Unimpressed in Sin City
I took two pictures when I was in Las Vegas.
The first is of our hotel room at the Tropicana, and the second shows the gargoyle sticker someone stuck to the back of the TV remote. Both were taken the last night my friend and I were there. It was the only time I took my digital out of my bag. Sure, there was photogenic shit everywhere, but I just didn’t find it interesting enough to capture. Mike, on the other hand, cashed a couple disposable cameras. He’s old school that way.
He came to visit in late-March, taking time off for his “spring break.” Neither one of us had ever been to Vegas, so we made the four-hour trip to experience Sin City. It was really Mike’s whole reason for visiting. He was interested in the Southland and hanging out, but his first and foremost motivation was his, and I quote, “mafia pilgrimage.” He’s obsessed with anything mafia related, infatuated with the music of Sinatra, Dean Martin, and whoever else was in the Rat Pack. “The Godfather” trilogy and “Casino” are the jewels of his DVD collection, and we used to spend entire nights conquering “The Godfather: The Game” on his PS2. If possible, I’m sure he would have been content with spending the whole week there, returning to LA just to fly back to Iowa City. I, on the other hand, have a real job — meaning no “spring break” — so we only stayed for two nights.
On our first night we walked up and down The Strip and saw all the big sites: the Bellagio fountains, the pirate show at Treasure Island, the gondolas at the Venetian (no, we didn’t ride in one). The volcanoes at the Mirage were closed for repairs but we saw their unimpressive inner workings as we walked past. We ate at the ESPN Zone in New York, New York. Mike dragged me all the way north to The Riviera, which revolutionized The Strip in the ‘50s with its high-rise design. He just wanted to see it. There it was — a building with lights on it. Wow. I can die happy now.
The sidewalks were packed. There were people everywhere and it reminded me of Disneyland without Mickey and Donald. Groups of Hispanic men handed out sex cards and the pavement was littered with them. Where there wasn’t a nice casino or restaurant there was a fenced-in construction site or vacant lot filled with refuse. Empty beer bottles and tallboy cans were everywhere. Outside a convenience store a man wearing a nice suit, designer sunglasses, and a huge gold chain around his neck approached us.
“Can either one of you guys spare eighty-nine cents?” he asked. “I want to get a hamburger and I’m eighty-nine cents short.”
Mike and I were stunned. I was almost offended that this guy, showing off all his bling, thought we’d be dumb enough to give him any spare change. We shook our heads and he walked away, posing the same question to another group of tourists. We started laughing. Mike had the idea the man was a thief; his game was probably to snatch our wallets as we dug through them for a buck.
Mike had another interesting run-in with a Vegas bum the first night. Walking back from The Riviera we passed a homeless black man wrapped in a heavy winter coat, eating a huge greasy burger and holding a styrofoam box filled with giant onion rings. I’ve learned to dismiss beggars (it comes from living in beach cities) so I kept walking, but Mike stopped and the homeless man began reciting his sob story.
“Don’t hate me cuz I’m black,” he said. “I was wondering if you would be kind enough to spare a dollar or two so I can get something to eat. I’m so hungry.”
Mike tried to shake the man loose, but the beggar persisted. When Mike escaped he caught up to me and said, “Shit. I should have asked him for some food.”
That night I was dead tired. Back in the hotel room I curled up under the covers of my bed, exhausted. Mike stood at the window admiring the lights.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’m mesmerized.”
I was far from it. I didn’t know what to expect of Vegas, but I had imagined the spacious casinos floors with rows and rows of slot machines and blackjack tables that I had seen in movies. I thought teams of sexy cocktail waitresses walked around and gave everyone free drinks.
Not.
The casinos were cramped, crowded, and smoky. The waitresses looked like they had made the rounds for 20 or 30 years. Plus, I didn’t get one free drink. That was probably my fault. I only gambled away $17 so it wasn’t as if they had time to notice me. To me Vegas wasn’t spectacular or interesting. It was completely kitsch and corny.
The next day was buffet day. We only ate at buffets. (Side note: Vegas doesn’t cater to vegans or vegetarians much, so I pushed aside my veggie convictions while we were there. Go ahead and call me a flexitarian, but I tried…oh, I tried.) In the morning we walked across the street to the MGM Grand and ate breakfast at the buffet there. We didn’t eat again until that night, after walking around even more. We are starving. After riding the Deuce downtown we ate dinner at the Fremont’s Paradise Buffet. I piled food onto my plate and didn’t bother examining the mix closely until I sat at our table and started digging in. I had loaded up on shrimp and noticed they were still encased in their shells, legs intact. Gross. I ate them anyway.
The last thing we did was visit the Hard Rock Café. It’s about a mile or two off-Strip, so, exhausted as we were, we walked there anyway. My body was failing. The desert dryness and distances had gotten to me. I got a pint of Mountain Dew to give me energy for the walk back and it cost me three bucks. I didn’t even get a fucking refill. I had thought since the casinos and city reaped the benefits from gambling that everything would be cheap. Wrong. It’s the only place I’ve ever been to more expensive than California.
