Celebs, DJs, bikinis just another day at clubs

A VIP cocktail server brought us our inaugural set of drinks backstage, some concoction of blueberries and I-don't-know-what-because-who-cares. Booze is booze.

If you've never seen a VIP cocktail server at Encore Beach Club: Norm Macdonald has a joke that if you're the hottest woman in Des Moines, Iowa, they'll build a statue in your honor, but if you move to Vegas, you're a cocktail waitress.

Despite societal cliches, there were no drugs backstage, no weirdness, no drama. Hunter S. Thompson would throw a fit at how routinely controlled dayclubs are, generally.

Backstage was business class -- a camerawoman, publicists and managers for DJs and nightclubs, and cocktail waitresses in little bikinis.

In front of the stage, thousands of day clubbers skirted the pool and pumped fists to the sounds of DJ Pete Tong. Women backed their bikinis up to men's groins. Rituals had begun.

I ventured into the crowd. I took a photo of a woman's bikini rear for Twitter. When she noticed me, she started grinding it, to give me a finer camera angle. Nice of her.

A few unfamous VIPs strolled in backstage. One VIP brought a friend, a young dermatologist from Augusta, Ga., and the doctor's eyes bugged at the glam of it all.

I asked the doctor for a medical opinion of hot clubbers. He was happy everyone seemed to wear sunscreen and was in great shape. He didn't think anyone was anorexic or sickly looking.

The Black Eyed Peas' will.i.am walked in, not accompanied by a large entourage of hangers-on. Insiders said they were glad to see him, because he's always nice. He was.

George Maloof walked in. He was nice.

Tall models walked in. They were nice but not as pretty as cocktailers.

Kaskade arrived with his wife. They were nice. There wasn't a prima donna to be found.

Kaskade replaced Tong onstage as the headliner. Clubbers went into a frenzy for him. We VIPs walked to the front of the stage to listen to him spin the hits. The crowd smelled like a suntan lotion factory.

DJ Deadmau5, unannounced, jumped onstage with Kaskade to rile up fans then disappeared.

I was told the porn star Jenna Jameson and her man Tito Ortiz were holed up in a cabana on the other side of the club. A few of us footed over to say hi.

When we got there, a large security gent in a yellow shirt demanded to know who I was. He let me stay, but I didn't want to infringe on Jenna and Tito's Labor Day Sunday, so after a gorgeous woman chatted me up until she realized I wasn't VIP enough for her, I walked back to the stage.

A mate and I decided we should race over to Marquee Dayclub to see Fatboy Slim as DJ. So we rode to The Cosmopolitan and got escorted backstage in time to see Fatboy wave farewell to an adoring crowd.

It was even crazier at Marquee. In the dancing pool were many lady legs wrapped around guy waists, and women embracing each other tightly.

Men and women stared at each other with the intensity one imagines cavemen and cavewomen employed while coupling before winter.

I pointed my camera at a woman and she blew me kisses. I pointed my camera at another woman and she shook her butt at my lens. So accommodating.

My comrade and I were expected back at Encore Beach Club, so we returned to Encore, where Kaskade finished performing, and the crowd thinned after 7 p.m.

It wasn't a day of wretched debauchery or quotable quotes. Sorry for the blase account.

It was just five hours of flirting, hugging, conversations about DJs, staring at cocktailers, and sharing naked cellphone photos of semicelebrities -- the usual time capsule.

Doug Elfman's column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Contact him at delfman@reviewjournal.com. He blogs at reviewjournal.com/elfman.