I picked up Dan from his room at Bally's, at 9 p.m. Friday, where at one point he observed two very old women navigating slots.

"This is God's waiting room?" Dan said. (He's Dan Ochwat on the dotted line.)

Dan was in slacks and a jacket, a good uniform for clubbing. But we arrived late at Tao at The Venetian, and we missed the red carpet starring one person, Jason Mewes, the recovered heroin addict who played Jay in "Clerks" and "Dogma."

We were on the guest list. I talked to five pleasant guys in suits before I finally figured out which one was Guest-List Guy.

"This is exactly what I expected -- the circles they run people through," Dan said, although he added, "Special treatment does make you feel good."

I should point out Dan didn't quite get the tour of privilege and excess you might think. What Dan got was exactly the largesse a lot of hot young women get at clubs: He skipped the lines and got in free, though unlike many women, he paid for his own drinks.

So we strolled into Tao (beautiful place, good DJ, packed), and our eyes were quickly greeted by two women in lingerie lounging on a sofa thing, fondling each other but not naughtily enough to warrant trouble with the law.

"What the (expletive)?" Dan exclaimed and asked, "How often can she rub her inner thigh?" (Answer: Frequently, apparently.) "How often can you sustain acting like you're turned on?" (For eons, I guess, and likely for better money than you earn digging ditches.)

Dan loved Tao. ("Did you see the lady lying in a bathtub of rose petals?") But we had to get going, to arrive at Rok Vegas at New York-New York in time for a red carpet featuring the scheduled posing of "Brittny Gastineau and friends." Gastineau is a reality TV show actress.

Oh, you should know that Dan high-fives everyone, wherever he goes. Not in a crummy frat-guy way, but with this big-smile and childlike glee. My shock for years is no one ever turns down High-Five Dan. He comes at people and goes, "High-five!"

Dan probably high-fived 35 or 40 people Friday night. Most were young women all prettied up so as to look unapproachable. But every single one of those women smiled merrily and gave Dan the high five. This always blows me away.

So we get to New York-New York, and Dan encounters a high-five obstacle that he must bypass.

"I had to high-five a girl on the forehead because she was carrying a glass in one hand and a camera in the other -- Vegas," he said.

Then at the Rok red carpet come the stars: Gastineau; DeAnna Pappas from "The Bachelorette" (her engagement didn't work out); CariDee English (2006 winner of "America's Next Top Model"); and Heidi Cortez from the reality-TV show, "Sunset Tan."

"These are the celebrities we're waiting to see?" Dan blurted, astonished. "Time out! These aren't celebrities!"

But wait, word came suddenly that Dennis Quaid was en route with an entourage, and before you know it, there he was, surrounded by a bunch of women and a few guys. A professional photographer yelled a request for a pose, and Quaid dismissed him simply, "No," and kept dashing into the club.

Dan was highly amused.

"What a tiny old man! He snuck through like a raisin ... like they rolled him in," Dan said. "Miniature Quaid!" I still don't know what Dan has against Dennis Quaid.

We went inside Rok, a small place (boutique if you prefer), with a 360-degree video screen stretched around the walls, and everyone was dancing on the sticky floor, and servers carried bottles of booze with lighted sparklers on top of them, and we went to the unisex washroom separately.

After some beer drinking, we drove to MGM for Studio 54, where the doorman said my Studio 54 VIP card wasn't honored anymore, which is sort of hilarious in itself. Doorman Guy let us in nicely, but it was unappealing in there. A light crowd. Bad songs. Dan and I were not to be undermined in our efforts to spot the club's "celebrity" of the night: Arianny Celeste, the ring girl, or "Octagon Girl" of Ultimate Fighting Championship.

We ferreted information that she was in a VIP section upstairs, so Dan started inching his way into that section when a bouncer threw him out. Dan laughed.

"Isn't it amazing? I can hang out with Dennis Quaid, but I can't see a ring girl? There was the 'Sunset Tan' girl, and the 'Bachelorette' girl -- she was beautiful and sweet -- but they're not celebrities. And now we try to see a ring girl -- a ring card girl for UFC! -- and we can't even get near her?"

"Sorry, but we don't even know what [she] looks like. It's outrageous. This town has everything backwards."

We left while Bon Jovi's 22-year-old song, "Living on a Prayer," spun, which was fitting, since 54 that night was in need of prayer.

Finally, we made it to Pure at Caesars. I had asked in advance to be on the guest list to give Dan the tour, but we got more than that.

All these giant, friendly guys in suits walked us upstairs to the outdoor patio, then seated us at a booth next to the DJ (playing really good electronic, thankfully).

If you're familiar with the news, Pure has been in it this year for various things, including the fact that people pay hundreds of dollars for these booths.

I was freaked out when the club guys were insisting with smiles that they had open booths and it was no big deal. But I worried about journalism ethics.

After some talks, they understood and accepted my credit card for substantial money, and Dan was floored by the servers' continuously refreshing his drink, chatting with him, high-five-ing him, and supplying our own "security" guy Damian -- a big, nice dude capable of good conversation.

"This is service! Put that in your column," Dan said. His eyes lighted up. "I mean, different levels of guys with suits, walking us through, and then Damian comes over with big hands and says, 'Hello, we're here to see you.'"

"Put any man behind a private rope, and he will be elated. It's a guaranteed truth."

Dan drank. Dan danced. Dan got lost while leaving the club around 4 a.m.

I found Dan ambling around the casino floor, looking for me. There, we were approached by two women who appeared to want to exchange money for a four-letter verb/noun. One was scrawny, one wasn't. Dan obliged them only with chit-chat (he's married and not into prostitutes) and stuck to his guns until finally, after probably 20 minutes of being steadily berated by these women, Dan quietly snapped at one of them and stumbled toward the exit.

"Whoa," I said to Dan. "What happened? You were so happy and then you couldn't deal with the crack whores anymore."

"I don't know," Dan said. His eyes were a mess of red. "I gotta get to bed."

Doug Elfman's column appears on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays. Contact him at 383-0391 or e-mail him at delfman@reviewjournal.com. He also blogs at reviewjournal.com/elfman.