Apparently, Smiley Eighties was well worth four dollars, especially if you don’t like alcohol. There are those of us, however, that do. A lot. So, when we got the yearning for some free booze we did what every young adult of sound mind does: we got ourselves to Vegas.

By the time senior year rolls around, pretty much everybody has been to Vegas. Still, it’s more fun to go when you’re actually 21 and needn’t worry about having your legs broke. So, once the youngest member of our posse, Mr. Jorah Dannenberg ’01, crossed the threshold into manhood, we got him a hooker. Then we took him to Vegas.

The little burg of Las Vegas is about 240 miles northwest of here on the 15. It takes about three hours to get there, unless you’re that bastard from Harvey Mudd who drives a Ferrari. Along the way one sees all sorts of sights, including Barstow, a place where nobody has ever stopped longer than the time it takes to go pee. Also of interest is Baker, home of The Mad Greek, a shitty, shitty restaurant that gets much more credit than it deserves. [ed.–It has the tallest thermometer in the world, though, fuckers.]

Some people will tell you that if you’re going to Vegas to gamble, you’ve got to get a room. That’s just not true. Rooms are for sissies and the wealthy. They’re also pretty damn hard to find when NASCAR is in town, and Evander "Van Gogh" Holyfield is defending his belt at Mandalay Bay. This melange of contests, a veritable planetary alignment in the sports universe, spawned a culture clash of "greasers vs. socs" proportions. On one side stood the Earnhardt-mourning mulletheads, with their cans of beer and Budweiser jackets. On the other, the pomade-drenched silk suits, with their Courvoisier and pretty ladies.

We all wanted to catch a (free) glimpse of some pretty women, so we designated the Mandalay Bay as the prime objective of our early evening. After a few (losing) hands of blackjack and stiff gin and tonics at the Holiday Inn, we headed south for some premium drinks and people watching.

Dylan Nachand ’01, a staunch vodka gimlet man, found his luck early. Usually, slots are for old ladies, but Dylan found three sevens nice and quick-like, and the quarters came a fallin’. Meanwhile, the rest of us spent some time pretending to play slots so we could get complimentary drinks. Slots, coincidentally, are a great place to camp out and look for cocktail waitresses. Unfortunately, they don’t circulate around the nickel machines too much, so you’ve got to find quarter or higher slots in a central location. Ordering two at a time isn’t a bad idea, either.

Once the fight let out, we went looking for some stars. The first celebrity to catch our eye was Kyle’s neighbor, Mr. Junior Seau. He’s big, really big. John, being a ginormous boy-band fan, pointed out a couple of the fellas made famous by TV’s "Making the Band." Though we tried our damndest not to think any less of him for recognizing O-Town, there’s really no excuse for that. Otherwise, there weren’t too many famous faces, aside from one of the now-defunct Lost Boyz, so we made our way to the exit.

While the glitzy Mandalay Bay is a great place for scamming free alcohol (in real glasses!) and feeling tremendously outclassed, it’s no place for work-study students to lay down their federally-subsidized wages. So, when we caught blackjack fever again, we hit the strip in search of a low-class casino that might offer us a five-dollar table. Following Kyle’s directions to the Circus Circus, we found ourselves at the Barbary Coast, which is well worth avoiding. The drinks are weak, and the Unfrozen Caveman Bartender there has never even heard of a vodka gimlet.

We did manage, however, to protect our pocketbooks just a bit longer by hitting up some recent Pomona grads at the bar. Apparently, graduation doesn’t quell Vegas fever, as a group of seven members of the class of 2000 had found their way to viva-ville. Also apparent was the simple truth that consulting jobs pay very, very well. One of them had dropped a grand the night before, but seemed unfazed. We hung around long enough to mooch a round of drinks out of their fat wallets, and then left them to their search for a classmate-turned-stripper who was rumored to have set up shop at the Olympic Gardens Cabaret.

We wandered a couple steps North on the strip and happened upon a second or third tier casino called O’Shea’s. Once inside, things started innocently enough. Carl was about as good a blackjack dealer as you’ll find. He was quick with a joke, or a light of a smoke, and even lent a helping hand to the more intoxicated of us (read: Jorah and Dylan). Once Karl gave way to Terri, an Annie Lennox looking she-devil who lacked the humor gene, things took a drastic turn south. Terri, it seemed, was opposed to the old f-word. So much so, in fact, that when a certain red-haired member of our posse dropped the f-bomb one too many times, Terri blew a gasket and ratted us out to Susan, the pit-boss. Up until that point, we and Susan had been like peas and carrots, but after Terri’s rant she too flipped her lid and cut us off for the night.

This brings us to an important Vegas lesson, one that our compatriots had trouble grasping: you can gamble in Vegas, you can drink on the street, and you can pay two women to have sex with you, but you cannot swear in a casino. Jaywalking, we discovered, is frowned upon as well. Counterintuitive, yes, but them’s the rules.

By this point in the evening, we began to face the impending reality of the drive home. Needing some peace and quiet to sober up, we upgraded our surroundings and hatched a brilliant plan to earn a free breakfast. Now, we had been eyeing the Bellagio all night, but our poverty had kept us at a safe distance from its pearly Italian gates.

By this point it was getting on 5:00 am, so we figured some of the high-rolling tables had been reduced to $5 or $10 minimum bets. Once we had nestled ourselves into the supple leather of the Bellagio’s stools, we set our plan into action.

Now, there are several theories regarding how one can best exploit the comping system in Vegas. In our experience, we’ve found that the most effective approach is the simplest: straight up asking for free shit. Kyle played the naïve youngster role to a T, feigning inexperience and asking, "So, can you explain to me how comps work?" After that, all it took was a polite, yet sly request for a meal to ready four weary travelers for their journey home. Voila, free Bellagio brunch.

Now, there is no better way to wrap up a Vegas vacation than the Bellagio brunch. Never again will we be in a position to dine so finely. Dear God. Smoked salmon and sturgeon, crab omelets, mounds of sweet bacon, and flutes of champagne greeted the weary gamblers and their budding hangovers. Had it been any other meal, we would have been halfway to Baker by eight.

Like every drive home from Vegas, this one sucked. Kyle, guaranteeing sobriety and attentiveness, promised he could handle the whole drive on his own. He got to Primm. Thankfully, Jorah is addicted to coffee and got us home relatively safely.

As we staggered out of the car into the harsh California sun, most of us were poorer, and all of us were dumber. But we had knowledge, and we were glad to get that knowledge.