PURCHASED CARGO Junketeers (Photo: Rachel Sklar)

What's cooler than a whirlwind all-expenses trip to Vegas on a chartered JetBlue party plane that welcomes you with a sick gift bag, plus a delicious chicken-and-guacamole sandwich? Why, one that includes a surprise visit to Rochester and three fun-filled extra hours of airplane time, of course! I'm referring to this weekend's Thrillist JetVegas 36-hour sojourn to Vegas for an overnight at the Mirage, two semiprivate parties, many free drinks, and as much money as you could lose at the casino. Of course, what happens in Vegas is far less likely to stay in Vegas when you go with a planeload of people, and that plane includes bloggers (FishbowlNY, Gawker, HuffPo), TV types (Fox, NY1, ABC), and print hacks (New York Daily News, Time Out New York, and/or Star, depending on what Julia Allison was doing there, other than flashing nipple. But we'll get to that).

The plane—with nary an empty seat—held 150 affluent New York media-and-advertising types, probably the last people who needed a gift bag stuffed with Hugo Boss products, Skyy vodka, Gillette shampoo and deodorant freebies (and not one but two razors, which sailed right over the head of the TSA), some sort of puzzle that reeeaally looked like handcuffs, Alka-Seltzer, and a Zune preloaded with videos (which still didn't do much for the Mac users in the bunch). The plane climbed, the alcohol flowed; still, the biggest cheer that went up was for the announcement that there was a wireless signal on board. Wooo! Party plane!

Actually, the party atmosphere was short-lived, because less than an hour after takeoff the news came over the seatback TVs that Tim Russert had died. TVs flipped instantly to CNN and FOX; MSNBC wasn't offered, and after Tom Brokaw's newsbreak on NBC, they went back to golf. A few hours later, an unscientific survey conducted via walking up and down the aisle showed about one in five TV screens still tuned to the news. This explains my schizophrenic notes, with side-by-side entries like, "He will be missed as he was loved—greatly," "He had so much to teach," and, "Why aren't people taking their tops off?"

But this was the Vegas party plane, after all, and attention had to be paid to that, too. JetBlue's self-described "den mother," Fiona Morrison, took over the PA system, in what would become the familiar Aussie-accented voice of JetBlue, delivering still more freebies via random seat-number draw. The crowd, clearly struggling to make ends meet, woohooed accordingly. Prizes included an Equinox membership (which was won by the NYDN's Sean Evans in 3E, who prefers not to be photographed, thanks; Evans declined the prize); a Dos Equis tracksuit (and duffel bag!) for HuffPo's Verena von Pfetten in 3D; a Mile High Kit ("Please use it on another airline") for lucky Scott Morin in 21A, who was later spied with a beer label stuck to his forehead; and $1,000 cash to spend at the casino for Chris Kooluris from Ketchum PR. They also gave away two tickets to Ireland on Aer Lingus (I wasn't sitting near the College Humor boys, but I'd bet on a pun), and a "jewel-encrusted iPod Touch," possibly the silliest jewel-encrusted item ever.

So, who were these people? Well, first off, there were the Thrillist boys. Yes, the company—which sends guy-themed e-mails to guys about guy things, targeted separately for five cities—employs some women, but it's essentially a company for boys by boys. Sorry, men—but as a group of guys clustered in the back of the plane hoisting drinks, wearing shades, and allowing their muscles to ripple freely in appropriately weatherbeaten T-shirts, they're boys. Well-groomed boys, to be sure—if you doubt, look no further than the contents of the gift bag (only one mini Skyy vodka, but two mini shampoos and deodorants, and Oil-Control Face Wash and Body Wash). Before continuing, allow me to disclose my affiliation: I shared office space with this strapping lot for about eight months (cofounder Ben Lerer is the son of my boss at the Huffington Post, Ken Lerer). So, also, I was contractually prohibited from looking at them as men.

