What, no bulk discount?

If you didn't know, my faithful reader, last Monday I returned, for the summer, to the mediocrity that is Fairfield, CA. Unlike New York, which offers innumerable things to do, interesting people to meet, and extraordinary cuisine to sample, this town provides absolutely nothing that even hints at pleasure or excitement, let alone the brazilian bbq experience to which I'm accustomed. It pains me to say it but once a Dave's burger has been vanquished, the rest of my time here will largely consist of sitting around with nothing to do.

Given such a backdrop of extreme boredom and lack of stimuli, it should come as no surprise that I've been spending a lot of time conversing with my parents for entertainment. Between "competing" for a place on a journal next year and trying to secure a job that will actually provide some legal experience, I basically sit around, talking with them about the past year at NYU and about what they've been up to since I've been gone. One notable story comes from my father, who recently celebrated a friend's birthday in Vegas. To put the story into perspective, he hasn't been to Vegas since Wynn took over and turned the place into the adult playground to which we've all become addicted (the paradigm shift took place 20 years ago, I believe).

So, we're sitting at lunch and he brings up the vodka bar at Mandalay Bay, which I am familiar with only because I've secretly alway wanted to be a patron but never had the opportunity (read: in Vegas, we drink Bud Light exclusively). Once talk of the novelty of the ice bar surface dies down, he starts to get into the more gritty details. I inquire about the price, which he replies was a bit high, but nothing astronomical. This question ultimately leads to what I found to be a fairly hilarious anecdote.

Apparently, at some point in the night, the bartender, seeing that these old guys don't have a clue and surmising that they might just be naive enough to go for it, offers them bottle service. Now, to my dad, the concept of bottle service was totally unheard of, and, accordingly, the guys presumed that the bartender's offer was a friendly overture and something worth taking advantage of. One of their posse immediately goes to work calculating the per-shot cost of the bottle, genuinely expecting this manner of ordering to offer a substantial "bulk discount" off the normal one-drink-at-a-time methodology. Once the math comes to its conclusion and bewilderment spread across their collective faces, they remark to the bartender that, in fact, no such bulk discount is reflected in the price. "What gives, Mr. Bartender?"

At this point that the bartender explains that bottle service will grant them access to a special table and "get them noticed," exactly what these men were trying to avoid at all costs (especially exorbitant ones). Of course, they politely decline the bottle and continue doing things the old-fashioned way.

Now, honestly, I don't know why I find this scenario so humorous, but I guess the image of my Dad being offered bottle service, a completely new concept to him outside of the Costco context, upsets my expectations of reality enough to elicit mild laughter (and thus deserves top billing on this website). Plus, this anecdote serves to highlight the differences in our respective lives -- and explains why he can function just fine in Fairfield while I am immediately struck with an intense lack of purpose and meaning.