fooled by mgm grand. west wing = boo.

The MGM Grand website describes its West Wing rooms as "sleek," "stylish" and "modern." It reminds you there's a Bose radio in here. I'll describe my West Wing room as "tiny," feeling like a "space-age coffin," and equipped with a "broken telephone." And I'd like to remind you there's no fucking bathtub in here.

That's not to say that a weekend at the MGM was a total wash, or that a stay in the West Wing was uncomfortable. But in the pantheon of recently remodeled, modernized hotel rooms on the Strip, these are particularly unimpressive, especially since the rates for this weekend were about the same for a room in the Grand Tower of the same resort. The high points were the big robo-shower, a cozy bed and quick access to Las Vegas Boulevard without having to tromp through the entire casino (particularly important since we were back-and-forthing it to the Monte Carlo for two days). A room service order of bacon cheeseburger and Asian chicken salad at 3 a.m. was delicious but not easy to fully enjoy without enough space to afford the rolling food cart. Another low point was walking into the room for the first time and being greeted by the toilet before all else. "Design rules," says the website. Ha.

The West Wing bar (pictured) should have been a cool urban haven between the walkabouts, but in the daytime, thanks to the red glass doors that lead from here to the ultra-tacky Grand Canyon Experience mega-gift shop next door, this bar is where tired fat people go to die. The sandals-with-socks crowd, no doubt exhausted from Strip walking, sneak in here to find comfy couches and it's all over. Needless to say, this is not what you want to see when you come off the elevator, on the way to dinner, looking for a nice hip drinkhole. Fix this, MGM. All it takes is a big broom.

Elsewhere on the property, margaritas, taquitos, salsas and queso fundido are top-flight at Diego, the pink and somewhat forgotten restaurant at the back of the Studio Walk. Even better is the fried egg, bacon and bleu cheese sandwich at Wichcraft, one of the best hangover meals ever consumed. And the pool -- or more appropriately, collection of pools littered with spiked Slurpee distribution centers -- should get a good grade as well, even though there weren't enough spaces to lounge on Sunday. Despite this being the opening weekend for dayclub Wet Republic, the douchebaggery was minimal. With that egg sandwich in your guts, perfect spring sunshine on your body, and an orange frozen mess tasting of rum and mint in your hand, you really can't complain. The MGM has plenty to offer, but next time I'm sampling I'll get a suite.