Vegas Chronicles Part 3: Last Night We Let the Liquor Talk
Featuring cowboy chaos, stadium drinks made of jet fuel, and my boyfriend thriving socially while Bestie contemplated homicide.
Readers, let me say this:
The Morgan Wallen concert was absolutely amazing.
The energy? Insane.
The crowd? A full-blown country music fever dream.
My boyfriend? Somehow transformed from emo eyeliner prince into full country cowboy while still dressed like he was one minor inconvenience away from joining a 2007 Warped Tour lineup.
It was magical. It was chaotic. It was loud. It was Vegas, which means at least three things happened that probably need their own legal disclaimer.
We arrived at Allegiant Stadium a little before 4 p.m., because apparently we are now the kind of people who show up early and pretend we have our lives together. They weren’t letting people in until around 5 or 5:30, or at least that’s what we were told, so we wandered around for a bit before finally getting in line.
We had floor seats, so thankfully we did not need to enter the pit line Hunger Games. And listen, I love the pit at smaller venues. I do. There is something special about being smashed against strangers while everyone screams lyrics and pretends personal space is a myth. But at a venue the size of Allegiant Stadium? Absolutely not. That is no longer a pit. That is a population event.
Our floor seats, however? Absolutely elite. Perfect. Gorgeous. Worth every single second of Bestie’s obsessive planning. We were right before the pit area started, and when Morgan Wallen came out onto the extended stage, we had the kind of view that temporarily makes you forget society exists. Like suddenly all your problems disappear because there is a country singer ten feet away and 65,000 people screaming in emotional support unison.
Anyway, for those who are new here, I need you to understand something very important about Craig.
Craig is a flirt.
He calls it “being friendly.” Bestie and I call it flirting because we have eyes and basic comprehension skills.
Bestie, as you may have gathered by now, hates people. Not in a casual way. In a committed, lifestyle-brand kind of way. I usually stick with Bestie because I also have a complicated relationship with humanity. Some days I love people. Some days I would rather be sealed inside a soundproof room with iced coffee and no expectations. It really depends on my caffeine level, my shoe comfort, and how many strangers have tried to talk to me before noon.
Craig, however, is the opposite.
Craig will wander off and make friends with anyone. Anyone. Standing in line? New best friends. Waiting for food? New life story unlocked. Sitting near strangers? He now knows where they’re from, what they do for work, how long they’ve been married, their favorite drink, their childhood trauma, and whether or not they believe in ghosts.
Sometimes he tells us he is going to invite them back to our hotel room later. He usually doesn’t. But he threatens it, and honestly, that is stressful enough.
So, naturally, while we were waiting, Craig made friends with the two women standing in front of us. They were dressed perfectly for the occasion in cute little cowgirl outfits, fully committed to the Morgan Wallen aesthetic while I was standing there watching my boyfriend flirt with strangers like he was running for mayor of Allegiant Stadium.
Their names were April and Margerie, and they had flown in from Montana I believe for the concert. They were having the time of their lives in Vegas, which means of course Craig needed their entire backstory immediately. Where were they from? How long were they staying? Was this their first time in Vegas? Were they excited? Did they know they were about to be adopted by a very confusing man in eyeliner?
And then, because Craig cannot simply have a normal conversation like a regular citizen, somehow we fast-forwarded into him talking about his youth.
Specifically, twelve-year-old Craig.
Apparently, when Craig was twelve, he was holding hands with girls and flirting with them because he did not yet realize that flirting with boys was also an option available to him in the grand buffet of life.
Readers.
When I tell you this explained Craig as a person with terrifying accuracy.
There he was, standing in line for Morgan Wallen, telling two sweet women from Montana that as a child he was flirting with girls because he had not yet discovered the full menu. And these poor women just had to stand there and witness Craig in the wild, completely unfiltered, running on concert excitement and whatever mysterious battery powers him.
To their credit, they handled it beautifully.
Were they confused? Almost certainly.
Were they trying to figure out if he was gay, flirting with them, married, available, unavailable, or simply some kind of luxury hotel cryptid in eyeliner? Also yes.
And honestly, fair.
Craig does come off confusing. We do not help clarify. That is not our ministry. You just get him as he is: confusing, gay, flirting, married, friendly, chaotic, and somehow still charming enough that people don’t immediately walk away.
All of the above can be true.
And usually is.
Anyway, around 5:30 they finally started letting us into the stadium and naturally the very first thing we did was what we ALWAYS do at concerts: Get alcohol.
Readers, at this point I genuinely think the three of us suffer from selective amnesia because EVERY SINGLE TIME we do this. Every time. We walk up to the drink stand fully aware those giant stadium cocktails are approximately 12% mixer, 88% jet fuel, and somehow seventy dollars each and yet we still hand over the credit card like brave little soldiers marching into battle.
