12:27, Grand Pool Complex, MGM Grand: We’d hoped to talk our way onto the lazy river but are not terribly disappointed when we don’t succeed, as the river is downright inert, packed with colorful tubes barely conveying rambunctious children and enervated adults. So off we go down a winding path to the day club, Wet Republic. But we can hear MGM’s “ultra pool” before we even lay eyes on it, and we turn on our heels and skedaddle back down the Strip to our hotel. You’ve seen one day club, you’ve seen them all (Calvin Harris plays on Sept. 15, if you’re interested in finding out just how “ultra” the pool gets).
4:30-ish, Marquee, the Cosmopolitan: Well, maybe not. After lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling for a while, we have concluded that we’d be remiss if we didn’t visit our own hotel’s day club, Marquee, another high roller in the pool-party scene. So we descend to the entrance, on Level 2, where an attendant takes us on a disorienting trip down a long hall, down (up?) a floor (two?) in an elevator, and through a dark, cavernous space that hosts the nightclub, all of which gives us plenty of time to gird our loins for our debut. We walk onto the pool deck just in time to witness a bronzed dude doing the “hang loose” sign as he scoots across the path of a barrel-bellied middle-aged man in an American flag swim brief emerging from the pool to dance with three young women. “I’ve got the power!” rings out in a deafening fashion from the D.J. booth as we bypass the purple lounges and matching umbrellas to find a narrow edge of a planter to perch on.
Ogling the impossibly perfect bodies and the extravagant display of assets, what becomes crystal clear (unlike the pool) is that none of this is about the pool. Writing in “Perfect Wave: More Essays on Art and Democracy,” the critic Dave Hickey, a onetime Vegas resident and gimlet-eyed champion of the city, likens the inauthenticity of the Strip (and all of Nevada, at that) to “a theatrical setting, an adaptable backdrop before which the theater of human folly is acted out.” That seems particularly apt here, as I watch the poolside players, redolent of coconut and pheromones, signal from behind mirrored sunglasses. I’m reminded of nature’s delightful courtship rituals, like that of the bird of paradise, who clears a little spot of forest floor, fluffs his bright-colored feathers and busts a jaunty little move for the ladies.
Silver streamers and seizure-inducing music washing over us, we gamely order a giant frozen something to share, in a pitiful attempt at enthusiasm. For about half an hour, we watch folks frolic and dance and toss small inflatable balls overhead. Our judginess rising in inverse proportion to our self-esteem as we balance on our sliver of concrete, we are just about ready to exit when a pool attendant approaches us, leans in close, and asks, “How many of you are there?” Seemingly relieved to hear we are not part of a larger posse, he informs us that we have been invited by Larry and Joe, of Philadelphia and Miami, to their Marquee Grand Cabana, a shaded refuge complete with comfortable lounge seating, a bikini-clad hostess and a private pool of clear, cold, circulating water. We hesitate and then take the plunge.
