Part 3. Now That we've Seen The Pawn Shop, What Do We Do For Two Hours?

I'm going to admit right up front what a lot of men will not. Or are not permitted to admit in close proximity to friends and family. I still like to go to a stripper bar once in a great while, and if you don't do it in Las Vegas, you are missing a great opportunity.

Phil? Not so much. He's never been comfortable in these places, it's not where he likes to spend his money and if given the choice, he'd just avoid the place all together.

But he's a good friend, so he'll humor me. And I'll buy his beer.

The Olympic Garden used to be the premier, "shaker" bar in Las Vegas. You couldn't get into the place on Friday or Saturday night. Six stages, no waiting. Pretty girls as far as the eye could see. You actually had to have on a shirt with a collar to get into the place. It was a nice club.

One time years ago as a friend and I were walking toward the place from our hotel, a cab driver pulled up to us and asked if we were going to the OG. When we told him we were, but didn't need a ride as it was only a block, he offered to pay us $5 if we'd let him drive us up to the front door. I have to assume this means that for every cab full of, "big spenders" he brings in, the club was giving him a kick back in the $20 range. We took the ride, I didn't take his money. And this was a Sunday night! The place was packed.

Now, it's a dump. There must be 50 stripper bars in Las Vegas now, and the ones that seem to attract NFL players who end up suspended by league, must be nice. I don't know. I just got comfortable going in to the OG, lots of free parking I guess, and keep going. But I think I'm through.

We walk in, and there are hardly any people in the place, and no girls on the stage and this is lunch hour on a holiday week. Should have turned right around, but ah, what the heck, I'll buy a beer, and see what happens.

Before we can sit down, a stripper comes over, introduces herself and wants to know if we want a dance. Jesus, let me sit down so I at least HAVE a lap before deciding if I want it danced in, will ya?

This is not an attractive woman. And she's not young, either. She says her name is, well, I'll change her name to protect her reputation. It's a large, Texas city, so I'll just call her, "Amarillo". And despite telling her that we're just there to have a beer until check in time at the condo, she makes herself comfortable at our table and starts making small talk. Nothing unusual about that. But it doesn't take long for that to change.

As other, younger, more attractive (and even older, scarier women) come over, she cuts them off by telling them that we are just there for a beer until we can check into our condo. I'm being cock blocked by a stripper, and with my own story!

Then she starts telling us stories about the various sexual acts customers have asked her to perform in the club. Phil was uncomfortable when we walked in the place. Now I'M starting to get creeped out. And I spent 23 years as a Probation and Parole Agent, so I have a pretty high bar to jump over when it comes to creeping me out. I've had to discuss child abuse with child molesters and murder with murderers, and this woman is making my skin crawl! Time to bail out.

I look at Phil, finish my beer, and make an excuse about having to go find some Ethyl M's chocolate's for my wife and head for the door. Amarillo suggests that I can find an Ethyl M store at, Sam's Town Casino out by the football stadium. I thank her for the advice and head for the door faster than, Sara Pailin away from another interview with Katie Couric!

So, I have hundreds of dollars in cash in my pocket, all afternoon to kill, still can't watch an attractive young woman take off her clothes in a stripper bar. In Las, freakin' Vegas! This is a level of ineptitude I could not have previously imagined. This is what I believe, PJ O'Rourke once described as jumping into a pool of tits, and coming out sucking your thumb. Almost literally in this case.

One day, before my son's 21'st birthday, I'm going to have to have another, "talk" with him. We've had, "The Condom Talk". The, "Your father drops you off at school in an Audi or a brand new Camaro SS and has had no visible means of support for five years now, and some girls will notice this, Talk" It's kind of the same Talk as The Condom Talk, breaking down the reasons for it a little more. We will have to have, "The Tittie Bar Talk".

