The Hangover: A Caesars Palace Odyssey

You know you’re in for trouble the minute you set foot in Caesars Palace. There’s so much marble, gold, and fake Roman glory that it feels like the world’s fanciest fever dream. Even the act of checking in is a dare: Here are your keys, now go make some bad decisions. We accepted the challenge with gusto. That first night? We strolled through the lobby dripping with confidence and probably a little sweat, loudly befriending strangers just because we could. By the time I found myself perched on the edge of a grand fountain, drink in hand, surrounded by statues that looked more judgmental than any actual Roman emperor, I knew Vegas was about to put us through the wringer.

The Strip at night is pure, neon-fueled chaos. Every doorway is leaking music, every crowd is celebrating nothing and everything, and I’m pretty sure we set a world record for making friends with strangers. At some point I grabbed a guitar, threw on sunglasses in the dark, and convinced myself I was rockstar material. Confidence was high and inhibitions were suspiciously absent. Shows, feathers, dancers, everyone was touching everyone’s shoulders like we’d all known each other since birth. We hit every bar and club that would let us in, and after a certain hour, shots stopped bothering with glasses and went straight to the source. It felt like the whole city was one massive party and we had just appointed ourselves the hosts.

There’s a blurry stretch where my memory gives up, but the photos fill in the blanks. We went hard at the craps table, shouting and cheering as if we actually understood how the game worked. At some point, I decided the felt looked comfy enough to nap on, and nobody seemed to care. Later, I’m pretty sure someone tattooed me, which explains a lot about the next morning. But let’s be honest, the real magic trick was waking up in our suite to the world’s most aggressive sunlight, a room that looked like it had been ransacked by pirates, and the distinct, metallic taste of regret. Phil was yelling about his tooth, Stu looked like he’d aged a decade, and Doug, well, Doug was missing. And then, just to drive the point home, there was a tiger in our bathroom. A real, living, massive tiger. At that moment, I wasn’t even scared, just impressed by our commitment to chaos.

If you think Vegas is wild at night, try stumbling through it the next morning with a hangover and a missing friend. The sun strips all the glamour away, leaving only blinking machines, chain-smoking zombies, and the creeping suspicion that you might be wanted for something. We pieced together the previous night like amateur sleuths: hospitals, police cars (that may or may not have been ours), and the bombshell revelation that Stu was now married, legally, to a stripper. There was panic, obviously, but also these moments of delirious laughter. Vegas collapses time, making everyone feel both temporary and permanent, like you could vanish in a slot machine and no one would question it. One moment I’m arm-in-arm with an older lady at the slots, grinning like we’ve been partners in crime for years. The next, I’m asleep under something heavy or frozen in the back of a car with two women kissing my cheeks, my drink untouched as my soul leaves my body. There was even a monkey smoking nearby, cool as you please.

Eventually, the clues led us back to Caesars and all the way up to the roof. There stood Doug, alive, furious, and sunburned to a crisp. I don’t think I’ve ever felt relief like that in my life. Suddenly, all the insanity, the tiger, the tooth, the tattoo, the baby, faded into the background. We flipped through our photos later, howling at the evidence of our one epic, unfiltered night. Vegas didn’t just hand us wild stories. It gave us holes in our memory and then kindly provided the receipts. Would I ever do this again? Not a chance. But am I glad we did it? Absolutely. Sometimes the best stories are the ones you can barely remember.