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.
I speak of the experience of comfort in its entirety — Comfort with a capital C — the kind that is defined both by its presence and present-ness, as well as its not entirely secretive wink to a future born of the very blueprint it sits on. This is all to say that within Vegas as it stands now (the source of my own Comfort), lies the very essence, both practical and fantastic, of the “how” and “what” our future as a civilization will look like. Fear not: I have seen the future, and it is both domed and air-conditioned.
The Desert Surrounding Las Vegas
Let me back track, or maybe even side track, myself for an instant. It was a Wednesday evening, and I was getting off of work tutoring exactly no one for five hours at some no name little business park university or slightly ill repute among higher echelons of academia, when suddenly, unmistakably, I got the bug.
Something in the desert brightness of the terrain surrounding my little university parking lot, something about the vague promise of spending yet another tomorrow still alive, both which are hopelessly embedded in the hot, dry dusk of a not yet dark eight o’clock in August — something of this nature inspired me. I put in the celebratory phone call to the girlfriend, and announced the seemingly legitimate question with authority: “I think we should go to Vegas tomorrow, don’t you?” After the initial silence (representing unflagging glee, no doubt) on the other end of the line, she agreed, noting it was probably a good idea. And that was that.
So it’s in a parking lot out in the middle of the Nevada desert, so what.
Like many of the more interesting experiences in life, things can come into fruition rather quickly, and with little effort. We found a room for less than $30, made the reservation, and toasted the trip’s success as any great voyage should be toasted: over a Miller Lite at the dive bar across the street. The following morning, we ventured off to the desert, knowing not what to expect beyond one simple directive: Pay the necessary homage to Liberace at the Liberace Museum. After that, all bets were off. With this in mind, the four-hour car ride was virtually painless. I don’t remember much of the exact conversation which took place during the trip there, but it might be characterized thematically as being “anthropologically astute,” or at the very least, “reasonably intellectual.” I submit:
Me: You brought pistachios?!
Her: I totally did. You want me to shell you some while you drive? [Already shelling the first one while asking] They’re spicy flavored.
Me: Ohmigawd! I f’ing love pistachi– [opening my mouth mid-nut to receive the first one].
Her: So do I, dude. S’why I bought ‘em.
Me: My dad could sit in front of the t.v. with a 5-pound bag of ‘em, and not stop eating until every single one was gone.
Her: Me too.
[long-ish pause, before the conversation inevitably turns to...]
Me: Do you think your stomach gets like a horse’s if you were to eat only pistachios?
Her: You mean, like — you would poo pistachios or something?
Me: Or like, maybe two pounds of poo would come out in a slightly opened shell.
The Stratosphere Hotel Experience, Las Vegas: It’s Tall
When we arrived at our hotel, we were wiped out. We were staying at the Stratosphere, which is located at the very end of the Strip. The Stratosphere tower (which opened in 1996 thus fulfilling the most grandiose of original owner Bob Stupak’s Las Vegas dreams), is the tallest tower west of the Mississippi, and takes its preordained and pervasive hotel theme of “the World’s Fair,” after other World’s Fairs and their associated large-scale towers (think: Paris 1889; Seattle, WA 1962; San Antonio, TX 1968). After a quick snack and a look around the place, we went back to the room and decided to make plans for the evening.
It is with no small comfort that I must divulge the following: one of my three irrational fears in life is the fear of buffet style dining, which is obviously near-impossible to avoid dealing with in Las Vegas. In fact, it’s closer to the truth to say that beyond the gambling and the shows, it’s the buffets that make the trip worth something in the first place.
Now, it would be foolish to try to logically explain an irrational fear: they just don’t work that way. However, I can locate precisely when and where this particular fear originated. The year was 1984. The Summer Olympics had come to my home town, and my family was gearing up for our first family vacation to Maui. The Thornbirds miniseries was being screened on network television. I was twelve years old, a number which was then and still is now, my lucky number. During our two weeks on the island, we ate at leas 72% buffet style, until one night, we sat down at a table not more than ten feet away from Richard Chamberlain and his partner.
