Vegas Trip: Celebrating 50 in Sin City, page three

Posted: October 26, 2009

(continued from page 1)

The Bank nightclub interior.

Maybe the detour is just as well. By the time we head into Bank, the club is packed and rocking. Our table gives us a great view of the dance floor. Random girls drop by, hang out, cadge drinks. We're too old, they're too young, but, hey, it's Vegas, and we're happy to share our vodka. Steve wanders off and comes back with a couple cigars. We light up, check out the dance floor, drink more than we should (OK, I definitely drink more than I should). After a couple hours, we head out to valet. En route, Steve reminds Glen that they have an early tee time scheduled for tomorrow (I've taken a pass on the second round of golf) and that is why he's abstained from drinking.

"All the better," I tell Steve, handing him the valet ticket, pleased that we won't be needing to take a cab back.

It's nearly 3:00 in the morning; we're halfway down the Vegas Strip, with its lightening traffic, sandwiched by the dueling themes of Venetian and Mirage; almost back at the Wynn and I get a brilliant idea. "Screw sleeping," I announce. "We're going to Drai's. The owners are buddies of mine."

A quick 180 on Las Vegas Boulevard and we're heading for Vegas's best after-hours bar. It opens at 2 a.m. and closes at a time when sensible 50-year-olds are hitting the snooze button for a few extra minutes of slumber.

We waltz in, strolling past a big crowd vying for admission. Co-owner Jesse Waits greets me with a dude-hug and has us escorted downstairs. We're VIPed all the way and provided with the total rock star treatment—seated at a prime table, presented with a bottle of booze, hand stamped for the private room in back, introduced to a friendly waitress in a corset (who, it turns out, is good friends with a local, high-rolling pal of mine). Our entrance draws a little bit of attention, and if we were 25 years younger, we would surely capitalize on it. Of course, though, 25 years ago nobody was giving me the rock star treatment. The three of us take in the louche, red walled club. We groove on the coolness of the crowd, embrace Drai's slightly illicit feel, and drink way too much vodka.

Don't ask me when we left. But it was late enough that I found myself wondering whether or not Glen and Steve would make their early a.m. tee time.

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