You would think after years of concert adventures we would learn moderation.
We do not.
We never do.
Because what happens every single time is this: we start off civilized. Responsible. Mature adults simply enjoying a beverage before the show. Then somewhere around drink number two the concert high kicks in, everyone is screaming lyrics, the lights start flashing, and suddenly the three of us are one minor inconvenience away from becoming a viral TikTok captioned:“Three emotionally unstable adults removed from stadium after arguing over chicken tenders.”
Usually Craig is the biggest threat to public stability but still. We ALL participate in the bad decisions. And yet we continue the tradition every single concert like it is legally required.
Of course since we had barely eaten anything besides breakfast, we also needed food before the alcohol completely dissolved our remaining common sense. Bestie found himself some wrap situation that looked vaguely healthy and responsible while Craig and I got nachos because apparently our bodies were craving melted cheese and sodium.
And honestly?
Those nachos slapped.
Concert food is either the worst thing you’ve ever eaten or somehow the greatest culinary experience of your life because you’re mildly drunk and emotionally overstimulated. There is no in between.
Anyway, the opening acts started around 6:30.
Gavin Adcock and Vincent Mason went first. They were good! I hadn’t really heard their music before, but they definitely had the crowd going and I found myself adding mental notes to look them up later because apparently this concert has now turned me into someone who casually explores new country artists.
Then came Thomas Rhett.
Now Readers, let me explain something. I already knew he probably was not going to sing Craig and my song, which is “What Could Go Right” with Lanie Gardner because apparently the universe refuses to revolve around me specifically. Rude honestly.
BUT.
He did surprise me when he sang “Heads Carolina.”
Which, for the historical record, I DID NOT KNOW HE WROTE.
Apparently Cole Swindell sings it, Thomas Rhett wrote it, and I learned this information in real time inside Allegiant Stadium while slightly tipsy holding nachos.
Educational experiences come in many forms.
But truly, Thomas Rhett was such a good opening act. Great energy. Great stage presence. The crowd loved him. He sang for about an hour and honestly did a fantastic job warming everyone up for the absolute chaos that was about to unfold.
Then around 9:30: Morgan Wallen came out.
Readers. The place LOST ITS MIND. I am talking screaming. Phones everywhere. Drinks flying in the air. Thousands of people suddenly acting like they had been spiritually summoned to this exact moment since birth.
And he was GOOD.
Like genuinely good.
He sang until nearly midnight and somehow kept the energy up the entire time. He sounded amazing from where we were sitting on the floor. Apparently the sound quality higher up in the stadium was rough because later I saw TikToks from people in upper sections and yeah. Not great. Honestly I felt bad because those tickets still cost a small fortune and people at minimum deserve to actually hear the man singing.
But down where we were?
Perfect.
He sang ALL the songs too.
He sang “I’m The Problem,” which is basically Bestie and my unofficial anthem at this point because honestly? Accurate.
Then he sang “Last Night We Let the Liquor Talk,” which is absolutely Craig and my song considering our entire relationship basically began because we let the liquor talk and then accidentally caught feelings in the middle of the chaos.
So really that song feels less like music and more like a legally binding historical document.
Meanwhile Craig was absolutely thriving during “Cowgirls.” Full vibes. Full dancing. Full pretending he knew choreography that did not exist.
And that is one of my favorite things about him at concerts honestly.
Even when he doesn’t know a song, he commits to the experience with the confidence of a man who personally wrote the album himself. Dancing. Singing random wrong lyrics. Hyping everyone around him up. Making friends with strangers mid song. Existing purely on joy and alcohol and vibes.
He is so much fun to experience life with.
I love that ridiculous man.
Anyway Readers, I unfortunately need to stop here because contrary to popular belief I DO occasionally sleep and I wildly underestimated how long this story would become.
THIS IS NOT A CLIFFHANGER ON PURPOSE.
I genuinely thought I could fit the entire night into one post but then I remembered the after-concert portion involved a stadium crowd, In-N-Out at 1 a.m., and enough alcohol-fueled nonsense to require its own chapter.
And trust me, remember those drinks.
Keep them in the back of your mind.
Because they absolutely come back to haunt all three of us later.
For the historical record, I think I had two drinks. Bestie had somewhere between two and three. Craig had honestly? Three? Four? Enough that his volume and bladder control disappeared entirely by the end of the night.
Which is how we somehow ended up at In-N-Out at 1 a.m. making terrible decisions under fluorescent lighting like the emotionally unstable Vegas tourists we were born to be.
Goodnight Readers.