Nicktales is all about the weird, awkward, borderline David Lynch-esque situations one can find themselves in when indulging in our line of work, and of course, my own social faux pas will be a big part of the Nicktales experience. For the first episode of Nicktales, I present...
"Journey to the Dimension of the Rich"
There's been a long standing truce between myself and the night club scene. I stay away from them, they stop egging my mother's house, everybody wins. When it comes to swanky nightclubs, I always felt the overwhelming sense that everybody knows I just shouldn't be there. I'm never prepared, I don't usually own slacks, and in the event that I AM, for one reason or another in posession of a pair of slacks, whenever the time of need rears its promises-of-socially-awkward-moments head, they're nicely crumpled into the smallest ball in which they can continue to exist as "slacks" on the bottom of the pile of clothes I never wear that lines the floor of my closet.
So of course, when I drive out to Vegas with my producer to shoot a reality pilot involving an ex playboy model turned interior decorator to the stars, I neglected to even look for the crumpled wad of "pants?" in the depths of no man's land.
We get out there, we do the shoot, everybody's happy, the footage looks great, the content works out very well, and we are all ready to kick back and celebrate. It also happens to be the executive producer's birthday, so of course -- things are going to get out of control. It's just a question of how much and who will lead the charge?
The woman we came to shoot happens to be personal friends with the owner of Caesar's, and reserves us a couch in the VIP section at Pure, the night club attached to the casino. Now, I'm no club aficionado, but even I know Pure is supposed to be the hotness.
Of course, now I've got to do the pants dance and go buy some overpriced slacks from the hotel mall in hopes of being able to return them the next day because I'm pretty sure the VIP night club lifestyle ain't gonna be following me back to California, and my need for slacks will be reduced to the usual two times a year.
So, Pure...
First off, this place looks like they hired Apple to design it. Everything is white, which I assume lends to the real mind stretch of a name "Pure." I think they probably paid Steve Jobs to come in and "bless" the walls with his own, personal brand of Apple-CEO holy water (which we'll just refer to as "Apple juice") so it could even smell like Apple (because we all know Apple juice smells like success, PURE success)!
We get in and sit down. Motioning to the throngs of dancing people below, I lean over to my producer and jokingly whisper "Heh, I bet they all know I don't belong here." I look at this place like I'm in the fourth dimension. The things these people worry about in their lives, their concerns, trials, tribulations (if there are any), all revolve around things I could never understand... I could put money down that at least one person in this place owns or has access to a jet pack.
So of course, when I drive out to Vegas with my producer to shoot a reality pilot involving an ex playboy model turned interior decorator to the stars, I neglected to even look for the crumpled wad of "pants?" in the depths of no man's land.
We get out there, we do the shoot, everybody's happy, the footage looks great, the content works out very well, and we are all ready to kick back and celebrate. It also happens to be the executive producer's birthday, so of course -- things are going to get out of control. It's just a question of how much and who will lead the charge?
The woman we came to shoot happens to be personal friends with the owner of Caesar's, and reserves us a couch in the VIP section at Pure, the night club attached to the casino. Now, I'm no club aficionado, but even I know Pure is supposed to be the hotness.
Of course, now I've got to do the pants dance and go buy some overpriced slacks from the hotel mall in hopes of being able to return them the next day because I'm pretty sure the VIP night club lifestyle ain't gonna be following me back to California, and my need for slacks will be reduced to the usual two times a year.
So, Pure...
First off, this place looks like they hired Apple to design it. Everything is white, which I assume lends to the real mind stretch of a name "Pure." I think they probably paid Steve Jobs to come in and "bless" the walls with his own, personal brand of Apple-CEO holy water (which we'll just refer to as "Apple juice") so it could even smell like Apple (because we all know Apple juice smells like success, PURE success)!
We get in and sit down. Motioning to the throngs of dancing people below, I lean over to my producer and jokingly whisper "Heh, I bet they all know I don't belong here." I look at this place like I'm in the fourth dimension. The things these people worry about in their lives, their concerns, trials, tribulations (if there are any), all revolve around things I could never understand... I could put money down that at least one person in this place owns or has access to a jet pack.
My own fish out of water experience aside, the bottles continue to come and my cup never sees the bottom until I'm completely sloshed, and I find myself dancing with this interior design chick on top of the couches in the VIP section. Now before I get the part of the story worth telling, Please allow me to describe the VIP section for you all.
1) It's elevated for the purposes of putting the celebrities that party there on display, so EVERYONE in the club can see you.
2) Each section has a three-tiered couch that is fun to dance on when you're drunk.
3) Each of these sections are separated by a curtain, which looks as though it may have a short wall behind it, a grave misconception on my part.
The interior designer excuses herself to the bathroom, and I decide that I'd like to lean against my friend, the wall. Only, when I went to lean back... there was no wall. My friend had deserted me when I needed him the most!
All of a sudden, to the chagrin of those below, 230 pounds of Nick Harris comes crashing down on 3 unsuspecting, but apparently "very important" people (since I must assume that I am of a small percentage of nerds that manage to penetrate the barriers of the VIP dimension).
The world slowed, and I was witness to a wonderful display of pure whiteness bathed in blue-hued light, as the curtains came fluttering down around me, arms stretched out in helpless, disoriented confusion.
When the dust cleared, and I had my wits about me once more, there were three unhappy people underneath me, and my benefactors helping me out of the pure-womb that I'd only just begun to know.
I had managed to rip a majority of the curtain rails out of the ceiling. Apparently their construction team didn't take into account unimportant-proofing their important people cage.
So of course, by the end of the night, the whole club was very much aware that I was just a visitor in their world, but guess what? I didn't caaaaaaaare, I was hammered! So i stood back up, had a good laugh at my own expense, and probably pointed it out to more people than had actually even noticed... it became somewhat of a badge of honor I suppose.
That's all, I destroyed the VIP section at a rich people place and I find that amusing. I guess I could have just said that from the beginning and spared the 7 of you who read this the 3 minutes i stole from your life. Sorry!
Until next time...
-Nick
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