Devin Friedman spends one night at The Marquee, Las Vegas. Hates it.
We watched Benassi. We had Joe take us to the private bathroom (that’s a service he provided, “bathroom walks”) and felt as if we had paid to pretend we were kind of famous. We had our ice changed twice in fifteen minutes. (We were now timing it.) We watched people raising their hands in the air, either in a kind of Euro tomahawk chop or in an uncomfortably heil-like gesture—this has replaced the booty grind now that electronic dance music has replaced hip-hop in some clubs—and dancing pretty much without moving their feet.
We saw that our ice hadn’t been changed in half an hour and started feeling kind of irate. We let Jessica pour rounds and rounds of drinks for these female Asian chem majors from Cal who kept waving and winking to their boyfriends who were railbirding it on the lower level of the dance floor, watching as their dates got their free drinks on. We saw, at the table behind ours, that a member of the bro posse we figured was either Lebanese, French, or Israeli had vomited. Like really vomited. It was as if a Hale and Hearty Soups had exploded at table 96. But it didn’t take a full minute before a team of men in black materialized, equipped with an arsenal of towels and cleaning solvents, to scrub the area, and the puker, absolutely pukeless. They were a vomit pit crew. In no time at all they had propped the guy up, faced him toward the dance floor, poured him a glass of ice water, and disappeared.