Viva Las Vegas

[robotnik2004]

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

Wayne Newton built an empire there. Randall Flagg made it the capitol city of evil. Sammy Davis Jr. called it “instant swinger.” What am I talking about? Shoot, boy, I’m talking about Vegas, what the hell you talking about?

When we arrived around 6 pm, it was an infernal 120 degrees F, cooling to an oven-cleaning 110 by midnight. To fully experience the true Vegas gemutlichkeit we stayed in an absolute dive. The Motel Monte Carlo in Bob Dole’s own Russel, Kansas was a respectable second, but Las Vegas’ Casablanca Motel wins the coveted Jenkie Award for Scariest Motel of Our Trip hands down. The Carpet Formerly Known as Orange Shag was itself carpeted with about a pound of cigarette butts and ashes, where they hadn’t burned through to the concrete floor, that is. The paper-thin Reel-Wud ™ walls didn’t quite reach to the ceiling, and the tap in the bathtub didn’t actually turn off. The air conditioning didn’t work exactly, but it did emit the cooling scent of carcinogenic freon. But neither heat nor hail nor roach motels could keep us from our appointed rounds: which is to say checking out the fabled Strip.

The Strip

Not since Miles Music Museum have our heroes said “that ain’t right” so often. Roving packs of subcelebrities like Charo and Englebert Humperdink feed on stringy hookers and mark their territory against Japanese tourists and kids staggering in out of the “National Recreation Area” dying of thirst. Everywhere a barrage of signs and neon lights promise “Loosest Slots in Town!” and “International Nude Girls!” and “Liquor Moccasins Indian Jewelry 1/2 Off!”

The night took us from the gargantuan gaucherie of Caesars Palace and the Stratosphere to the more modest charms of the Aztec Casino. I’d be hard pressed to pick a favorite. Sure, the Aztec didn’t have laser holograms of orgiastic Romans or a full-sized pirate galleon that fired a fusillade of cannons every hour, but there was a five foot tall Elvis impersonator at the door giving out coupons for free water!

Every Man His Own Caligula

We actually thought we should change out of the sweaty, dusty clothes we’d worn on our hike into the Grand Canyon. Goes to show what we know. Every sucker is created equal in Las Vegas. You could wear nothing but sweaty knee socks and a thong and you’d be treated like an emperor if you had money to spend.

That’s why there’s no apostrophe in “Caesars Palace”–that would imply it was the palace of only one Caesar, when in truth Vegas makes every man his own Caligula. (So shouldn’t it really be called Caesarses Palace?”) When Caesars opeened in the 1960s, the scantily-togaed cocktail waitresses were instructed to say, “I am your slave” when taking orders for drinks. They’ve since been emancipated.

In keeping with the Roman orgy theme, we did dinner at Caesar’s 24-hour All You Can Eat Gorge-A-Pallooza and Vomitorium. Sure, everything tasted like rancid cardboard, but where else can you get six helpings of prime rib and eight shrimp cocktails for $3.99?

The one thing we didn’t do a whole lot of was gambling. Sure, we sunk a pile of quarters in the slots and the video poker machines, like every other plebe with a usable arm. But the real thing, for me, would be to learn some really sophisticated James Bond-esque game like baccarat, where you where a white tux and wager big rectangular chips with beautiful European countesses looking on. That’s probably not to be, I guess. For now I’ll just have to imagine some diabolical billionaire terrorist stroking his cat and saying, “You play Donkey Kong Country very well, Monsieur Floyd…”

To Your Entertainment!

When I say the words “American Superstars,” what names spring into your mind?

If you answered Madonna, the Four Tops, Michael Jackson, Gloria Estefan, and Charlie Daniels for some reason, then boy o boy has the Stratosphere’s Galaxy Lounge got a high-energy rock-and-roll revue for you. For a measly two drink minimum, you too can see this demographically representative sample of all-American superstardom perform their biggest his, complete with patented Vegas lounge act patter (actual line: “You’ve been a very special audience, and you’ve made me feel special too.”) and the patriotic and exotic American Superstar Dancers. That’s less than half a drink per Superstar, and barely a sip per Top! (It’s just barely possible that these were celebrity impersonators and not the real thing.)

I defy any and all recent immigrants not to shed a patriotic tear when ALL EIGHT American Superstars PLUS the strategically star-spangled Superstar Dancers appear on stage together to perform James Brown’s “Living In America” as fireworks go off and a shiny Old Glory unfolds in red, white, and blue sequins, just like Betsy Ross always imagined it.

Moe On The Go(e)

One last nugget of genuine Vegas class and hospitality before we go: at the end of the night we took a cab back down the Strip to the Casablanca. Have I mentioned how good Derek always was at striking up conversations with people? After Derek broke the ice with our cab driver by asking, “Do you ever just want to run some tourists over?” (Answer: “Every fucking day of my life.”) Moe the Cabbie regaled us with his wit and wisdom. On the police: “Friday fucking night on the Las Vegas fucking Strip and he wants me to back up two goddamn inches. Cocksuckers.” On seatbelts: “If some motherfucker comes at me with a gun or a knife, and I’m wearing my fucking seatbelt, then I’m in a bad fucking way!” On the situation in the Middle East: “Cocksuckers.” Nevada’s poet laureate, we salute you.

Comments

[foogie.livejournal.com]

My wife and I went on a trip together this summer. I reflected frequently on our trip in '96 while we were travelling. What struck me often was how much I have changed and how much the way I enjoy America has changed. I now use two hands on my stomach.

Baccarat

[sben.livejournal.com]

My friend In decided he was going to explore the Strip, playing a different game in every casino. Late in the evening (early in the morning? It's so hard to tell), he played a hand of baccarat (http://www.baccaratsystem.net/), not knowing the rules. The players already at the table looked glum; the house was doing well that evening. In sat down, placed a (minimal) bet, and was dealt a couple of cards. The dealer looked at In's, then at his own, said "House wins", and took the cards and chips. In looked around in disbelief and asked "What happened?". The rest of the table laughed in sympathy. It was probably the brightest part of their evening.