BAR EXAM: The Luck o’ Las Vegas

I opt for Plan B and head across the street to McMullan's Irish Pub. It's only a minute's walk, but it takes a few more minutes just to find the way in. The normal entrance, along with most of the parking lot, is surrounded by a chain-link fence, containing a party worthy of any MTV Spring Break. At least a hundred people, dozens of tables and a truckload of kegs surround a raised platform, where the band Sin City Exiles performs Irish classics like "Mustang Sally" and "Hotel California." Okay, so the music isn't event-specific, but you can't pinch the band so long as they're wearing green.

There's a $15 cover charge to enter, but for that I get access to all the usual party accoutrements, including live music and food. Where you'd normally expect to find hamburgers and hot dogs on sale at an event like this, there are instead selections of corned beef and cabbage and shepherd's pie. Everything appears to be genuinely Irish. Even the port-a-potty trailer is green.

Anyone could easily have one hell of a party tonight without ever technically going inside McMullan's, but I decide to make my way into the cramped structure, made labyrinthine by walls of rowdy party-goers. The designated drivers for the evening must be hidden elsewhere. I can barely even see the wooden walls of the pub with its authentic Irish décor, but I follow the winding corridors of people past cozy little booths tucked away in odd corners and ultimately find the second band, Acoustic Soul, performing on the indoor stage. Another exit leads me to a far less claustrophobic outdoor patio, where I have astonishing ease ordering myself a Guinness.

I sit down to observe the Asian version of the Lucky Charms guy. The Asian man is fully decked out in Leprechaun duds, and with his fake red beard and eyebrows, green velvet jacket and shorts and knee-high green socks, he is the embodiment of Irish spirit (or at least Irish stereotypes), and convincing enough that patrons repeatedly ask him to pose with them for photos. Nearby, another young, drunken lad clowns around in what appears to be a homemade kilt, and judging by the pattern and texture, probably homemade from a tablecloth. But aren't kilts really Scottish? I barely have time to ponder when I glance back and discover to my horror (along with everyone else on the patio) that there's nothing on under that tablecloth. And with that lovely image, I head back inside.

Eventually I track down pub owner Brian McMullan, who rushes frantically around the premises, struggling to keep the bedlam as organized as possible. But he doesn't seem to mind. Since this is his fifth big McMullan's St. Patrick's Day party, he's used to it.

"Today everybody gets to be a little bit Irish," he says.

That's fine by me, so long as the guy in the kilt is a little more careful to keep his Irish bits concealed.