Going to Las Vegas Is Like Being Sewn Inside a Circus Clown's Ass
No, oddly enough, I do not write for Fodor's.
I don't hate Las Vegas, by any means. Please understand me. It's a big, loud mess, and it's all about drinking, and conducting oneself in an ill-advised manner with very few repercussions, and then watching other people do dumb stuff, as well. I'm not a snob. I enjoy all the aforementioned activities. It's just that when somebody decided to roll every vice and sin into a single point on the map, maybe they could've warned us first.
This was actually the second choice by the Las Vegas Touristry Board: "Come Stare Into the Great Gaping Vortex Of That Which Should Not Be!" So they went with that "What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas" tagline instead.
So I don't hate Vegas. It's just too much. Too much. And yes, I also understand that this is the point of Vegas: to have too much of everything. Actually, the point of Vegas is to rob you. And the secondary aim of Vegas is also to rob you. So the third, possibly fourth, goal of Las Vegas, Nevada is to be the receptacle of all that is big and loud and overpowering.
I sacrificed myself to this city-sized Furnace of Hopes and Dreams a few weekends back. If you drive into Vegas, once you hit the Nevada border, you will already hear the city itself start to scream at you, from over the hills. For some reason, it sounds like a poker buddy of your dad's who always spoke a little too loud, made the dog piss the carpet, and just generally frightened you when you were seven years old.
"Come to Las Vegas! This steak is the size of a small child! Forty-seven pounds of Grade-A beef that should not be consumed by a single person! And it's a dollar! A DOLLAR!"
"This casino has gold fixtures in the shitter! Gold! In the shitter! You barely even deserve this, you damned animal! And it's A DOLLAR!"
"This cocktail waitress is 116 years old! And made of actual beef jerky! She's had all vital fluids syphoned from her body and given to Steve Wynn! And she'll bring ya a vodka-cranberry that's only ONE DOLLAR!"
So you arrive in Las Vegas and the madness intensifies -- it's hotter and brighter than the Crab Nebula, and there's more color than there should ever be in a single place. There are colors that, if stared at directly, will cause you to wet your pants. Your rods and cones begin to bleed.
There are casinos that look like palaces, casinos that look like miniaturized cities, and casinos that look like entire ancient civilizations. Look over there! It's the Jamestown Colony Hotel & Casino! The valets are all dressed like rampaging Algonquins! Woo-hoo, watch out! Wait a minute, what's that over there? "The Pianist" Lounge & Casino? They can't do that, can they? Honey, look! Adrien Brody, live on stage every night! And they've got Keno!
So you're there, you're in friggin' Las Vegas. And dammit, you gotta do it right, right? You gotta cut loose, yeah? Sure, you're unemployed and just got served with papers to appear in Small Claims Court (just as an example) -- but c'mon, bro! Don't you deserve this? Just then, Vegas transforms from your dad's poker buddy into a tiny, gossamer-winged trickster. You're Fred Flintstone, and the entire city is the Great Gazoo.
You find yourself doing things you normally would not do. You blame the TV commercials. But... but... they told me it would all stay here.
Three Jack and Cokes in thirty minutes? Of course. Uh, see... the alcohol evaporates in the desert heat. Plus, I wanna get "warmed up." And also... don't look at me like that, you traitor! You're trying to steal my soul!
A hundred dollars on a game I don't know how to play? Yes, sir. Now, should I give you the entire contents of my wallet now, or should we parcel it out? What's that? You're gonna take my fingers? What does that mean, sir?
"The World's Greatest Celebrity Impersonator?" Say, those words don't even make sense, grouped together like that! Vegas, are you sure about that?
And you wake up the next morning, your pants are undone, there's a wad of spearmint gum in your hair, a sweatsock (not yours) stuffed in your mouth, and somehow you've got a partially melted nickel embedded in your forehead.
For real, the day I left Las Vegas, the backs of my hands started to sweat. My body knew that something was wrong. Either that, or the only pure water left in my body was making a break for it.
And to make matters worse, the city yells at you as you leave. Hot breath on your neck, spittle collecting in the cracks of its giant mouth -- "Where ya goin', pussy? Headed home, huh? HUH?! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Yes, Vegas. I'm headed home. See you next year.
