Greetings from the desert, my home for the rest of the week. I’m here for NBA Summer League, a spectacle I will chronicle at another time. Right now I’m blogging from the serene pool at the MGM. Yesterday I was missing in action because I made the near fatal choice of going to the Wet Republic pool party, a party full of fun and filth. The cover charge to enter can be as much as $100. Luckily my MGM room key got me in for free. That savings was quickly erased when I bought my first drink for $40. To be fair, it was probably the equivalent of three to four drinks.
With house music played at decibels far beyond what is safe for human consumption and a nonstop beat down from the sun, I feel fortunate to have made it out alive. The craziness is compounded by the massive crowd who collectively do not know the meaning of moderation. I escaped the mob and found a retreat by way of a pool bungalow. I’m not sure how much the bungalows go for but I’m guessing a few thousand dollars. When the Grey Goose ran dry and the last of the Don Julio was consumed, the tenants of the bungalow also left. Friendships in Vegas only last as long as bottle service.
I’ve been to a few pool parties in Vegas and this one by far is my least favorite. Maybe I’m getting too old for this shit but I can’t deal with the pandemonium. I can’t imagine going to Rehab at Hard Rock and last time I was at Tao Beach I felt the same way. Gentler pool experiences like the main pool at XS are more my speed. Pool parties are one of the best inventions of mankind so I’m hoping that my dislike of Wet Republic was an aberration. Otherwise I see no reason to come to Vegas since I don’t gamble and I don’t go to Cirque shows.
The only way to test my hypothesis is to go to one more pool party before I go. That way I will know for sure.