This marks my first time to Vegas, so before I left town I drove the big Cadillac up the strip. After all, what could go better in Vegas than the car that Frank Sinatra drove in 1957-1958? As I motored down Las Vegas Boulevard, I hummed “All or nothing at all,” which seems to be the way of the Brougham.
Vegas is a big joke and either you get it or you don’t. Kitschy humor is usually elicits no more than a half-smile from most people. Ever seen that painting of dogs playing poker? Now, in Vegas, you take that painting, blow it up to billboard-proportion, light it with neon, build a giant gilded frame around it, place it in the middle of a $2 billion hotel and surround it with live dogs that have been trained to play blackjack. What was a cheap, tacky painting suddenly becomes an expensive, tacky painting. Yet everyone goes back to Kansas and says, “Can you believe they’ve trained a Doberman to hold on 17?” That makes for better conversation than, “Can you believe I lost $2,300 playing a jangling slot machine?”
I spent the afternoon with Joe Cranitch, who is a police sergeant from Australia. Joe, like many other enthusiasts from around the world, came to Vegas to celebrate Cadillac and catch up with friends. We parked the Brougham at the Caesar’s Palace and strolled the strip to find lunch. Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville seemed like a light, bright place to grab something simple and relax. The bar was a good place to people-watch, too. And man, are there some people in see in Vegas.
http://www.margaritaville.com/
Soon after sitting, our exotic-looking hostess began walking towards me. Wearing just a small bikini and flowery leis, her dark hair and eyes were arresting. Our waiter had just taken my order (“Cheeseburger in Paradise,” of course) so why was this vixen headed my way? She approached and demurely looked at her sandals for a beat as she said, “Would you like a kiss?” The rest of her pitch went on to explain that for just $15, her kiss would benefit breast cancer awareness. I could imagine that a lot of bachelor partygoers, sloshed salesmen, and dimwit cheeseburger eaters lose $15 this way.
I smiled, told her that Mrs. Murphy would likely object to such a proposal,
and felt certain that she was utterly crushed as she went on to ask another 30 unsuspecting tourists if they’d like to be leid.
Soon thereafter, a giant fiberglass volcano/hot tub erupted, spewing another bikini-clad woman down a slide and into a giant, six-foot tall margarita blender, filled with unappetizing green “margarita” water, from which she was plucked by an enormous fish hook.
Just eating a hamburger in this town is a ridiculous event.
After lunch, Joe and I decided to walk up to the Bellagio to see the enormous “Fountains of Bellagio,” which is a choreographed water show that takes place every 15 minutes or so. The 9-acre lake conceals 1,200 nozzles that blast water as high as 460 feet. It makes it easy to forget you’re in the desert.
To get a good view, we strolled into the Bellagio itself and past the many shops and restaurants that line the lake. One staffer suggested we stop at the Fontana Bar, which sits directly in the middle of the hotel and has the best views. “But,” she added, “you have to buy two drinks.”
What a week. The car, the drive, the heat, the schedule–I’ve been working 20-hour days, so, two drinks will not be a problem, I thought. This would be super–a chance to relax and enjoy one of the best sights in Las Vegas.
We walked up to the hostess and as we were getting ready to be seated, I realized that a woman I held a candle for 15 years ago was on stage singing with her band.
I saw her. She saw me. I waved. She waved. There were no potted palms to jump behind, no shoes that needed tying, no Velvet Elvis paintings to suddenly admire. I had no choice but to go on in and take a seat.
The band sounded fine. Though there were just four other guests in the bar, the girl boogied and shook it like she was playing to the throngs of Madison Square Garden. I’m sure she wished there were more people in the room. I secretly wished I was wearing a tuxedo and not the sweaty clothes that I’d driven over the Continental Divide in–or at least some cologne instead of eau-de-51-year-old-Cadillac. At least I wasn’t covered in motor oil.
When the set ended after about 20 minutes, the band came out to visit with the audience of five and to have a few drinks. Well, almost the whole band. Perhaps my presence made her uncomfortable. Or maybe someone got stuck in their sparkly hotpants backstage. I didn’t linger to find out.
Later, I drove the Brougham down the Strip for some nighttime shots. Then I checked into a fabulous room at the Paris Hotel, which was mercifully hosting a very silent and peaceful convention for the deaf, and turned in for the night.
The Master of Broughams
The drive to Wildomar, California was totally uneventful, which pleased me to no end. Crossing through Death Valley made me nervous, as I figured they don’t call it “Death Valley” for nothing. Maybe the memories of aptly named spots in the midwest such as “River Bend” and “Old Stump” were still swirling in my head.
The Mohave Desert shimmered in the afternoon sun and loomed with things that sting, stink, or stick. I definitely did not want to break down or overheat out here, and happily the old Brougham didn’t let me down.
My destination was Mastermind, Inc. If you own a 1957-1960 Cadillac, you probably know Mastermind and its owner, Mike Rizzuto. Mike is a font of all things Brougham, air ride, and original equipment on vintage Cadillacs. His shop is neat, tidy, and the sort of organized place that you’d expect from a fastidious person attuned to how to keep a 51-year-old piece of Detroit iron roaming the roads.
He and his lovely wife kindly made a fabulous Italian dinner (my first home-cooked meal since I left Dallas) and we had a evening of telling lies and stories about old cars by the pool beneath their lush palm-tree garden. Both Mike and I believe the Brougham is America’s postwar Duesenburg, and he’s seeing prices for the cars that reflect that trend.
The next morning, the Rizzutos again fed me, this time with a whopper of a breakfast. Mike helped me adjust the leveling valves on the Brougham so it isn’t as high in the front and I bought a few parts as well. He checked over the carbs and even grabbed a bucket and washed my car. What a guy. I asked Mike to drive “Heavy,” and aside from a hard brake pedal, his diagnosis was that she is a fine running machine.