It will be short. No, they are not really that impressed with you, they do not love you, but they love your money. A stripper bar is a terrible place to look for a girlfriend. They all already have one. Or in some cases, a boyfriend or husband. If you fall in love, and tell them that you would like to have their children, they will tell you to pick them up at school later so they can keep working. And no, every Stripper in Las Vegas is NOT working her way through UNLV as a Political Science Major, and just needs the money for tuition, or she wouldn't be doing this. They spend more money on under ware than they would EVER spend on tuition.

Now it's 3 o'clock in the afternoon, check in time is at 4. Screw it, I'm going to take my chances since it's a new place in the, "World Mark" family and I haven't stayed in this one yet, and hope they will let me check in early. We drive to Tropicana, and then West, way past The Orlean's, and find it. It's nice, the staff is great, checks us right in, gives me the keys and we are moved in way before 4 o'clock.

By the way, this is just a side note, but now that we have, In N Out Burger here in Salt Lake? I just don't feel the need to eat one every time I'm in Las Vegas. I wish that feeling would go away re: the stripper bar. I'm just sayin...

Now we need to supply the condo for two days, and there is an Albertson's just down the street. Ice, a Diet Coke or two for me, snack's for, Phil and some beer for our friends who are flying in from Portland the next day who want to tailgate with us. We brought whiskey from Utah because you can't buy Ancient Age in Nevada.

While at the store, we notice this restaurant, funky old looking place. Capo's Fine Italian Food. They don't open until five, so we decide to come back.

We go to the condo, have a drink, watch, Sports Center. Oh, and while I'm on the subject? ESPN is as big a cheerleader for Boise State, as, "The Mountain" network is for, That Team Down South! Yeah, we knew deep down, in our heart of hearts, that we were going to lose to Boise State. But for crying out loud, when you're talking about the Las Vegas Bowl, and you don't even use the word, "Utah", just talk about Boise this, and Boise that, I can't believe how much they LOVE these guys. Oh, I forgot. The Mountain West Conference told them to take a hike when they wanted US to play on Tuesday and gave the Thursday nights to the ACC a few years ago.

ESPN sucks. They were much better before Disney bought them and they quit covering sports and just started covering ESPN.

We go back to the restaurant at five. There are cars there, but the door isn't open. Finally they do open it, and it's a pretty good copy of an old, speak easy. Lot's of Italian kitsch. This bodes ill, but I'm hungry and would even eat at the Olive Garden if that was my only choice. I order the salad and veal while Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin are singing. This is so, "Vegas" it's killing me. And I mean, "Vegas" in the same way I would mean, "Branson" if I was describing a shitty, catering to the lowest possible denominator, people who came here on a bus in polyester, type of, Roy Clark show, OK? NOT in a good way. I can't wait to see what the food is going to be like.

Phil suggested going into the restroom and if it had a tank toilet, taking the .38 out from behind it, and getting out of there before we got, "whacked".

Our waitress is a cute kid, but she looks more like the woman from the HBO series, "Cat House" who CALLED herself, Soprano, than, Meadow Soprano from THAT series.

All things considered, I'm not expecting much.

Well, call me, Ted Sheffler! I haven't had a meal this good in a while, and I don't eat at crummy places. The salad was to die for. Artichoke hearts, blue cheese. I spilled it all over the front of my crummy, Belize tshirt I was wearing and didn't care. I might suck on the shirt front later! This was a GOOD salad!

And when the veal got there? It was an outstanding, young cow that gave it's life for my dinner that night. So tender and awesome, it was unbelievable. I gave half of it to Phil for some of his pasta, which was also out of this world, and still couldn't finish it. I can't wait to take, Deb there the next time we're in Las Vegas. It was every bit as good, if not better than the Italian place in, New York, New York, and a third the price.

By now it's 6 or 7 o'clock, and we are both worn out. Back to the condo. Phil's in bed (I gave him the bedroom and took the Murphy bed in the living room as I stay up late, and he's always in bed early) by 10 o'clock, and I'm determined to stay up and watch the local news.

The weather report is not good for game day tomorrow. Could be a lousy game, and lousy weather.

Turns out to right on both accounts.

Next up, game day. And a failed Cuban Sandwich. Oh, the horror.