Memorial Day Weekend at the clubs is Vegas’ Running of the Bulls equivalent. It’s not for the faint of heart. Or the faint of liver. Did you survive? If you’re reading this, you must have. Well, I did, too, so congratulations all around.
My weekend began at Lavo. First the restaurant, then the club. Dinner started late, so my group got upstairs just before the EC Twins took the stage. The beat came up, the foam came down and the photographers’ camera flashes filled in the dark spots between the strobe bursts. Cocktail servers squeezed through extra-dense people masses with varying success, and bartenders poured two cans of Red Bull at once (one can between the thumb and index finger, the other between the index finger and the third).
Me? I hugged the rail. I was the wallflower—the guy texting his imaginary friend. Usually I’m in the center of the dancefloor, but there was no room for me on Friday. So I hung back and observed.
Here’s what I realized: 90 percent of guys are awful dancers. I’ve always considered myself a bad dancer, and I’ve always been self-conscious about it. But now I see that I’m no worse than everybody else. I took that newfound knowledge with me to the Marquee dancefloor the following night ... and to the Encore Beach Club dancefloor the following day.
Dear God, when do my feet and my liver get a holiday?