DUDE, REIN-O!

About every three weeks, I make an early Monday morning drive from Denver to Aspen.  I’ve been doing it since last winter, racing across Interstate 70 in cold and icy blackness, to arrive in the Roaring Fork Valley just at sunrise, and joining with the regular commuters for the battles on Highway 82.

In the summertime, a second option is available in Independence Pass.  I’ve driven this route at least a half dozen times, and I never cease to enjoy the solitude and natural scenery for the two hours away from the interstate.

Independence is a serious pass, with tight switchbacks and some very narrow sections where a descending truck must stop in place to let an ascending vehicle through.  But it is all paved and easily navigable in the summertime.

In early October, I took a risk heading up for the pass.  I felt that it may be my ‘last chance’ before CDOT would close the pass for winter.  I knew that a storm had hit the mountains on Saturday, but I hadn’t seen the conditions of the pass in any news report.  I based my final decision when I saw the sign at the Copper Mountain exit of I-70 that read “Independence Pass:  OPEN”.

For most of the drive up the pass, the road was all clear.  However, during the last few miles, above treeline, the conditions turned to blown over snow, with ice beneath.  I pulled over and locked the hubs on my truck, then transferred over to 4 wheel drive and continued my climb.

At the top of the pass, the entire road was a sheet of ice.  I pulled into the parking lot and saw a group of people struggling to load motorcycles onto a truck.  “What were they thinking?”  I thought, for they were crazy to be up here on bikes in this condition.  But perhaps they, like me, were not expecting the icy conditions.

“Do you need some help?”  I asked.  They responded affirmative.  I put on my hat and gloves, and carefully stepped over across the ice in my hiking boots (how I wished I had my Sorel rubber boots!)

After helping them out, I got back in the truck and sat for a while, contemplating the danger of an icy descent down to Aspen.  I watched a large CDOT plow truck scrape at the top layer of snow.  However, he was not dropping Magnesium Chloride (or “Mag” as Colorado drivers term it) to melt out the ice and allow tires to grip the pavement.  Finally, I figured that my trusted truck could handle a very slow and cautious descent.

As I crested over the pass, and could see the road below me, I was struck with a scene of chaos.  There was a line of vehicles, all struggling and spinning out as they tried to climb the steep eastbound slope towards me.  The sheet of ice prevented any traction for 2WD cars with summer tires, and many motorists were just stuck on the side of the road, unable to climb any more but too scared to turn around and go down.

First I encounted two irishmen in an old F150.  One guy was driving, and spinning one rear wheel uncontrollably, while the other had tried to push.

I pulled up in front of them and explained their futility.  For even if they could gain some momentum by pushing, there would be no hope of the tire ever gripping the road and making it to the top.  I offered to tow them up.

“Oh, God Bless ye!”  they said.

I wasn’t entirely confident it was going to happen, but I just had to try.  I brought my truck directly in front of them, almost until both our front bumpers touched.  Then I pulled out a 6 foot tow chain that I have (that saw a lot of use last winter!) and hooked it up between us.  Getting back in the truck, I shifted into reverse, and eased off the clutch, to take up the slack in the chain.

I had expected a bit of resistance, and was suprised to feel very little.  My truck had no problem pulling a half-ton pickup up the mountain, and my brand new BFG All Terrain tires never once slipped on the ice.  Slowly, I drove backwards, while looking out my rear window to stay in the lane, and towed the guys to the top.

At the top, the man came out and embraced me in a big hug.  Both of them thanked me many times.  One pulled out his wallet.  I said it was not necessary, but he shook his head, and said “This is for da beers.”  ( I wasn’t sure if he intended for me to buy some beer, or find a bookie and bet the money on “Da Bears”!)

For the second time, I left the summit and attempted a descent into Aspen.  This time, a front-wheel drive sedan was stalled perpendicular across the road.  There was a long line of vehicles trying to get around him, and many people out trying to push the car off to the side and out of harms way.  Again I parked my truck and walked down and encountered a middle age woman.

