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Movers & Shakers |
The Casino Host
Mike Myers parties even harder than you do. And he gets paid for it.
Let’s say a big shot rolls into town looking to blow $100K on all the indulgences for which Vegas is infamous, but the poor schmuck doesn’t know where to start. Chances are he’ll soon be shaking hands with Mike Myers, the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino’s 31-year-old “managing partner of nightlife and director of customer development”—a fancy way of saying he’s a casino host, the guy paid to keep celebrities and free-spending whales very happy.
“I have contacts at clubs and restaurants all over town,” says Myers. “I’m married, but I need to know every stripper in Vegas to do my job.”
That job often begins with a referral from an ultra-high-end connection such as American Express’ black card. From there Myers uses contacts and gut instincts to get the party moving. “When somebody is willing to drop $50,000 in a club, I want to keep him coming back,” he says. “I know your preferred table, your favorite liquor, if you like petite brunettes with big tits. With me you don’t have to learn the hard way that you don’t control your own destiny in Vegas.”
Myers’ own destiny began in 2001, when he and his wife moved on a whim from St. Cloud, Minnesota to Vegas and got bar jobs. His natural rapport with customers soon landed him a hosting gig at a Bellagio club, and a bulging roster of well-heeled contacts bounced him up the Vegas food chain to his current lofty position, though he admits “the past six years are a bit of a blur.”
Keeping whales happy can take its toll. After a recent epic night of slurping a celebrity’s Dom Pérignon, Myers blacked out and had to be hauled home by an assistant at 10 a.m. And then there’s the high roller who insists that a 10-piece marching band announce his entrance at Hard Rock’s signature club, Body English. Classy! But the most common requests involve women—lots of women. Though Myers swears he doesn’t offer anything illegal, he’s not above steering the hottest off-duty waitresses toward his clients’ VIP booths. “There’s a fine line between a girl who will have sex for $1,000 and a girl who will have sex for free Cristal,” Myers says. “This town is built around those girls.”
Before you race to Vegas gunning for Myers’ gig, consider whether you possess his stamina: “I ride private jets and spray Cristal. I live the life of a billionaire,” Myers says. “On the other hand, I have to go out every night making sure everyone in Vegas knows who I am. I’m never off work.” | See that guy sitting across the aisle on your Vegas-bound flight? Yeah, the one engrossed in the SkyMall catalog. He thinks the next 48 hours are going to be awesome—a little gambling, a little golf, maybe even a little business. But Vegas isn’t about “little.” Vegas builds massive casinos with moats and limos with stripper poles. Vegas hums with dozens of hot nightclubs and glows with 15,000 miles of neon tubing. For the right price, Vegas even launches you into zero gravity or, if you bust out, consoles you with topless pools and bottomless pancakes. How can you jam all this excess and weirdness into two measly days and nights? With our street-tested guide and a total disregard for your physical and mental health and well-being, that’s how. Just don’t hold us responsible if you can’t remember any of it later. We can only enable you so much.
2:00 P.M.
SAPPHIRE "EURO" POOL
When an SPF 30–defying Vegas sun beats down, two distinct choices present themselves: bask in the heat poolside or retreat into a strip club. Now, with the new Sapphire Pool at the Rio casino, there’s no need to choose. Although the sexy Euro trend (female sun worshipers can leave those cumbersome bikini tops in their suitcases) hit casino pools a couple of years ago, this is the first adults-only swim area to forge an alliance with a local lap dance emporium, namely Sapphire, which bills itself as “the world’s largest gentlemen’s club.” The inspired partnership delivers 20 to 35 of the club’s dancers to the roped-off pool on a daily basis, where they eat, booze, and erase tan lines for free. “We stock the pond,” brags pool director Mike Kleen. “Then regular girls feel comfortable going topless, too. It’s contagious.” On a typical day, the ringers (easily identified by pink wristbands, among other things) splash Nerf toys and gamely break the ice with paying patrons. A $30 cover charge ($50 weekends) lets male guests enjoy the view. Or invite a Sapphire girl inside your $500 private cabana, but don’t get any naughty “champagne room” notions: When the tops are doffed, the flaps stay open.
