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Well, I wasn’t lying Fredders, when I said that Barry and his girlfriend, Randi were off to Vegas for his birthday this last weekend.  They did take off, actually mid week last week, and spent 6 nights in Las Vegas, living it up and winning big. They took in the sights, saw some shows, and generally had themselves a good time.

What I didn’t tell you then, because it might have given away the secret, because Barry will read his own blog, like you do…is that me and my fiancee came out there to join him on Friday night. Arranged by Barry’s girlfriend, it was part of the surprise aspect of his birthday.

We both took last friday off, and flew into Vegas, checked into Treasure Island, and ordered a drink at Kahunaville, the “island theme” bar over there. We texted Randi to let her know we were there, and she used some pretext or other to drag Barry away from Caesar’s Palace, back to TI and…

…SURPRISE!

Bam! We gasted his flabber, and he was lessened in speech…it was great seeing him like “What the…??” We took the opportunity to have many beers, a trend that would repeat itself over the course of the weekend.

We took it on the hoof, and went touring around the Strip area, first checking out the Eiffel tower, which actually did look pretty impressive, despite the fact that it’s something like 1/4 of the scale, 1/4 of “really fucking big” is still kinda cool!

Of course, they sell some pretty ludicrous drinks there, and for some reason, they have some really ludicrous little cars. And to our delight, we are free to walk around the streets with the one and gawk at the other.

Of course, a giant plastic tower of slush and booze is fine for the girls, but Barry Freed and Jimmy Hoffa are made of sterner stuff than that, and as such, require sterner booze. After drinking freely from it, many decisions, including various photographs of the man-portable JD bottle seemed like a good idea…at the time.

After a day of boozing and wandering about the city, having flown all morning, both me and my girlfriend were somewhat tuckered, so we called it early, and let Barry and Randi continue the evening with another couple, one of Randi’s girlfriends, Kari, and her boyfriend, who we’ll call “Prince Toolshed”.

The next day, we (the two cool couples) had plans to meet up with Kari and Prince Toolshed for lunch, but unbeknownst to us (and presumably knownst to them) Prince Toolshed had to go to a timeshare sales pitch because not only is Prince Toolshed too cheap to stay on the strip, he would rather spend four hours listening to some asshole sell him property than spring for Motel 6. (P.S. they live within driving distance, and didn’t even pay for airfare.)

So forget meeting them for lunch. Randi and my fiancee took off for some shopping whilst Barry and I checked out “Old Vegas”. Fitzgerald’s Casino, which proudly advertises a “Master Kazooist” was our first stop, after purchasing a couple of plastic bottles of beer to stroll about with. Sadly the Master Kazooist himself was not in residence. But no matter, Fitzgerald’s is one of those old-timey casinos, where the hookers are as leathery as the barstools, and here, cheaper than almost anywhere else in Vegas, you can do the the three most important things there are to do: drink, smoke and gamble.

After drilling through a ridiculously large bucket of nickels trying to win a convertible Saturn, we found a few more cool spots, such as:

The largest pint of beer in the US:

Or how about something everyone needs more of, and something Vegas has an unlimited supply of?

Right, cigars.

Dinner that night was at the incomparable Mesa Grill, a restaurant that isn’t decadent, so much as it is just a real dining experience. I honestly cannot say that I’ve ever had a better steak than Bobby Flay’s dry rubbed rib-eye. That guy knows his meat. And Randi…Randi knows how to be a classy babe. That’s all I’ll say about that.

After dinner, we had to hit O’Shea’s, the casino known for being a “bros and hos” kind of place. I mean, they have beer pong and strip poker, for pity’s sake. It was pretty twentysomething, but like one person who recommended it told me, “if you can’t have fun at O’Shea’s, you’re dead” which means that Prince Toolshed is no longer among the living, awwwww. Dude looked miserable. He didn’t even get to see this gem:

All I can say is “thank god for blurriness.”

So we hit Harrah’s, and lost Prince Toolshed somehow. After we spent about a half hour searching in vain for him, he strolled up looking like a total dick, and basically says “Who cares?” I’ve never seen Barry want to strangle someone so hardcore. I had put the guy on mute since that afternoon, but even that crossed my radar as being about as worthless as it gets.

So we ended our evening at the TI lounge, putting drinks where they belong.

We could not have had more fun, despite Prince Toolshed’s efforts. Barry, when he emerges from his cocoon, will have more to add about his experience - but till then Fredders, wish him the happiest of 30ths! Because he is now among our ranks….