Somewhere out in the middle of the Nevada desert, the constellation of ruthless, monolithic forms which occupies both horizontal and vertical space not quite totaling eighty-five square miles, sits somewhat blissfully beneath layers of palpable desert heat, shamelessly annexing more and more unto itself. More land, more rooms, more themes: more. During the summer days, fake looking billows of distressed, cottony clouds crowd around whatever towers decidedly jut upward into the sky overhead.

Occasionally, cloud and tower come into contact with each other, only to create a kind of concrete q-tip of epic proportions. It’s August in Las Vegas. Desert temperatures can be irresponsible and unmanageable, especially this late in the summer. But ultimately, the heat — the weather — what difference does it really make? This is Vegas, and within its own rather extraordinary version of democracy, everything supposedly “phony” is made real and equal, and everything natural ends up looking, well — exactly like a postcard of the thing itself.

People think it strange of me to say that everything going on in Vegas over the last ten years makes me exceedingly comfortable, indeed, nearly giddy. And by comfort, I mean this to be defined as the pervasive and all encompassing comfort of an aching, overworked body in a too-hot bathtub: complete and surrounded. I do not refer to the kind of comfort that, say, a frosted cupcake or a self-sustaining elderly person walking across the street, might inspire. (more…)