For more photos, there is a live, running picture thread here.

The bat signal went out that everyone was doing an initial meet up at Rio’s Voodoo Lounge, so I headed over there last night.

The only clubs I go to myself are live music clubs. On my own, I don’t go to nightclubs. They are very much not my scene. I’d rather shoot up with the addicts under the Downtown freeway overpass than stand in line to get into a “club”.

But Voodoo is a lounge with food and cool views, so it’s not like we went to Pure where I would have assassinated myself in the restroom for having set foot in Pure.

I got all dressed up (for me) and actually washed my greasy hair for the first time in a week. You would have thought that I was going to the catillion ball. Getting me to wash my hair is a monumental accomplishment, as I prefer it stringy and nasty … as opposed to dry straw which occurs when you wash it in dry 108 degree weather. Nasty and greasy also requires far less effort, so I will just be honest and say that is the real reason that I don’t bother.

I’m thinking of just growing dreads so I never have to wash it again, but I’m a bit too old for dreads and I’d probably get stabbed by a real Rasta, so I need to give it some more thought.

If Axl Rose can’t pull it off, nobody can.

I also came prepared. I brought a dress with me. As in a woman’s dress, but I left it in the car. I was actually wearing a dress before I left my home (100% serious), but I decided against provoking the situation.

If the “club” turned me away for “improper attire” for wearing jeans or whatever they pulled out of their ass, I was going to change in the car, and return in a dress … because I know that dresses are allowed in every club in town.

Turns out they didn’t hassle me about the dress code.

On my way there, I got a call from my buddy Adam. There had been an “incident” at the Monte Carlo.

It basically involved a wet spot on the floor resulting in a nasty spill with visible physical injury. They were trying to get him to sign some kind of documents after the accident while refusing to review the tape to see what had caused the fall while acting like douchebags, so we will have to see how it plays out.

It’s an ongoing situation at this point.

If you fuckers at MGM/Mirage try to pull any funny shit by “losing” the tape or whatever the usual nonsense is, all I can tell you is that there are about 25 witnesses to the aftermath … and we’ll probably all testify and/or personally piss on your floor, so save yourself the trouble and don’t even try it.

Like a true warrior, Adam still made it to Voodoo within 20 minutes.

The problem is, his dick is broken … so all of you women who came to Vegas expressly for some English love juice … may now promptly leave.

Just kidding!

I assure you that Adam still has enough in reserve to bang out a few illegitimate children before he leaves. He would never let something as minor as “unconsciousness” slow his roll with the ladies.

Anyway, it was great to see the crowd at Voodoo. Many I had already met, some I hadn’t, and everyone was great. There were several cameras in the crowd, and I think people are going to post some pictures in the forums before the weekend is through, so there shouldn’t be a lack of visuals.

Everybody is always just incredibly cool.

If you rounded up 30 random people on the planet, chances are that I would hate 29 of them. The only reason I wouldn’t hate all of them is because I’m assuming that at least one in 30 random people has huge tits.

I actually like all thirty of these people, which is a personal milestone.

And they run the gamut from book keepers to porn editors (seriously) to everything in between. It’s unusual to find such a mix of diverse people from all over the place who just like to get down in Las Vegas and generally have a good time without all of the pretentious bullshit, but that’s exactly what they do.

(courtesy shamu613)

Local blogger Pam Love  (above) noted that it was my birthday next week, and decided that it would be a good night to treat me to a birthday dinner. And since I am turning 40, at which point I will begin getting prostate exams …. I wasn’t letting her ass off cheap. I milked it for all it was worth, ordering lobster stuffed with lump crab. I miss crabs from back East (ocean, not pubic), so I was really looking forward to it.

I think I ejaculated eight or nine times while eating this thing, because it was incredibly good.

Maybe Harrah’s did recognize me and spit in my food (a constant worry of mine), but I didn’t care. I don’t get to eat crab meat out of a lobster’s ass very often, and I picked that thing clean.

On a side note, when I got home later that night, I thought I would need to take myself to the ER. I thought that I was suffering massive kidney failure. When I took my “goodnight piss”, it smelled as if a thousand camels had simultaneously passed gas in my face.

I screamed “Why does my piss smell like shit?”. It concerned me.

Then I remembered that the side dishes were these huge stalks of asparagus that were three times larger than my schlong.