“Would you like me to tow you up?” I asked her.

“Oh!  Do you have a tow truck?”

“No, just my F-250, but it can do it.”  This time, I was extremely confident in the abilities of my vehicle.

“Please!  My husband will be so grateful.  I will go tell him.”

Again, I drove down and hooked up both front ends, and towed the small sedan all the way up the pass in reverse.  This couple (tourists in a rental car, i later found out) were so excited that they even took a photo of me and my truck, and called me their “Guardian Angel.”  Again, I was offered money, and when I refused, I was told “Sometimes miracles can happen.  This is not like the parting of a sea.  It is a miracle that you just happened to be here when we needed help.  Consider this a donation to your church.”

By this time, the CDOT truck had dropped the Mag and started to thaw the ice.  The cars were now making it up the pass without help.  I made it down a few hundred feet and found dry pavement again.

Once again, I am so proud of the power of my truck and new tires.   I hope that it comes in handy many times this upcoming winter.   To me it was second nature.   I have the means to help people out in trouble, so I do so, without question.  Although I arrived a few hours late for work, it was well worth it, to see the smiles on those grateful faces.Some people may have called me stupid or gullible, but I got much more reward out of the good feeling up on the pass than I’ve ever felt at a job, current or past.

There was a radical group in Denver called ‘Recreat 68′.  When I read about the 60’s, it was all about rebellion and music, much like today.  But all the revolutionary music artists are gone.  Jimi Hendrix: dead.  Janis Joplin: dead.  Jerry Garcia: dead.
But on of the first and foremost rebellious American musicians is not dead.  Bob Dylan is still alive.  I just saw him play last weekend.  (Contrary to what Pete says, he is NOT ‘propped up by a mic stand’)  Beneath the setting sun and beautiful backdrop of the mountains around Snowmass Village, hundreds of people danced the night away while he and his band played away.  What I found out that night is that the magic of Bob Dylan’s revolution, is that no matter how hard you try, you cannot understand a single word he is singing!  But who cares?  Its not about the words, its about the rebellion, right?

Unlike many other All-American boys, I have recently had the honor of being involved in a large Hindu wedding.  It all started early on a Saturday morning as I left my private hotel room at 6:00 AM and stumbled my way into the super secret “Groomsmen dressing room.”  When I approached it and was about to knock, the door opened up and I recognized the man inside.

“Chops!  What’s going on in here?”

“Oh, nothing,”  he said as he sipped his coffee and pointed at the closet, where 5 identical Indian “sherwani” suits were hanging.  I found the one labeled “Adam” and excitedly dove into the package.  I had waited months to see what all the mysterious measurements I had to make would result in.  I pulled out a pair of pajama pants and held them up.  I was standing straight up and holding my arms out to both sides.  The pant legs were still trailing on the ground, and I was looking at a waistline that could have swallowed me whole.

“This can’t be right!”  I said.

“Yes it is…you should see MINE.”  Chops replied.

Passing on that opportunity, I slipped on the comfy pants and managed to draw the waistline into a comfortable fit.  When all the groomsmen were dressed, we made our way down to the secret photo shoot and met the rest of the wedding party.

After the photo shoot, we were told to meet back down at 9:00 for the beginning of the ceremony.  When I came back down, I couldn’t find anyone.  I searched frantically, and finally saw a very large party way out at the end of the parking lot.  The groom and his sister were sitting on the back of a white convertible, while dozens of Indian people started to congregate around them.  A large black SUV pulled up and a man got out with a large drum.  He flicked a switch and the entire parking lot was blaring with some very loud Indian dance music.  Instantly the crowd started to go wild.  The drummer was banging the drum and people were dancing all around the car.  I kept getting instructed by various old Indian men “you have to keep dancing…get in front of the car!”

