The consequences of being too “Montana”
On occasion, business takes Sean and I to Vegas. Like anywhere with traffic and lots of pavement, this is not a place we would choose to go on our own accord. However, when work summons—we go.
Thus, this weekend we found ourselves at Mandalay Bay for dinner… and a few drinks… and—long story, short—met this extremely nice gentleman who had just proposed to his fiancé at the Vegas version of the Eiffel Tower. This gentleman, who I will call George, taught us about Fireball Shots (aptly named for the burning sensation in your chest for 20+ minutes afterward), and brought us along into an ice bar with his friends and fiancé, complete with rummage-sale fur coats, Russian hats, and trays of vodka shots. We hadn’t planned on meeting someone like George, so we did what anyone in Vegas would do, and we hung in his posse.
Eventually, George informed our group that it was time for “Lights Nighclub,” the highly anticipated climax of an evening in Vegas. For those who haven’t been, it’s a high intensity nightclub with the ambiance of a Cirque du Soile show… and liquor. We followed George—who was beaming because of his deluxe reservation and bottle service awaiting us at the club. We hopped in the special “table reservations” line until we heard someone address Sean, “SIR! Yes, you sir, with the beard. No sandals allowed.” Sure enough, Sean was clad in a beard, flannel shirt, gray jeans, his signature beanie… and his favorite SOLE sandals. We were turned away at the door because Sean didn’t meet the dress code expectations. #Fail #NotReallyAFail
Later that night, after we were settling down in our room, we Googled the nightclub. The website said: Dress Code: Upscale fashionable attire. We do not permit: hats, sandals, flip flops, gym shoes, shorts, oversized clothing, jeans with holes, chains, or athletic wear of any kind.
Turns out, you can take the Montana Man to Vegas, but you can’t take the Montana out of the Man… (and yes, I forced him to pose for this photo.)