I’m going to deviate a bit from writing about hot rodding crap to talk about a Greasy fish out of the water experience.
Last week I went to Vegas with my friends to celebrate one of their 30th birthdays. Now, I'm the only Greaser in the group, so I knew there would be times where I didn’t fit in, especially when my buddy told me that we would be going to some exclusive club’s grand opening.
As I was getting ready that night of going to the club, my friends all had on modern-styled suits and shoes. I decided to scale the greasiness back a bit and wore black slacks, my black wingtips and a burgundy/gray daddy-o’s retro button-up shirt. Normally I would’ve donned full-on Rockabilly evening regalia, which would consist of black slacks, black/white wingtips, contrasting dress shirt with the top two buttons unbuttoned and the lapels and collar folded outside of a nice sport coat. If I would’ve done that, I would have garnered a lot of negative attention from all the modern squares (and lots of ribbing from my buddies).
After I ironed my clothes listening to the Blue Moon Boys (if you don’t who they are Google that shit you non-Rockabilly J), Carl Perkins and Mac Curtis, I whipped out the Layrite and got the pomp perfect while Josie Kreuzer serenaded me. I met my buddies in the main hotel room. Their girlfriends all seemed to dig the look, so I thought all was good.
This club I’m talking about was the Hakkasan at the MGM Grand. We stood in the VIP line waiting to get in. We were surrounded by young girls in their 20’s with asses and boobs hanging out. Swell to look at, but all the shrieking and “Oh my gawd!” was starting to get on my nerves. “Quick! Get me the fuck in and let me get a beer!” I thought.
Once we got in, we checked out the place and got some drinks. How the fuck a club can charge $12 for a goddamned lukewarm beer baffles the shit out of me. At least it was some good Stella, I guess. After a while we ended up on the dance “floor”. While my friends danced and tried to hook up with some girls there, I just drank my beer and checked out the scenery. Not one of these young modern chicks dug the Grease. Not surprised. Two hours later, it was asshole-to-elbow crowded and my beer was empty. I tried to make my way to the bar, which was a damn obstacle course of sweaty drunk douchebags and skanks. I bought another $12 Stella (ain’t no fucking Pabst in that joint) and made my way to the bathroom.
Someone please tell me the point of a “bathroom attendant”. I can put soap in my own hands and get my own fucking towel. Don’t need you to shake my dick, either. When I stepped out of the bathroom, I was amazed at how crowded the place was. Five floors of people packed in like sardines; I needed out. I tried to scan the place for my buddies on the dance floor, but it took me ten minutes to slither my way to the bathroom. I thought, “Fuck this shit I'm out” and proceeded to look for the exit. The maze of “EXIT” signs had me going in circles. I’m sure the bouncers got a kick out of seeing the only Greaser in the place wandering around trying to find the exit. I finally found the exit via the elevator. In the front entrance, there was still a line to get in. How the fuck they were going to fit in there is a mystery to me. I’m sure the state Fire Marshal would’ve shit his pants knowing how many people were packed in there.
I bellied up to a bar and pounded a beer in sweet relief (only paid $5 for it ha-ha). Tomorrow would see us in the Wet Republic “exclusive VIP” pool. If my friends ever read this, just understand that while I don’t like clubs, I still had a good time since I spent time with you all.
The next day at the Wet Republic pool, again I was the oddball. Imagine seeing a Greaser with a pomp and old school tattoos amongst the sea of ‘roided-up Jersey-Shore lookalikes, complete with tribal tattoos and hair gel. Some older gals in their 30’s did compliment my ink, so that made it better. The pool was actually fun, since now all the modern girls are half-naked. Plus, the “models” they hire to dance around in their Wet Republic bikinis have zero body fat and lots of silicone. Nice eye candy, but I got a kick out of all the douchebags trying to hit on them and wasting their time. I wouldn’t even bother wasting my resources trying to hook up with one. Don’t get me wrong, they were hot, but dammit I want to see some hips and ass! I think if I would’ve smacked one of these floozies in the ass like I do to my wife ten times a day I’d probably shatter their pelvis.
This now brings me to the whole gist of the blog. I despise clubs and never was, and never will be a “club person”. The music grates on my nerves and whole concept of selling booze at outrageous prices and bathroom attendants is something I can’t comprehend. Don’t ever bother trying to order whiskey at a club, unless you want to pay $20 for watered-down swill. I’d rather go to a dive bar, drink $3 beer and listen to a Rockabilly band any day. I’ve taken my wife to many a seedy bar to see such kickass acts as Rip Carson, Omar & the Stringpoppers, Deke Dickerson, Crown City Bombers, Truly Lover Trio, Dusty Chance & the All Niters and the Stardust Ramblers to name a few.
On the subject of today’s “modern” girl, I took a look around at that club and at that pool and noticed all the chicks there. I bet you anything that 99.9% of these chicks wouldn’t last 5 minutes in my hot rod ’61 GMC truck without complaining in their stuck-up, snatchy voices, “Oh my gawd, it stinks like gasoline/smoke/old car in here”, “the ride is too rough”, “what do you mean there’s no radio? I can’t listen to lady gaga”, “your engine’s too loud”. Bitch, ain’t no seatbelts in here so hang the fuck on and shut the fuck up lest you suck on my dashboard during a panic stop.
Finally, to close I’d like to give props to my wife, since she has put up with me taking her to the aforementioned dive bars to see some of the best Rockabilly bands on the planet. She’s also bought me tickets to Ink n’ Iron and the Johnny Cash Festival for my birthday and Father’s day respectively in the past. She also loves to cruise and go on date nights in my ’61, noise, gas and exhaust fumes and all. Also thanks for dressing the part and hanging out at Viva. I’m glad I married a woman that has grease in her blood, and now she’s pregnant with a little Greaser fetus in her belly. I love you, baby!
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