I had no idea what was happening, but I was starting to sweat in my sherwani.  When I stopped dancing to take a breather, a random old man would push me back into the circle.  I felt like I was in a mosh pit for a moment.  Finally, the car started to move, very slowly.  The drummer kept on marching while beating his drum, while more and more people joined the congregation.

The parade went up to the pavilion, where the ceremony was to take place.  As we got closer, I could see that the bridal party had already assembled.  The bride was standing in the back, in her jewel crusted dress. However, in front of her stood the bride’s mother and sisters.

“Your new mother in law is giving you the evil stare,” I said to my friend.

“She’s going to get my nose.  You have to protect my nose!” he told me.

“Huh?  When?  How?”  I asked.

“Not now.  I don’t know,”  he replied.  He did not seem very confident that he knew what was going on either.

The mother in law came forward, and started putting all this stuff on his face, as the Maharaj instructed her how to proceed with the ritual.  I got the feeling that although every Hindu wedding is probably the same, the rituals are so involved that no one really knows what is going on other than the guy performing the ceremony.  Even though I was standing by to protect the nose, she never went for it.  Maybe we had missed that part of the ceremony.

The drummer kept playing and the crowd was pushing us farther forward.  Finally the bride came out to put a big wreath around his neck.   Another random old Indian man instructed us to lift the groom up onto our shoulders.  As soon as we did, a gang of men rushed us.  The groom started screaming “get my shoes, dude!  Don’t let them take my shoes!”

But before I knew what was going on, the men had stolen one of his shoes and given it to the bride.  I did not know the significance of that, but it sounded bad.

When the pre-wedding rituals were completed, the drummer stopped playing and we were finally allowed to relax and drink some sweet tasting milkshakes.  More and more people were congregating into the large hall.  We were told to go and meet up with the bridal party for the more contemporary American wedding entrance.  However, when I went back into the hall to get more drinks, another random old Indian man started trying to pull me towards the front of the hall.  “You have to be up on stage!”  he said to me.

“Um…I thought we’re supposed to walk in with the bridesmaids.”

“No, no…up on stage!”  he kept pursuing me.  I tried to back away, and as he was quickly distracted by another person, I slipped out the back door and into the waiting room, were I found the rest of the groomsmen, bridesmaids, and the bride.  While we were waiting, more old Indian men came in to try to get us to come on the stage.

“No!” the bride yelled “THEY are walking in with MY girls!”

The men suddenly looked very scared, and finally understood who was running the show.

Once we escorted the bridesmaids to the stage, our role was pretty much complete.  Apparently in Hindu weddings, the groomsmen are just there for support, while the family plays a much larger role in the actual ceremony.  Still, we were allowed to sit on the stage and take part in small roles.  At various moments, and small old woman would quietly whisper commands to us.  It was no problem, I was just relieved that it wasn’t another old Indian man.

A few weeks ago I took my first trip outside of the United States.  I had my passport, two bags, and a roll of U.S. dollars, and my VISA card. Although I was a little nervous in the days leading up to the trip, I was more anxious than anything when the airplane arrived at the Cancun Airport.

At the airport, the customs agent asked us where we were staying.  I could not pronounce the name of the hotel, so I pointed at the name I wrote on my declaration form.

“Como se dese?”  I asked, and pointed to the word ‘Ixchel’

“Ish-el…” she replied, then tried to explain to us, in limited English and some Spanish.  “God…the love…”

Although I couldn’t really understand at the time, I found out quickly (and was reminded many times in various forms) that Ixchel is the Mayan goddess of the moon.

From there we took a long shuttle ride through the entire city, through the hotel zone, downtown, towards the port.  The driver pointed out various areas.  “Here are the discoteks” he once said.  When I asked him to differentiant between the caribean sea on our right side, and the large lagoon on the left, he said “That is the lagoon.  Mucho  Lagarto”

“Lagarto?”  I asked, confused…then finally figured it out:  alligators.  Vanessa took a deep breath and had a worried look on her face at the sound of the alligators.

