| rev:text
| - Partying at the Bottled Blonde made me feel young again.
Writing about it right now? Nothing makes me feel older.
Turning onto East Indian Plaza, I thought we'd stumbled onto the Las Vegas Strip as opposed to a downtown block in one of the top retirement cities in the country. It was - as the kids would say these days - lit.
(Spoiler alert: more embarrassing millennial lingo to follow.)
Maybe I just don't get out much anymore, but the people-watching here was the real-life equivalent to scrolling through the Explore page on Instagram. Not sure what I mean? Is that because your page is full of cute puppies and Bible quotes? Because most dudes here, their pages are definitely semi-naked IG models and dank memes. But let's be honest, it's mostly the IG models. The ones with the tight dresses, and high heels, and butt cleavage, boob cleavage, cleavage cleavage, and daddy issues, and guys from Dubai sliding into their DMs. In a nutshell, that's the clientele at Bottled Blonde - done-up party girls craving attention and a bunch of bros definitely giving it to them.
I report all of this from the safety of a roped-off VIP, where a group of us had bottle service, couches, space to dance, our own scantily clad waitress, and all the energy drinks our hyper-beating hearts desired. Basically, not like those other bro guys I mentioned at all.
But once we ventured past the ropes, the Bottled Blonde was essentially bedlam. Watching girls taking Snapchat videos while twerking on one another is amusing enough from the sidelines, but walking straight through a sea of that shit is a bit too real. There's a back wall by the bathrooms that might as well be bleachers full of sweaty bodies pouring out onto the dance floor. Should I have been a patron at this bar solely in the general standing room only area vs. our VIP table, I admit I may not have lasted very long here.
But instead, I had a blast. Sure, in hindsight, it's easy to be judgmental and dismissive and above it all. But in the moment, I embraced the cheesiness wholeheartedly and very drunkenly. That counts for something.
Bottled Blonde bills itself as a pizzeria-slash-beer garden. I didn't see any of that. I saw an indoor-outdoor, industrial club disguised as a bar and grill. The TVs were a steady stream of neon logos and blacklit bikini girls, and the music, a mix of EDM and the worst guest verses from otherwise half-decent, hip-hop songs. But with a bunch of Rockstar and vodkas in my system, I wasn't really sweating it.
Well, that and the dry desert heat helped. Great for perspiration control.
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