It’s been awhile since I have eaten asparagus, but the plant really does make urinating a horribly unpleasant experience. Especially when it’s huge, mammoth sized asparagus.

I’m embarrassed to pee in public restrooms right now because I know people are going to look at me and assume that I ripped a massive silent-but-deadly fart, but my piss just smells bad. I’m not having massive attacks of flatulence. I swear.

Anyway, I took a bunch of pictures from Voodoo. I didn’t want to lug around my “real” camera, so I just took a very small pocket-sized camera. The images are horrible and blurry, but it was the best I could do. If you can hand-hold a 1 second exposure and get crisp images, the more power to you. But in dim light, Michael J. Fox takes more steady shots than I do.

(There was a full moon last night which you can see in this photo over the City Center construction site)

After dinner we hung outside for an hour or so.

On the outdoor deck at the Voodoo Lounge, they have a stripper poll.

Why?

Don’t ask me. It seems out of place, but far be it from me to complain.

While we were on the deck, some lady got on the stripper poll, and a man and woman were taking pictures of her. I asked the lady if I could take her picture too and she waved me off.

Then someone said “The girl is with her parents.”

Apparently, the parents were proudly taking pictures of their little girl on a stripper poll in Vegas, but it would have been completely inappropriate if I had taken pictures of their darling baby girl grinding the poll … because that’s what Daddys are for!

I can just imagine that household.

“Come here honey, Daddy needs a lap dance. Now remember how we taught you!”

It was a little creepy.

Anyway, when she finally got done doing the bump and grind for mom and dad(?!), I figured that since nobody else was taking the initiative, I would hop on the poll myself. I humped it for 5 seconds, then got off.

About half a minute later some 8 foot tall bald headed security goon came out and said “No men are allowed on the poll!” He looked all stern and serious and shit, and then I simply asked him if he had a problem with my technique and if he was implying that I was not sexy.

At this point the stern demeanor dropped and he started laughing and smiling. He explained that I worked the poll just fine (thanks!) but Voodoo “doesn’t allow men on the pole”.

Now, in general, I have no problem with this policy AT ALL.

But if there are 10 people on the deck, 8 of them are in the same group, and you put a stripper poll in the middle of them … I mean … come on.

What exactly is it that you expect?

If you bring a stripper poll to a party, you’re not friggin Emily Post, and you can’t really claim some kind of etiquette high ground.

“Pinkies up when you sip tea, the salad fork goes on the left, only ladies can work the pole.”

How are you going to “enforce a policy” that is predicated on a completely ludicrous and goofy concept in the first place?

They put it there to be silly.

If you are going to put props on the fucking deck, don’t get all bent if people use the thing to amuse themselves. Isn’t that the point of it being there?

It’s not like I stripped down to a banana hammock and started rubbing my bare ass cheeks up and down the thing … although I did consider it.

It was yet another one of those “There will be no fun had here!” overreactions that frankly, I have more or less come to expect of this town. The reaction was so completely nonsensical and I really can’t express how unnecessary the whole bouncer thing was.

My Vegas was showing, and they made me show my Iowa.

You don’t see 8 foot, phallic headed security apes bitching about random shit on the slick commercials.

Anyway, they kicked me off the stripper poll! I am considering calling the ACLU or Al Sharpton or whoever handles pole discrimination.

That was really the only personal glitch during the evening, everything else went fairly smoothly.

Oh yeah, the express elevator to Voodoo has a cricket in it. On the way down we heard “chirp, chirp, chirp” and everyone was looking around for the damn thing, but nobody could find it. Nonetheless, I can confirm that there is indeed a cricket living out the remainder of its life riding the Rio express elevator up and down.

The view is great, so I suppose there could be worse ways to go.

Around midnight everyone scattered off in their own directions. Did they bang whores? Smoke crack? Pass out on the floor of the MGM in a drunken stupor?

I would put my money on “all of the above”.

Everybody seemed to be having a good time, and I am eagerly awaiting the stories that will be coming in next week.

At this point, nothing I hear will shock me.

BTW, Toni Braxton’s leg is still on the Flamingo.

I know where the crotch is, but I’m not telling.

Let’s just say that I can now bang Toni Braxton whenever I feel like it, and leave it at that.