I had heard various descriptions of Cancun from other Americans prior to the trip.  “Commercialized”, and “Americanized” were two common trends.  While I fully understood the commercialization of the area, I found it far from “Americanized”.  While the enormous buildings in the hotel zone reminded me of the Vegas strip, the culture was distinctively Mexican.  As we made our way downtown and to the Puerto Juarez, the scenery became more urban.  However, this city scape was just a little bit ragged, a little more poor than a reasonable American counterpart.

At the port, I ventured into my first Mexican convienent store.  To my ease, it wasn’t much different thatmy local 7-11.  In addition, I found a wide variety of Mexican snacks, sweets, and ice cream that would be out of place in the health-conscious culture of the U. S.

I took a lot of photos on this trip. Here are a few. Scroll over for descriptions.

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The average climate in Denver may just be the best of all large U.S. cities. Winter time can be a little burly, with random variations in weather that keep you on your toes, but once Summer shows up and settles in to stay, it is a great place to be.

This past weekend, I took a slight break from the mountaineering schedule and Vanessa and I just relaxed in the big city. Saturday was absolutely beautiful, and we went shopping down in Cherry Creek, and indulged in the classic burgers at the Cherry Cricket. From there we headed to the north side of the Platte River and sat down in Confluence Park. Denver built a great public park right out of the river bed. Up high on the bridge, we watched the urban paddlers running kayaks over an over again in the crafted water features. At the base of the confluence, dozens of people of all ages, races, and lifestyle were playing in the water, walking dogs, picnicking on the grass, and just relaxing on a warm sunny Saturday afternoon.

Scoping out lines on Mt. Evans

On Sunday we didn’t really have any plans. However, after slowy rolling out of bed late in the morning, I had the sudden idea of heading to the beach. Yes, they have beaches in Denver. We drove down to Cherry Creek State Park, and had a picnic right out on the sand. Determined to work on my “pre-Vegas tan”, I removed my shirt for a few hours and just kicked back. Once again having underestimated the strenghth of the Colorado sun, I found later on that I am now as red as a lobster.

Contemplating the meaning of life: “We are all dust in the wind”

After a few hours in the sand, we got a call inviting us to some Earth Day concert in City Park. Denver is such an alternative cultured city, I had no doubt in my mind that the event would be a lot of fun. It reminded me of the many free events that occur in Chicago. There were hundreds of people out on the huge open lawn, as we danced the evening away to a few jam bands (in between a little too much political propaganda, but oh well).

This is Vanessa. She is beautiful.

Some fun hippie-jam-fest shots:

Yesterday I spent the day riding at Ajax. At around 1:00 we stopped back at my truck for a lunch, and then headed back up the hill to board Life 1A again. At the top parking lot, an scruffy looking Italian man was trying mercilessly to back his Ford Explorer out of the snow. He was revving like mad, but only his right rear was spinning. My buddy Noah and I stopped to help by pushing the front end of his vehicle while he mashed the pedal in reverse.

“I don’t think you’re in 4 wheel, man.” Noah, a mechanic by trade, said to the guy.
“Yes, the light is on,” he replied.

We pushed and pushed but could not get him out. As much as I wanted to help, I had to admit that I still wanted to snowboard some more, and time was wasting. Noah and I wished the man good luck, and he thanked us, as we boarded the lift for a few more runs.

Almost two hours later, we came back down to end the day. To our surprise, there were now TWO Italians and TWO stuck vehicles!! They were shoving all kinds of things under the rear wheel: blankets, plywood, shovels. Everything went flying under the wheel and out the front with each try.

I ran up to the men and yelled “STOP! Let me get my truck, and I will pull you both out in seconds!”

“Thank you, thank you,” they replied.