After leaving Mike’s, I had some repairs to make. My stop light switch went out–and having brake lights in Los Angeles seemed like a wise idea. So I stopped at a NAPA and spent 40 minutes talking to the staff. Every part I requested was, “at the warehouse,” so finally I left and headed to Pep Boys. Within a few moments, I had my brake light switch installed and working beautifully.
Of course, fixing one problem on the car brings up the cosmic old car problem that something else has to break. That would be the air conditioning fan-switch knob, which snapped as I was turning it on. Great. They’re made out of pot metal, difficult to find, and expensive to replace. But I need air conditioning, so I had no intention of driving the car without it. After all, Mrs. Murphy is joining me in New Orleans (not known for its temperate climate) and she, I’m sure, wouldn’t take too kindly to a lack of refrigerated air. A little history: she refused to so much as visit my apartment in Birmingham until I bought an air conditioner (eager to lure her to my bachelor pad, I bought an AC that weighed more than my Cadillac). I got on the horn and called a few shops. Craig at McVey’s came through for me with a new switch in good condition. In the meantime, a screwdriver and pair of pliers would have to suffice to make the cables move so I wouldn’t fry behind the wheel.
I made my way towards Hollywood and stayed at the very trendy Andaz in West Hollywood. Traffic was worse than the Long Island Expressway, but the car behaved admirably, even in the dense traffic.
My hotel for the evening, the Andaz, sits on 8401 West Sunset Boulevard, in fashionable West Hollywood. It’s very chic, crammed with beautiful people, and has just enough eccentricities to make you feel like the Beverly Hillbillies on your first visit. For example, there is no check-in desk. So you go into the hotel, look around fruitlessly for a desk, and are greeted by a pretty girl holding a laptop. I was greeted by Elisa, from Moldova (she’s been here just four years and loves America). She checked me in digitally and then walked me to my room where I was informed that everything in the minibar, except alcohol, was complementary. Finally, a hotel that doesn’t charge you $4 for a bottle of water! Even better, Eisa offered me a huge glass of wine and invited me to come down to the lobby to chat. My modern room even had a quote by Dolly Parton on the window, “It takes a lot of money to look this cheap.”
Now that’s quality.
For dinner, I walked across Sunset Boulevard to Asia de Cuba, which is in the Mondrian Hotel. It’s very modern. So modern, in fact, that the bar has no bar stools. I said to the waiter, “Hey man, who stole your stools?”
“It’s the design. Our interior was originally designed by Philippe Starck, and he didn’t want barstools at the bar,” the bartender intoned.
Vegas evidently robbed me of my patience and verbal governor, so I blurted, “Well that’s stupid. This place needs some stools.”
The bartender, Vincent Debbey, looked at me a moment and then burst into laughter. “Yeah, I guess they didn’t want anyone talking to me.” So I talked to Vincent. He grew up in Arizona and his dad owns a bunch of Burger Kings in Atlanta, including the Hartsfield International Airport and all of the sons work for Pop. All except for Vincent. He took another path (good for him) and started his career as a gossip columnist. Some juicy tidbits:
Mike Tyson and his entourage was staying upstairs. I reflexively grabbed my earlobe upon hearing this.
Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie had the hotel build them adjoining rooms during the filming of Mr. & Mrs. Smith. They had breakfast delivered to just one of the rooms, however. Guess who brought it?
Britney Spears tried to shave her legs in the hotel pool. When the staff objected, she tried to rent a room but had no photo ID. After shaving her legs in another guest’s room, Britney went out and had her head shaved.
I told Vincent I thought Britney, even bald, was hot. Vincent assured me that Britney Spears looks awful in person. “If she was sitting right there, you’d say, ‘who’s that? It’s the makeup.’”
Some people try to fornicate in the bar. This ticks Vincent off.
Security is called on bar fornicators, and they’re thrown out of the hotel (unless they have a room, and then, presumably, they’re told to go there to frolic).
The most popular drink at Asia de Cuba is a mojito, which I nearly blurted was “so yesterday,” but thankfully my verbal governor returned and instead I said, “Really?” Vincent made me a double mojito, graced with a giant stick of sugar cane and a straw. I don’t drink with straws, a.k.a., “sissy sticks.” So I removed the offending plastic from my drink.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Vincent said, “you’ll stick that stick right in your eye.” He was right. So I drank my mojito with a straw, which made me feel like a 4-year-old.
I nearly ordered the tuna sliders, but Vincent warned they were tiny and steered me instead towards the snapper sushi, an absolutely fabulous smidgen of food. As I ate dinner, Vincent and I chatted about politics. He asked me what I thought of Nancy Pelosi, and I believe the mojito was talking when I blurted, “I’d like to stub out my cigar on her forehead.”
That probably wasn’t too diplomatic, I thought to myself, considering I’m a white-bread Republican from Alabama and Vincent is a black gay man living in Southern California.
Fortunately, he had a great sense of humor and agreed that the bailouts, TARP money, and stimulus packages were getting ridiculous, “I mean, I’m not a rich guy. I’m a bartender. But I don’t need another $600. What I’m I supposed to stimulate with that?”
“Yeah, that’s about three drinks at this bar,” I blurted. What kind of truth serum was in that drink?
“You know, man,” Vincent said to me conspiratorially, “You need to run for politics. You make sense. I’d be your campaign manager.”
Now I began to wonder if Vincent was drinking his own juice back there. I laughed, left Vincent an good tip for making my evening, and ventured back to the Andaz for the night.