I couldn’t wait to get back to the ocean.
The first is of our hotel room at the Tropicana, and the second shows the gargoyle sticker someone stuck to the back of the TV remote. Both were taken the last night my friend and I were there. It was the only time I took my digital out of my bag. Sure, there was photogenic shit everywhere, but I just didn’t find it interesting enough to capture. Mike, on the other hand, cashed a couple disposable cameras. He’s old school that way.
He came to visit in late-March, taking time off for his “spring break.” Neither one of us had ever been to Vegas, so we made the four-hour trip to experience Sin City. It was really Mike’s whole reason for visiting. He was interested in the Southland and hanging out, but his first and foremost motivation was his, and I quote, “mafia pilgrimage.” He’s obsessed with anything mafia related, infatuated with the music of Sinatra, Dean Martin, and whoever else was in the Rat Pack. “The Godfather” trilogy and “Casino” are the jewels of his DVD collection, and we used to spend entire nights conquering “The Godfather: The Game” on his PS2. If possible, I’m sure he would have been content with spending the whole week there, returning to LA just to fly back to Iowa City. I, on the other hand, have a real job — meaning no “spring break” — so we only stayed for two nights.
On our first night we walked up and down The Strip and saw all the big sites: the Bellagio fountains, the pirate show at Treasure Island, the gondolas at the Venetian (no, we didn’t ride in one). The volcanoes at the Mirage were closed for repairs but we saw their unimpressive inner workings as we walked past. We ate at the ESPN Zone in New York, New York. Mike dragged me all the way north to The Riviera, which revolutionized The Strip in the ‘50s with its high-rise design. He just wanted to see it. There it was — a building with lights on it. Wow. I can die happy now.
The sidewalks were packed. There were people everywhere and it reminded me of Disneyland without Mickey and Donald. Groups of Hispanic men handed out sex cards and the pavement was littered with them. Where there wasn’t a nice casino or restaurant there was a fenced-in construction site or vacant lot filled with refuse. Empty beer bottles and tallboy cans were everywhere. Outside a convenience store a man wearing a nice suit, designer sunglasses, and a huge gold chain around his neck approached us.
“Can either one of you guys spare eighty-nine cents?” he asked. “I want to get a hamburger and I’m eighty-nine cents short.”
Mike and I were stunned. I was almost offended that this guy, showing off all his bling, thought we’d be dumb enough to give him any spare change. We shook our heads and he walked away, posing the same question to another group of tourists. We started laughing. Mike had the idea the man was a thief; his game was probably to snatch our wallets as we dug through them for a buck.
Mike had another interesting run-in with a Vegas bum the first night. Walking back from The Riviera we passed a homeless black man wrapped in a heavy winter coat, eating a huge greasy burger and holding a styrofoam box filled with giant onion rings. I’ve learned to dismiss beggars (it comes from living in beach cities) so I kept walking, but Mike stopped and the homeless man began reciting his sob story.
“Don’t hate me cuz I’m black,” he said. “I was wondering if you would be kind enough to spare a dollar or two so I can get something to eat. I’m so hungry.”
Mike tried to shake the man loose, but the beggar persisted. When Mike escaped he caught up to me and said, “Shit. I should have asked him for some food.”
That night I was dead tired. Back in the hotel room I curled up under the covers of my bed, exhausted. Mike stood at the window admiring the lights.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’m mesmerized.”
I was far from it. I didn’t know what to expect of Vegas, but I had imagined the spacious casinos floors with rows and rows of slot machines and blackjack tables that I had seen in movies. I thought teams of sexy cocktail waitresses walked around and gave everyone free drinks.
Not.
The casinos were cramped, crowded, and smoky. The waitresses looked like they had made the rounds for 20 or 30 years. Plus, I didn’t get one free drink. That was probably my fault. I only gambled away $17 so it wasn’t as if they had time to notice me. To me Vegas wasn’t spectacular or interesting. It was completely kitsch and corny.
The next day was buffet day. We only ate at buffets. (Side note: Vegas doesn’t cater to vegans or vegetarians much, so I pushed aside my veggie convictions while we were there. Go ahead and call me a flexitarian, but I tried…oh, I tried.) In the morning we walked across the street to the MGM Grand and ate breakfast at the buffet there. We didn’t eat again until that night, after walking around even more. We are starving. After riding the Deuce downtown we ate dinner at the Fremont’s Paradise Buffet. I piled food onto my plate and didn’t bother examining the mix closely until I sat at our table and started digging in. I had loaded up on shrimp and noticed they were still encased in their shells, legs intact. Gross. I ate them anyway.
The last thing we did was visit the Hard Rock Café. It’s about a mile or two off-Strip, so, exhausted as we were, we walked there anyway. My body was failing. The desert dryness and distances had gotten to me. I got a pint of Mountain Dew to give me energy for the walk back and it cost me three bucks. I didn’t even get a fucking refill. I had thought since the casinos and city reaped the benefits from gambling that everything would be cheap. Wrong. It’s the only place I’ve ever been to more expensive than California.
I couldn’t wait to get back to the ocean.
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