Within minutes, I had yanked out the Explorer with a slight tap on the pedal in granny gear. The other vehicle, a Jeep Wrangler with big AT tires (yeah, how did he get stuck?) was a different story. As I pulled against him, he was sliding laterally towards the minivan parked next to him. When he was within inches of a collision, I unhooked my truck and told him I didn’t want to be liable for damaging the minivan.

“Yes, I am calling this guy now,” he said.
“Wait, you know whose van this is?” I asked.
“Yes, this belongs to my boss.”
“Well, shit! You definetly don’t want to hit it!” I exclaimed in surprise.

Regardless, the two gentlemen were extremely grateful, and thanked both of us multiple times.

“Come down to our restaurant. Have a drink on us,” they kept saying. One was a manager, and the other a cook, at a fancy Italian place in town.

I took down the information, but I wasn’t very serious about going there.

Later that evening, Vanessa arrived at my house. On a whim, I asked her “How would you like to go to a nice Italian dinner in Aspen?”
“Okay,” she replied.

We drove back downtown that evening, and after getting lost a few times, finally found the restaurant, L’Hostaria. We walked down some stairs through a small courtyard and entered the restaurant.

As I assumed any nice restaurant in town to be on Saturday night, the place was packed with people. I spoke to the hostess and she told me that the dining room would be a long wait, and she put our name on the list for a bar table.

Suddenly the manager, Fabrizio, came around the corner and greeted me with a smile and a handshake. We exchanged small talk for a few seconds, and then he was quickly distracted by work duties. He was talking to his hostess, picking up the phone, looking through the reservation book, talking to the wine guy, picking up the phone again, looking through the book again. I figured he had forgotten all about us.

About five minutes since we shook hands, he put down the phone, turned around, and said to me “Adam, are you on the list?”
“Yeah, we are waiting on a bar table, but I’d like something a little more romantic for my girlfriend,” I told him with a grin.
“Hang, I will see what I can do.”
He disappeared and reappeared in seconds, grabbed two menus, and said “follow me.”

We were seated immediately, and I shook his hand again and said thank you.

Although I was more than happy with the treatment, the generosity did not stop there. Before we could order our wine, a large plate of calimari was brought to our table! Vanessa, who was very hungry, was in awe of her boyfriend’s connections, as she dug into the fried appetizer.

A few minutes later, Rueben, the cook with the Explorer, came out and said hello. He promised to cook up a wonderful meal for us.

He wasn’t kidding. Although I witnessed our server take multiple orders before ours, our plates appeared before we could even sip our wine!

Through the whole night, I felt like I was in the movie “Goodfellas“. The average clientel of the upscale Aspen restaurant consisted of wealthy jet-setters and travelling connoisseurs. However, last night a young working-class guy was able to treat his girl to a night of celebrity status, all because of some good Karma at the base of Aspen Mountain earlier that day.

Although you’d never believe it, we didn’t go to clubs the entire time in Vegas.  IN between sleepless nights that always ended at the marquee sun belt burger joints like Carls Jr., Sonic, or Jack In The Box, we made time for enjoying the Vegas scene during the day.  One thing I have learned during this trip about getting around town is that you absolutely MUST have a car.  I painfully remember staying in strip hotels and walking mile upon mile up and down Las vegas Blvd.  It never occured to me that there was another option.  Our local host revealed a secret network of back roads and parking garages that make the trips between casinos seem like a ride on the L.  For the entire 4 days we made the best of our time using this method.

When people come to Las Vegas for their first itme, they are instantly drawn the the casinos and the fantasy of getting rich.  However, at this point in my life, the gambling is very low on my list of priorities.  The only table game I play nowaday sis craps, and I do not play it spontaneously.  However, a weekend in Vegas in the fall means that placing bets on football games is unavoidable.I don’t know a whole lot about sports betting, but the casinos make it really easy (to give them your money) by providing simple parlay cards that you fill out (just keep the pencil in the circles, kids). 

