The Hangover Suite at Caesar’s Palace is the stuff of newly minted legend. Sure I’d go to a party there, and it didn’t matter whose. The soundtrack of a good time played on the other side of two grand doors. And when those doors opened unto me, I entered the funniest paradox I’d ever seen: A dank-basement, college-party happening in the most beautiful multileveled, balconied, Strip-viewed, chandeliered luxury suite ever.
Overturned plastic cups and an abandoned game of beer pong cluttered the fabulous living room. Just like a normal house party, the bacchanalia grew more risqué as it receded into the suite’s two bedrooms and, eventually, bathrooms. The suspiciously young attendees passed the beer collection plate around while my grown-up friends and I visited the casino bar downstairs.
Of course, the inevitable scourge of hidden house parties: It started as a whisper ... The cops are coming! Security is walking past! A swirling buzz, until the guy who won the suite in a radio contest shooed people away. A rush of action, as guilty parties fled for the doors (one on level 68 and the other on 69). Then, the inevitable second announcement, that the coast is clear: “Everybody just chill. We just gotta keep things quiet. Be quiet and we can all stay, okay?”
When a 21-year-old hit on me and then was shocked at my age, I knew it was time to go. Either way, I’m happy to report that the Hangover Suite lived up to its name, in both luxury and hijinks.