I don't hate Las Vegas, by any means. Please understand me. It's a big, loud mess, and it's all about drinking, and conducting oneself in an ill-advised manner with very few repercussions, and then watching other people do dumb stuff, as well. I'm not a snob. I enjoy all the aforementioned activities. It's just that when somebody decided to roll every vice and sin into a single point on the map, maybe they could've warned us first.
This was actually the second choice by the Las Vegas Touristry Board: "Come Stare Into the Great Gaping Vortex Of That Which Should Not Be!" So they went with that "What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas" tagline instead.
So I don't hate Vegas. It's just too much. Too much. And yes, I also understand that this is the point of Vegas: to have too much of everything. Actually, the point of Vegas is to rob you. And the secondary aim of Vegas is also to rob you. So the third, possibly fourth, goal of Las Vegas, Nevada is to be the receptacle of all that is big and loud and overpowering.
I sacrificed myself to this city-sized Furnace of Hopes and Dreams a few weekends back. If you drive into Vegas, once you hit the Nevada border, you will already hear the city itself start to scream at you, from over the hills. For some reason, it sounds like a poker buddy of your dad's who always spoke a little too loud, made the dog piss the carpet, and just generally frightened you when you were seven years old.
"Come to Las Vegas! This steak is the size of a small child! Forty-seven pounds of Grade-A beef that should not be consumed by a single person! And it's a dollar! A DOLLAR!"
"This casino has gold fixtures in the shitter! Gold! In the shitter! You barely even deserve this, you damned animal! And it's A DOLLAR!"
"This cocktail waitress is 116 years old! And made of actual beef jerky! She's had all vital fluids syphoned from her body and given to Steve Wynn! And she'll bring ya a vodka-cranberry that's only ONE DOLLAR!"
So you arrive in Las Vegas and the madness intensifies -- it's hotter and brighter than the Crab Nebula, and there's more color than there should ever be in a single place. There are colors that, if stared at directly, will cause you to wet your pants. Your rods and cones begin to bleed.
There are casinos that look like palaces, casinos that look like miniaturized cities, and casinos that look like entire ancient civilizations. Look over there! It's the Jamestown Colony Hotel & Casino! The valets are all dressed like rampaging Algonquins! Woo-hoo, watch out! Wait a minute, what's that over there? "The Pianist" Lounge & Casino? They can't do that, can they? Honey, look! Adrien Brody, live on stage every night! And they've got Keno!
So you're there, you're in friggin' Las Vegas. And dammit, you gotta do it right, right? You gotta cut loose, yeah? Sure, you're unemployed and just got served with papers to appear in Small Claims Court (just as an example) -- but c'mon, bro! Don't you deserve this? Just then, Vegas transforms from your dad's poker buddy into a tiny, gossamer-winged trickster. You're Fred Flintstone, and the entire city is the Great Gazoo.
You find yourself doing things you normally would not do. You blame the TV commercials. But... but... they told me it would all stay here.
Three Jack and Cokes in thirty minutes? Of course. Uh, see... the alcohol evaporates in the desert heat. Plus, I wanna get "warmed up." And also... don't look at me like that, you traitor! You're trying to steal my soul!
A hundred dollars on a game I don't know how to play? Yes, sir. Now, should I give you the entire contents of my wallet now, or should we parcel it out? What's that? You're gonna take my fingers? What does that mean, sir?
"The World's Greatest Celebrity Impersonator?" Say, those words don't even make sense, grouped together like that! Vegas, are you sure about that?
And you wake up the next morning, your pants are undone, there's a wad of spearmint gum in your hair, a sweatsock (not yours) stuffed in your mouth, and somehow you've got a partially melted nickel embedded in your forehead.
For real, the day I left Las Vegas, the backs of my hands started to sweat. My body knew that something was wrong. Either that, or the only pure water left in my body was making a break for it.
And to make matters worse, the city yells at you as you leave. Hot breath on your neck, spittle collecting in the cracks of its giant mouth -- "Where ya goin', pussy? Headed home, huh? HUH?! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Yes, Vegas. I'm headed home. See you next year.
posted by Brad Stevens at 12:03 AM
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