On Saturday our host took us to the pool at Mandalay Bay.  Although he could enter as an employee of MGM Corporate (The Man), we were told to wear special wristbands that said ‘Casino guest only’.  Apparently there is a penthouse casino above the pool that is open to the public, but you have to walk through the pool area to get there.  In the pool, no one wears a wristband.  WHy the hell were we wearing them?  I smiled after figuring out the flaw in the corporate system and tore off the wristband.  We founds some nice seats right in front of the wave pool and chilled out in the October desert sun.

After a bit of sunning, our host and I went up to the bar to get some drinks while the Irishman was midway through his burn.  At the beach bar we met some cute girls from Oregon, watching the Ducks hand it to USC on the gridiron.  I have always been curious about the state, so we ordered up some slurpee-style margaritas and cheered on the team while making some new friends.  They were in town for the PBR event at Mandalay Bay, which made sense considering all of the cowboys we had seen there.

After the pool session we made our way over to the Treasure Island for lunch.  Our host was bragging about the buffet, and in Vegas I NEVER skimp on the food.  He turned out to be right, and we got out $16 worth by eating a four hour lunch.  They had sushi, Mexican food, American BBQ, salads, freash meats and an awe3some dessert.  I think I went up for seven servings!  I finally finished off with an espresso and gourmet mini-donuts.
 
Sunday morning started off with another tradition: breakfast at the Victorian in the Barbary coast.  Although the tradition was modified (we at at 10 AM instead of the usual 3 AM), the steak and eggs were still good and the coffee still strong.  Then we went over to the Flamingo to watch Da Bears. 

The Flamingo has long been a favaorite of mine.  They have a bright, clean casino floor with multiple watering holes and TVs.  The pool always features a daily party with of a young, fun middle-American demographic, and Jimmy Buffets Restaurant is a great place to hang out with friends and watch the action on the strip.

My fourth vacation in Las Vegas, Nevada has been the most fun, diversified, and epic trip yet.  The original plans centered around the Vegoose concert on Sunday, but also included on the agenda was mountain biking, football betting, fine dining, baseball watching, beautiful women, table gaming, pool lounging, and world class nightclub parties.

THE GENTLEMEN’S CLUB

We might as well start off this blog right.  Contrary to those men who enjoy these establishments during the peak time at night or early into the morning, I prefer to fit a visit in between dinner and the parties.  Around 8 PM the business are just beginning to set up for a big night.  You can find ample seating, reasonable (for Vegas) drink prices, and if you are lucky, a free buffet.  The dancers working during this time are much more laid back and friendly.  They will it down and get to know you without pucshing for the hard sell. (it is true that all women love to be asked about their lives).  A short time in this situation will do amazing things for a man’s self esteem, and top out his confidence levels in preparation for the night ahead.

We visited three gentlemen’s clubs this weekend.  ON Friday, shortly after my arrival, our Host took us to TREASURES for his favorite happy hour.  A small club, they featured free drinks and a finger-food buffet that hit the spot after a long day of work and air travel. 

Saturday evening brought us to the SPEARMINT RHINO, world famous in the industry.  By far the most extravagent and electrifying of the three, it allowed us to forget about our middle-classl lifestyles back home and live a little bit like a V.I.P. 

Lastly, our Host took us to a special Monday Night Football party at SAPPHIRE, which brags to be the largest in the country.  During the game, the bar had a “down home” feel, with many of the staff hanging out with us and watching football like only American Girls can. After the physically exhausting mountain bike adventure that morning (details to come), I was even able to buy not a lap dance, but rather an incredible back massage from a girl named Sahara.  I’ve had a long summer with no girlfriend, which means no free back rubs, so paying $20 for one was a no brainer.  After beating up my body in all sorts of ways week after week, I have never felt so relaxes as I did when having an exotic dancer from Brazil working (and walking) on my spine in the middle of a crowded club while watching Monday Night Football.

