Wednesday, May 3, 2:45 a.m. Never let a Russian limousine driver make you a drink. "How do you like your wod-ka?" At least not your last drink of the night. Because it won't be pretty, and soon, neither will you.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Strutting through Red Rock's casino at 11 p.m., I'm running late and not in a pleasant mood. On the phone and in the middle of an emotional discourse, I don't see Generic College Boy approach to apply a sticky palm to my bare shoulder. "Heeeeeey babe, what's your name?" I hiss, "I'm on the phone with my father, you asshole!" It's a lie but I neither break stride nor make an effort to cover the phone. Disappointed, he takes his yard-o-daiquiri with him. And hey, look at that, I'm not in a bad mood any more! Thank you, Tony Robbins!
Cherry Nightclub's entrance has no less than eight handsome doormen standing sentry as well as a mistress of the cash register, but she's not very busy as this is industry night at a locals casino; almost everyone is getting in free. Like those in front of me, I glide through the rosy-mirrored, womb-like entry that terminates suddenly at the main bar. Some break right, some break left, while some walk straight up and order a stiff Ketel on the rocks, dirty as they come. "Extra olives, please!" My heroine returns with the perfect cocktail with two (two!) skewers of perfect olives.
It was at this bar where, on Cherry's opening night, I watched the most beautiful girl I've ever admitted to calling beautiful dance atop the towering display of bottles. While studying the way her tight black dress and cascading chestnut pony tail garnered attention, I didn't notice that a well-meaning friend had somehow ordered us cement mixers. You know, the shot that curdles in your mouth? It's hard to smile when you're chewing your drink .... Ahhh, good times, good times.
My assessment of the club's chrome, domed ceiling as being something straight out of Logan's Run and Tron dates me a bit but I find enough sympathetic thirty-somethings in agreement not to feel too pathetic. Standing under the ring of speakers—each nestled in its own protective chrome basket like the front of an Escalade—is a full-body experience. The effects of the digital Funktion One sound system stay with me as we move out to the pool area. Encouraged by the red mood lighting and nibbling on my olives, we perambulate and settle on a cushioned bench by the square, thatched pool bar.
Then I see them.
Stars. That's right, stars! Millions of 'em. Well, maybe not millions, but more than are readily visible from rooftop parking on the Strip. After an unseasonably warm day, the breeze is welcome. The vibe is casual, with people meeting up with old friends and making new ones. It's a lot like the insta-vacation feeling I get when visiting Green Valley Ranch, only without the view of the Vegas Valley's lights. But the lights above are mighty nice, too, one of the benefits of clubbing this far out.
One old friend is Jacko Smiley, VIP host at Treasures, who comes to my rescue when others must ditch in favor of a hangover-free Thursday morning; he adopts me as a part of his motley crew. Soon I'm in a huge VIP booth and in much better spirits. "How do you like your wod-ka?" Smiley's guest drowns my glass in Goose and gives it a dollop of soda, entirely forgetting the ice. A lime wedge sends a wave of wod-ka sloshing over the rim and he just keeps adding fresh napkins to remedy the dampening situation. I'm too busy laughing to worry about the liquor on my shoe.
It's coming up on 3 a.m. and the party is showing no signs of stopping. I take my supersized cocktail for the short walk back through the tunnel. Depositing the glass in a bus tub, I advise a doorman, "Never let a slick Russian limousine driver make you a drink."
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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