Sublime, Canadian Cheapskates, and The Morning After

Welcome back, dear readers, after a long hiatus.  I have been busy with many projects...okay, I'm embellishing...I just got back from Las Vegas.  Dave and I stayed at the Hard Rock Hotel, which is an extremely image-driven hotel.  Don't get me wrong; there were things I absolutely loved about it, like the fact that obscure and eclectic rock played round the clock instead of sleepy elevator music or mind-numbing top 40's.  Gambling while singing along to Rancid or Rise Against was absolutely Sublime (pun totally intended).  But, for those of you who don't know me well, I consider myself pretty much the opposite of "image-driven," considering my idea of a perfect night out is finding any bar that offers a seat, a TV, and $3 drafts. 

So you can imagine my disconcertion when I encountered the rules that applied when attending the pool at the Hard Rock.  Now, I have watched the reality show Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock Hotel on TruTV and thoroughly enjoyed it, so I knew that Sundays there, which is when the Rehab party takes place, get pretty crazy.   However, I was not expecting to have to jump through hoops, or over red velvet ropes rather, to get into the pool on a random weekday.  While my loving, degenerate-gambling husband played his third poker tournament of the week (he actually won this one!) I decided to relax at the pool with some drinks, snacks, a magazine, and my I-pod.

Drinks?  Out.  You're not allowed to bring your own.  Snacks?  Same thing.  Bringing a bag in period was questionable, although considering they checked ID's at the door I was incredibly curious to ask in what bodily orifice they expected people to keep their ID's if they didn't want you bringing a bag. 

Finally on  the inside, after experiencing more invasion of privacy than I had at JFK, I decided to look for a lovely chaise lounge and set up shop.  I spotted several with "Reserved" signs as soon as I walked in.  Call me crazy, but I didn't think they were reserved for me.  I spotted some beds next to canopy-covered huts.  These seemed like something P.Diddy, or whatever he's calling himself these days, would reserve for his posse, so I assumed I couldn't sit there and kept on walking.  Next I spied some lounges slightly outside the Diddy huts.  I stopped a scantily-clad waitress and asked her if those were up for grabs. 

"Those are available for a $200 food and drink minimum," she informed me.

I gritted my teeth, trying to make it seem like a smile.  "Okay, then.  So where can I sit for free?"  And I use the term "for free" very loosely, considering I had already paid quite the bundle to stay at the hotel for four nights.  But I decided to leave that part out. 

The waitress shielded her eyes from the sun and pointed.  "Go over that bridge.  Make a left at the palm trees.  Make a right when you hit the waterfall.  Go all the way around the bar.  Make another left.  If you hit the fence, you've gone too far."  She then went off, presumably in search of customers who would give her larger tips than I would. 

I practically needed a GPS to get to the "free" seats.  When I finally did, I plopped down and prepared to soak in the sun.  I made friends with a Canadian couple sitting next to me, as we bonded over the fact that we were the cheapskates sitting in the "free" seats.  They seemed enamored with my copy of the Daily News and were mesmerized by the fact that our movie listings are by borough. 

All this culture clash was making me thirsty, so I decided to order a drink.  There were menus conveniently set up on the little tables next to our lounges.  (I'm surprised the "free" people get tables at all, but I decided to keep that comment to myself as well.)  I ordered something called The Morning After. I don't remember exactly what The Morning After encompassed, but I know it involved peach schnapps.  And I know it cost $14.  (That was the "small."  The large was $28.) And it took my scantily-clad waitress over a half an hour to bring my drink.  Then it took another half an hour, and a special request from me, to bring back the change from my $20 bill. 

I was beginning to get quite disgusted by the service at the pool.   If you're not a group of horny tattooed frat guys, the waitresses pay you no attention at all?  This wasn't fair.  I decided to order one more drink, converse with my new Canadian friends while they marveled at my accent, and then get the hell out of there.  I ordered a (small) Miami Vice, which is a heavenly nectar comprised of half dacquiri and half pina colada.  I expected the second coming of Christ to occur before I received my drink.

To my surprise, she returned five minutes later, with an enormous Hard Rock Hotel souvenir cup, filled to the brim with Miami Vice.  "They accidentally made a large," she said apologetically.  "But you can still have it for $14.  And you can keep the cup."

Faith in humanity restored, I handed over another $20.  She promptly handed me my change, which I promptly returned to her as her tip. 

This was the kind of service mistake I could get used to.  I sat back in my free chaise lounge, and soaked in an extra hour of (free) Las Vegas sun.