THE NIGHTLIFE

It is often said that Las Vegas feature world-class nightclubbing.  I’ve never been to parties in London, Rio, or Ibiza, but I was born and raised on the Chicago Scene and have been to my share of parties across the U.S. 

Nothing…NOTHING even comes close to the nightlife in Las Vegas.  Every single hall features its own over-the-top extravaganza.  Rich pointed out that these clubs differ than most others is because they are operated by billion dollar casino corporations.  Because of this, they provide the customer with the most smooth, efficient, and worry free club experiences ever.

On Friday night we went to a club that is formally titled RAIN IN THE DESERT.  This party has been a staple tradtition that dates back through my last two trips to this city.  It is one of the last few clubs that still retains the “Industrial Warehouse” look that was very popular years ago (All the modern clubs on the strip feature delicate architectural intracicies).  Regardless, Rain holds a classic appeal and is a landmark club that should endure a long healthy lifespan within the PALMS, without a doubt the most “hip” hotel in town. 

One thing that I  especially like about this club is waiting in line!  Their queue system is the best, hands down.  With a flowing line that snakes around the perimeter of the palms casino, you mind is working overdrive on people-watching, and not thinking about how long the wait is.  One courteous doorman even informed me that I was in violation of their dresscode, thus avoiding an embarassing situation at the door.  he even asked for my name so I could get to the front of the line after I went home to change.  However, when we returned he was no where to be found.  The man with the guest list laughed at me as I tried to describe this “mysterious dude” in attempt to get in the club.  Eventually he appeared, recognizing me instantly and parted the crowd to let us through.

The beauty of partying at the palms is that paying the cover charge at one club allows you unrestricted access to all the others after 2 AM.  After dancing the night away in the cavernous mega-club, we took a grand tour, starting with GHOSTBAR on the top floor of the original Palms tower.  Ghostbar is an upscale cocktail lounge with an open air patio that allows the best view of the Vegas strip. 

Next was a trip to the new Palms tower (and business is so good they are even building a 3rd one!) for a stop at the PLAYBOY CLUB.  Less of a nightclub, it is actually an intimate Casino, with plush couches, fancy cigars, and of course gorgeous Bunnies dealing cards.  It is no doubt a hip, modern version of the historic club operated in Chicago decades ago by Hugh Hefner himself!

Above the Playboy Club is MOON.  Although similar to Ghostbar with the open patio and view, it had more of a classic “Afterhours-Loft” vibe, complete with go-go dancers, a large center dance floor, and pounding house music.

Saturday night brought us to LAX, in the LUXOR casino, for the official Daft Punk (headliners at Vegoose that night) afterparty.  We wore costumes, and although Elvis and Hugh Hefner looked very strange walking through the casino with an escaped convict, we fit right in with the characters inside the club.  The staff operations at LAX was a drastic disappointment when compared to the previous night at Rain.  There was no organized line outside, just a mass of people.  Inside the club was a logistical mess.  Bouncers had to constantly keep people moving on the stairs and tight halls, and you could only enter the dance floor from two sides.  The chaos aside, the party was off the hook.  On Saturdays in Vegas, EVERYBODY comes out to play.  The dance floor was packed with tourists, locals, and the jet set crowd from California.  At the front of the floor were groups at tables with bottle service, with a demographic of the most glamourous looking people I have ever seen.  These people are so beautiful they would look out of place on the streets of Denver, Chicago, or even Los Angeles itself.  I always wonder where they come from; I certainly don’t see them walking the strip during the day.  Regardless, the eye candy was well worth the aforementioned complications.  My costume was a big hit with everyone I met.  At first I thought that dressing like The King in Vegas would be very ordinary, but it was not.  I think the costume made many people think of how Vegas got started: that before the glamour and hip-hop and bottles of Grey Goose, there was an entire entertainment industry built around one larger-than-life rock star.

