's Camp Freddy concert and fireworks. Right then, a cold shot of Patron Silver is deposited between my shoulder blades and quickly makes its way into my bikini bottom. I don't wait to see what my new friends want to do with the remaining shots lined up on the bar.
My saving grace is that around 5 p.m. a man's voice comes over the mic and thanks everyone for coming, essentially excusing us from the pool so crews can get it ready for the concerts. I look forward to returning and continuing my education in playing hooky, as the Palms puts the new complex to good use with its Ditch Fridays pool party launching July 7 with guest DJ Jamie Kennedy. I hope someone tells him to keep away from the cacti.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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