4:15 P.M.
RENT A MACHINE GUN
If you’re not ready to gamble, drink, and objectify showgirls, it’s time to fire deadly assault weapons. Located three miles from the Strip, the Gun Store offers a for-rent arsenal that would break Gandhi’s heart. “People are overwhelmed,” owner Chris Irwin says. “They stare in awe, like kids at Disneyland.” That is, assuming Walt ever let Goofy play with Uzis. Got a photo ID and $50? Grab an M-16. On the indoor range, instructors guide you through the finer points of not perforating your neighbor. Then brace for recoil and take aim at a bin Laden–emblazoned target. “You got two in the turban!” instructor Tommy McLee shouts. “Now hold the trigger down longer!” Spent cartridges fall like rain, your shoulder takes a pounding, and Osama turns to confetti.
7:00 P.M.
Your last good shot to call home. Tell her Vegas is tacky and dull, but the other guys seem to be having fun. Then block her number and forget you even have a home.
8:00 P.M.
PALMS BUNGALOWS
Location, location, location. That real estate mantra also applies to high-roller rooms—and the Palms’ bungalows are the equivalent of Malibu beachfront. Perched on the edge of a sprawling pool complex, this trio of sleek playpens is within spritzing distance of several bars, frequent outdoor concerts, and vistas of oiled, exposed flesh. Inside is the 1,000-square-foot lair of a high-tech sheik: plasma TVs, fireplaces, a Jacuzzi, and a private upstairs bedroom with a balcony. Spending the night costs $3,000, and it may well be worth it. “A guy staying in a bungalow is the king of Vegas,” boasts Palms president George Maloof Jr. “He has a good view of the whole scene—and everybody else has a good view of him.” Indeed, even big shots in poolside cabanas shoot jealous glances at bungalow-ers. When the pool winds down in the evening, invite 40 of your favorite new friends inside for the ultimate Vegas after-party. Of course, they may refuse to leave when you head out for the night, but that’s no problem: A party this good will likely still be raging when you return.
10:30 P.M.
CATHOUSE
A man has to eat. So if the restaurant he randomly picks just happens to fuse decadent cuisine with a lingerie show, then it must be credited to Vegas luck. That’s the promise of Cathouse, a bordello-inspired bistro and lounge in the hip-again Luxor casino. Start by sharing oysters or tuna tartare, then graduate to sweet braised beef short ribs, all whipped up by Iron Chef alum Kerry Simon. Be careful not to slice off a finger when a one-way glass panel reveals a model powdering her assets in a makeshift dressing room. Indeed, the whole room—chandeliers, velvet wallpaper, 400 framed vintage erotic photos—oozes seduction. Bread pudding? OK, but don’t stuff yourself. The adjacent “loungerie” is cranking up, with hipsters splayed across winding banquettes and dancers cavorting on stages. Their lingerie is for sale, providing the perfect pretext for discussing the finer points of fishnets. But, then, you just came for the food, right?
12:00 A.M.
The Hilton Sports SuperBook is the largest on the planet, so go ahead and put a bet on the favorite college squad back home. And Dale Jr. to win Talladega. And, hey, it’s post time for the fifth race at Abu Dhabi racetrack! And…do you suddenly have a problem? You bet.
2:00 A.M.
VODKA VAULT
To swill vodka properly, you have to dress like a Cold War Commie and risk frostbite. At the Russian-themed Red Square restaurant and bar in Mandalay Bay, choose a bottle from a selection of 200-plus vodkas, like the $500 Jewel of Russia. Then don cold-weather gear—Soviet-era army jacket for guys, fur coat for gals—and step into the vodka vault, which is kept at a hypothermia-friendly 0°F. “Most people last 15 minutes,” general manager Kari Olsen says. “They come in wearing sandals, and their feet start turning blue.” Huddle around the huge block of ice that serves as a table and toast (drinkers, unite!) to the bust of Vladimir Lenin frozen inside. Members can even store unfinished bottles in the lockers that line the walls. But, then again, real Russians wouldn’t leave a drop of the mother booze unsavored.
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