Onward! In addition to the Thrillist boys, here's a partial list of attendees, including those whom you can angrily berate for betraying the bedrock principles of journalism: CNET's Caroline McCarthy; her boyfriend, Tumblr founder David Karp; Gawker's Richard Blakeley, well-known for his stringent moral code; Time Out New York/Star magazine's Julia Allison; her boyfriend, ImInLikeWithYou founder Charles Forman, who will be more careful with that camera next time; FishbowlNY's Glynnis MacNicol; HuffPo's Verena von Pfetten; Coolhunting's Josh Rubin and Evan Oreston; Shawn Sachs of Sunshine Sachs; Jack Savage of Fox News; Adam Klappholz of Vanity Fair, whose name we are very likely to make a pun about at some point; Ben Hudson of the Onion, who takes the game of Celebrity very seriously; Streeter Seidell and Pete Callas of College Humor; the New York Post's Brian Niemietz, Christopher Bunting, and the thrice-named Justin Rocket Silverman; CNN's Emily Anderson; NY1's Jessica Steiner (who noted immediately that she was there as a friend of Thrillist, not for NY1); fashion designer Steve Alan (née Grossman); plus people from Mediapost, Mediavest, Mediacom, and various and sundry PR firms.

But if you think this was just a flying media party that took it to the next level, you're wrong—because there were people on board whose only connection to media was entering the "Win a Trip to Vegas!" contest somewhere online. That accounted for about 40 people, according to Lerer and his partner, Adam Rich—half from Thrillist and the other half from its media partners Men's Health, Yelp, Metro NY, the Onion, GenArt, and JDate. That last one was most relevant for Robyn and Kingsley—seats 20A and 20B—who were on the first date of a lifetime, thanks to modern technology and membership in the Tribe. As the occupant of 20D, I can report that they were getting along swimmingly on the ride over; unfortunately, they weren't speaking on the trip back. According to Pilarski, he fudged his age, which was a turnoff (oh, JDate!); also, he said he played craps, but did not, in fact, play craps. Sacrilege! Dates that go sour in Vegas stay in Vegas, I guess. Pilarski's not complaining, though; turns out she won big at craps. "The truth is I was way more into the money I won at the craps table than any of the men I met on this trip," she said. Rowe declined to comment on where the date when wrong, saying only, "I had a blast in Las Vegas and she was fabulous company."

Which brings us to Vegas itself—the raison d'etre for the trip, insofar as it was the promo for the launch of Thrillist Vegas (365 new ways to debauch, or look good doing it!). Actually, the most singular aspect of the trip was the flying party plane part—though it's not often you get to do the walk of shame indoors over a bridge, past a waterfall, and through a casino. Or maybe you do, I wouldn't presume to know about your personal life. According to Lerer, our rooms at the Mirage were courtesy of a JetBlue partnership with them; still, the minibar was expensive (and sensor-operated, so if you removed that Diet Coke just to see if it looked as good in your hand, you bought it). But other than that, the night's two parties—one at poolside bar Bare, the other at Marquee-type nightclub Jet—could well have been anywhere in the Hamptons. That goes for Julia Allison's nipple, I suppose. (Just kidding, they only escaped the confines of her daringly cut, hot pink dress three times.) We were all given a wristband for access to events, which made me feel very cool until the dealer at my roulette table made fun of me for it. (Me, pulling out a $20: "Bet you've never seen a bill as big as this before." Him: "I could tell you were a high roller just from your wristband.")

Otherwise, it was a night like any other, as far as I could tell: VIP room, check; bottle service, check; fancy dinner of guacamole and chips, check; Vodka throat-pouring, check; dancing on banquettes, check; girl-on-girl make-out, check; dance floor grinding, check; drunken bride-to-be with condoms sewn into her veil, check; nerdy reporter-type taking photos of everyone with the flash seeming really, really bright, check, check, check. FYI: If you are looking to hook up with someone in Vegas, that's not the way to go. Then the Thrillist boys (and girls) piled into a waiting limo and Escalade and took off for Dre for the after-after-party. I'm not sure, but the bride-to-be may have been with them.

The adventure should have been over there—please, we were all exhausted and hungover and there was no food for the return flight—but no, harsh weather in New York forced our plane to Rochester, aka the after-after-after-party. Alas, no alcohol may be served once the plane is grounded, so everyone was out of luck. Or should I say, people at the front of the plane were out of luck—in the overhead compartment above the Thrillist boys were two cases of Dos Equis beer. But I'm totally sure they didn't break federal aviation law. Eventually, we got clearance for return to the lovely and oh-so-convenient JFK, where we landed around midnight, fated for an hour-long cab line. Well, most of us—the Thrillist boys had called ahead for a car, and off they went. Damn, those boys know how to travel. And promote!

View a photogallery of the Vegas vacation here!