"We are THE bar," Shawn says. "There's definitely a scene here and one that seems to get younger and younger as the night goes on, but it is still a come-as-you-are kind of place."

At that moment, I'd collected my wits again and was watching sports on one of the plasma screens above the bar. I was clearing my head with a Raspberry Lemon Drop, the specialty of the house, while plugging quarters into a video poker machine-a classy flat screen that seemed to meld into the cherry wood bar.

It's slouching toward the dinner hour and I'm between plans, but hardly without possibilities for action.

I case the lounge-1980s old school rock on the system, some conventioneers lost in their Grey Goose tonics at the bar, a lanky lady in a quiet, cushy corner receiving stolen caresses from her khaki-clad lover, and those waitresses in black skin dresses, free and friendly at this off hour to volley humor and exchange an honest gaze.

A tangy drink in a Martini glass arrives all cherry red and ice white and tasting like rain on a hot day-Citron Vodka, Cointreau, a splash of sour, a spritz of 7 UP, Chambord for color, and a ribbon of rock sugar around the rim. I'm definitely going again now, conversing with folks, taking in charged zaps with each sip. Seems after just one long swig, I'm on the road to discovery and a few new friends.

Nine Fine Irishmen at
New York-New York
When I need a place to play it down for awhile, I go to The Strip's friendly, neighborhood, rowdy, classical New York Irish pub right here in Vegas. Would you believe, complete with stuffed moosehead trophies and a taxidermied vulpine or porcine here and there to make one feel right at home. Staff tending three floors of warm, wooded cubby holes and living room bars serves up Guinness and Bass on tap while spinning tales in a convincing brogue. Those whose Irish eyes are something less than real bring service and skills that can put anyone at ease in this strange juxtaposition of Vegas, Dublin and New York.

I suddenly crave some corned beef and mashed potatoes-a taste that has not graced my thoughts for more years than it took the Emerald Isle to break away from English rule. But I succumb to the fish and chips-more of a bad boy's dinner drenched in beer batter, doused in balsamic vinegar and served in a broadsheet from this week or last next to a tower of fries. My table this time is away from the crowds-or above them-on an airy terrace overlooking The Strip, across from the animated marquee at MGM Grand.

I down my pint thinking about the Nine Fine-Irish guerillas of the mid-19th century who fought for their land, their women and their beliefs, went to prison for it all, lived to tell the tale-indeed, to become philosophical and political leaders of their time. I nearly order the Nine Fine Irishman specialty drink that is their namesake, combining Junipero Gin, Cointreau, pineapple juice, Strega Liqueur, Cherry Heering, and grenadine-guaranteed to grow hair on your chest if not to stir your hot blood.

Alas, instead, I order a whisky pudding that shows what a fruitcake can do. It's going to be a long night. I figure I need whatever comforts can be crammed into it, such as the waiter's lyrical priest jokes delivered with just the right lilt.