Sunday, June 18, 2 p.m. They call it Rehab for a reason, and thanks to a weekend that included seeing two sunrises, I'm in dire need of all the restorative amenities Sunday that the Hard Rock Pool has to offer, those being the hair of the dog that mauled you and tunes to ease your pain.
It takes me two hours, two Tylenol and two bottles of water before I'm driving toward the Hard Rock, feeling somewhat human again and sucking down a tall, no-whip Starbucks banana-coconut-frappaccino-thingy with the hope its cold, tropical taste will put me in the mood to brave the heat, sun and crowds.
Los Angeles has the Playboy Mansion but we have Rehab, a shining star in the Vegas constellation.
It's the mother of all pool parties, attracting thousands of hedonistic and hungover locals and tourists each week. The scene looks like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoot, only with cocktails. But not all the action is on display; if you poke around behind palms, you'll find grottos, hot tubs, a slide and even a little precious shade.
Years from now, an entire generation of children will discover that Mommy met Daddy at Rehab when she couldn't take her eyes off his abs and he couldn't take his hands off her pasties.
I'm hiding out from the punishing sun and strange humidity in a billowy cabana that flutters and snaps with the wind. Two big hotel beds have been draped in simple white sheets and set down next to the DJ booth, a concrete lookout tower surveying half of the pool complex, where DJ Mikey Swift is perky, despite the lack of sleep that is the mark of his trade. Swift is one of a super hardworking group of local DJs who book gigs six or seven nights a week, two to three per day, and have been known to pull surgeon-like schedules of 72 or more straight hours. Undoubtedly to Swift's relief, DJ Shift tags in midafternoon and rides out the rest of the day.
There's an impressive turnout today, some lucky to have naturally hard bodies, others lucky enough to be able to purchase them. Throngs of body-conscious, hairless men and women mill about, dance or grind in the pool, the water slick with sweat and oil. Some of the butt cleavage I could do without, though.
For every thong appearing this Father's Day, the Hard Rock will donate $10 to the Save the Planet Fund. One cheeky fellow has taken Rehab at its word, proudly displaying his tiny American flag thong. That's $5 for each pale bun! The female thong ratio is infinitely—and thankfully—higher, including one worn by NapkinNights.com owner and photographer Tracy Lee, who swears she's only wearing it because I told her to. "Don't take pictures of my butt until I get some oil on it," she says to Hew Burney, another photographer here to capture every moment of the skinfest.
Bathing suits of every shape, fabric, color and size cruise by, including a few filled with handsome, silver-haired, Clooney-types and some crispy, golden-skined Donatella Versaces. None of the frat boys or sway-backed, Brazilian-waxed Hamptons honeys object. They're happily attending to their adult-sized sippy cups (opaque white so no one can see that Thad, Tad and Chad are enjoying girlie strawberry daiquiris).
Thanks to the thongs, I'm privy to a lot of tattoos that probably sounded like good ideas at the time. DJ Shift's slender body is so covered in ink that you can't tell where his skin ends and his camouflage shorts begin. When a girl who just got her nipples re-pierced (she liked it so much the first time that she went back again) less-than-discreetly removes her top to apply some rubbing alcohol, she attracts more than a few observers and I get more than an eyeful.
I close the day, and the party, watching the sun dance through the palm fronds. Shift throws on some New Kids On the Block. "Oh, he is so cut off!" a chick calls from the sidelines between puffs on a cigarette and sips from her giant margarita. Then it's a slow, unhurried remix of the Killers' "Somebody Told Me." I wonder if they might have been singing about Rehab: "But heaven ain't close in a place like this."
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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