My colleague Emily describes Las Vegas as a woman who’s trying too hard.
And that, she is.
Too much hot pink lipstick. Too many sparkly rings and baubles. A gaudy, cheap dress that’s too short and too tight.
Too much booze and food and vice.
The first time I lose I drink whiskey, the second time I lose I drink gin. The third time I lose I drink anything, ’cause I think I’m gonna win.
But the house always wins in Vegas. It wins your money, your deepest secrets and at least a small piece of your soul.
And yet, you’ll have a great time – for a time – giving away those precious things to the Crystal City.
You’ll reel in delight spinning those ravenous slots. Sunning under the palms by a cool pool at the Mirage. Falling into hypnosis amid the electric theatrics of Freemont Street. Eating warm, gooey, table-side made mozzarella while a tie-died astronaut saunters by in the psychedelic Superfrico restaurant.
What to do next? What to eat? What to see? The options are as endless as they are endlessly over-the-top.
See a show. It will be great. Acrobats will fly from the ceiling in feats unreal for a stage. You’ll be entertained and laugh so hard your cheeks will hurt. Or cry because the music was beautiful and reminded you of somewhere and some time that’s not Vegas and not now.
Eat the ramen at Momofuku. Eat the sushi at Nobu. Eat the expensive bloody steaks and fresh popovers at BLT. Eat a greasy egg sandwich at Denny’s in the middle of the night. Eat the crap sweating in steam trays on one of the infinitely available buffet lines. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat.
Wash it all down your throat with cheap beer or wine served in a disposable clear, plastic cup. Or drink up exotic cocktails that smoke and sting your tongue and make you thirsty for bad decisions.
Then wander the fake streets of Paris, Venice and New York, cramming more and more and more into your overstimulated senses as you slink into the shadows of the casinos…
…only to discover that you can’t find your way out, because the hotels and casinos are expertly and specifically designed to keep you in. Which way to go? It’s all a gamble, and the odds are decidedly not in your favor.
This city – so gluttonous that it diverts and sucks water into a desert purely for the sake of pleasure – has swallowed you whole.
The Queen of Spades is a friend of mine. The Queen of Hearts, she’s a bitch. And someday when I clean up my mind, I’ll find out which is which.
And it never fails that there will come a point in Vegas when you turn over one too many cards, have one too many drinks. You lose. And the reality of the stale cigarette stink turns into a hazy backdrop as you slowly, painfully, begin to crawl out to your senses.
It’s time to go. Time to leave this wonderfully outrageous and awful place, collect what’s left of your dignity and sanity, and go home to repair the damage.
Every time I hit your Crystal City, you know you’re gonna make a wreck out of me.
