Editor’s note: For the record, Vince Neil was totally sober the night I met him in Vegas. He also wasn’t a host or even a celebrity guest at the party — just a regular guy, refreshingly sans entourage and attitude. If anything I’ve said below was taken out of context (which, unfortunately, it was), I sincerely apologize.
Wow. I flew to Vegas on a private plane last week for an epic party at the Las Vegas Hilton and partied with Vince Neil, former lead singer for Motley Crue. There are details that involve cowboys and pirates and grape-stomping and body paint. Prime rib and piles of shrimp and a vodka luge. But if you’d like to stop reading now, you can. You’ve got the gist.
I’ve never flown on a private plane before, but WHAT A WAY TO GO:
AMAZING. I drove my car up to the plane. Threw in my luggage. Sat down. And took off. That was it. No one tried to touch my junk. Not even when I asked. This is what the inside looks like:
The phenomenal pilot, whom I would (and did!) trust with my life, magically fixed it so it didn’t hurt my ears at all. The views of the desert, mountains and Big Bear Lake were beautiful, and I loved talking into the headset, because I’m a huge dork. But you knew that.
We went straight from the airport to the hotel to the party. The minute I entered the VIP lounge at the Hilton, someone put a glass of champagne in my hand. (Yep, I could get used to this.)
The party is an annual event for an eclectic group of corporate and non-corporate cowboys. I’m not sure if they are a secret society, so I won’t mention them by name, but I can tell you — they know how to have a HELLUVA good time.
It all went down in the penthouse suites, three of them, each with a different theme. The pirate suite had painted beauties, and booties, see above. One room, filled with decadent desserts, featured a bed with a nearly-naked girl on it, her backside liberally sprinkled with cocoa and powdered sugar. Like a human cannoli.
It was a Kubrick movie, come to life. I half-expected a midget clown to swan in on a bicycle. But then I saw this guy, which is the next best thing:
VINCE!! “Girls, Girls, Girls” and “Kickstart My Heart” and 80s HAIR! Considering how much abuse he’s heaped upon his diminutive frame, he looks fantastic. And SWEET! He let me kiss his cheek (smooth!) and take his picture, which unleashed a torrent of female fans. I apologized, and he said, “Nah. I love it!”
I started off the night in jeans, a crazy-tight black top and stiletto-heeled booties, but after countless vodka tonics, I went back up to my room and changed into my cowboy boots. By then, I was HAMMERED.
Therefore, I only vaguely remember the vodka luge (martini), the trio of hotties in the grape-stomping tub (red wine) and the pretty Galliano girl (ill-advised coffee liqueur concoction). I finished the night with a delicious triple-decker club sandwich delivered to my room at 2am.
Like I said. I could get used to this.