On the third night we went to TRYST, in the WYNN casino.  After two years in a row, Tryst has become my favorite nightclub in Vegas.  Words can not describe the artistic masterpiece that serves as the decor.  The interior features soft fabric couches, and detailed molding on the ceiling.  However, the outside area is jaw-dropping.  There are lakeside cabanas next to a HUGE waterfall, covered by a forest of evergreens that reminds me of home in the Rocky Mountains.  Because it was Sunday, the crowd was much more relaxed than the day before, and everyone was dancing and having fun.  The vibe at Tryst was the most positive the entire weekend.

This week at work I finally made the necessary transition from the field to the office. This will happen many times during the course of my career, but this was the first. Gone are the carhart shirts and blue jeans, beard, driving trucks around in the mud, spittin’ tobacco on the floor (especially in meetings!), and basically mother-f***ing every single person you talk to. But like I said, its necessary.

This week i’ve been working in the estimating department. I’ve donned my finest Kenneth Cole slacks and Express shirts, even a tie once a week! Today was that such tie day…and so out story starts…

At about 11:00 this morning, I’m walking through the hallway of my office to the copy room when the company VP of Marketing stops me.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he asks.

“Well…I’m, uh working on pricing this job…” I reply.

“No, what are you doing right now?”

“Talking to you in the hallway, man”

Before I know it the VP has invited me to a charity luncheon that our company purchased a table at, and some of the “higher-ups” had bailed. I was to fill a seat for the good of the business. I’m always up for a free meal, so after a quick “ok” from my superiors, we’re off to the luncheon.

It wasn’t until we were on our way that my colleague told me that this luncheon was for the John Lynch Foundation…

…at Invesco Field at Mile High…

…with special guests Jake Plummer and Rod Smith.

Yup. No joke. We walk into the stadium club level, and its packed with hundreds of people. The greeter tells us we’re at table 5. Walking to table five I walk right past Jake Plummer talking to a group of people. My VP friend had to stop me, “Hey, that’s Jake!”

Table 5 is appropriatley right at the front of the stage. The room was tightly packed with tables, so I had to brush past a man in a suit, as I do I put my hands on his shoulders and say, “excuse me man.”

That “man” happened to be none other than one of the greatest players in the history of football, and one of my personal favorite defensemen, John Lynch. He turned around and with quick thinking and quicker action, I stuck out my hand and said, “Hey John…Adam Reiner, big fan.”

“Hey man,” he said as he shook my hand and turned back to his business. What a badass.

Anyways, enough of my brokeback football field obsession with John Lynch, the point of the luncheon was to recognize all the outstanding Colorado high school and middle school athletes. He and his wife recognized about 70 different kids, from a senior stud-basketball player on his way to a scholarship at Drake University to a swimmer/skiier with cerebral palsey. They even gave out awards to outstanding teacher/coaches.

The luncheon was capped of with an invigorating, yet completely random speech by future hall of fame receiver Rod Smith (yes the guy in the local Blackjack Pizza commercials!). Smith reminded everyone in the room that he started his pro career as an undrafted free agent from a Division II college, and has played 12 straight years for the Denver Broncos and has shattered every single receiving record in 40-year old franchise.

On the way out, i saw Plummer signing autographs. I stepped in the short line. When the guy in front of me asks Plummer for his autograph, this bonehead starts asking Plummer about Jay Cutler, the rookie quarterback that the Broncos drafted this year. “WTF?!” I’m thinking. Plummer has this “pissed-off-but-i’m-keeping-cool” look on this face as he politely tells this guy that the new kid will have no impact on what “Jake the Snake” is going to do next season. Then this dipshit keeps prodding Plummer about the future…4 or 5 years down the road. He finally leaves with his autograph and Plummer looks annoyed.

I walk up and say “No autograph, just a handshake…you’re the man, Jake.”

“Thanks, man” he says as he shakes my hand.

As I walk out with the VP, I say “Thanks, man, that was awesome!”

To which he responds, “No problem, I brought you because you were the only person wearing a tie.”