Buffet Style Dining and Las Vegas
For reasons unbeknownst to me, from that moment forward, I was rendered unable to walk through the buffet line anywhere or at any time. It was this single event which marks the onset of the irrational fear. (The other two are, in no order of priority or intensity, the fear of walking over open man-hole covers or steel grating in the sidewalk, and the fear of electric can openers).
During this trip, in addition to our homage to Liberace, I decided that I would break through my irrational fear, Anthony Robbins style, in a full and reckless manner that could, with complete faith, isolate and then totally abolish the thing for good, in an apocalyptic vision in my mind which was not unlike a face to face meeting with the Yedi, the Loch Ness Monster, or even Jim J. Bullock. Come face to face with the thing itself, stare it down, take a picture for proof later on, and then put the thing to bed.
That being said, we planned a brief nap, and then a buffet at the Rio, which was supposedly thorough and cheap, meaning slightly less than $20, as compared to other casinos’ buffets, which ranged in the high twenties and into the thirties. Our room was on the twenty-third floor of the hotel.
The occasion that Vegas brings: the idea that one might triumph in the face of adversity, or at the very least, win against innumerable odds, is part of my strangely found comfort in the place. No, I didn’t win ten million at the craps table, I merely paid my eighteen dollars, took a well-intentioned and hopefully stabilizing deep breath, and entered the buffet.
I took comfort in a very few things, imbuing these normally humble artifacts with all the divine grace and authority of the Pope’s very Crucifix: one, the unlimited supply of corner-brownies, two, portions of broccoli in no less than four national cuisines, and three, free pickles. Whether I tricked myself into sitting down and eating, or hunger itself made the mission un-impossible, seven plates full of food later, I was sufficiently sated, and the fear gently subsided. Immediately after dessert, we made plans to visit the breakfast buffet the following morning at the casino with the thirty foot tall clown out in front.
“Night comes to the desert all at once, as if someone turned off the light.” ~Joyce Carol Oates
We slept hard, lulled by the dull roar of the air conditioner, and in the morning, made our way through another buffet line, as planned. Afterwards, we ventured off the Strip to the Liberace Museum, making it just in time for one of the early afternoon tours. It should be noted that for all the pomp and circumstance of the man they called “Mr. Showmanship,” the two buildings they refer to as the Liberace Museum are humbly and mistakably located on either end of an emptied out, rather enormous and plain looking strip mall.
Can You Handle Liberace in Las Vegas?
To my knowledge, there is still nothing regal or fabulous about an asphalt parking lot nearly two acres in size, but that’s mostly what’s there. The magic, located in the corners of the two buildings housing what might be hundreds of the celebrated performer’s costumes, was perhaps remarkably bottled up, hot-housed and contained in such a way that no one really could during Liberace’s lifetime. The real piece de resistance of the museum collection is undoubtedly the 115,000-karat revolving rhinestone, which is said to be the world’s largest.
Standing in front of it, I couldn’t help but wonder how Liberace ever convinced his mother he wasn’t gay. I mean, the world’s largest wheelbarrow, or filing cabinet — even tape measure. All emblematic of the straight. But a cut-glass gemstone? Still, the secret that Liberace kept from a few, and shared with nearly everyone else, is the kind of “big bigness” that only a place like Vegas could house.
“…Liberace was a tough cookie and a high-roller — a positive thinker and an American hero. He came to the table to take away the money, so he cashed in the invective and, in his own immortal phrase, ‘cried all the way to the bank.’” ~Dave Hickey
Hours later, I was still catching myself thinking about what I liked to call “the Captain America Special” costume in the Liberace collection: a little sequined number from a July 4th concert, with red, white and blue striped shorts and matching top, cape, and boots with stars. While my girlfriend finally located the perfect penny slot machine (“My Rich Uncle” in the Stardust), I wondered what pitch meeting must look like in front of the City Council, or the Gaming Commission, where eager businessmen and multi-billionaires attempted to pass through the flaming hoop of what each newly themed hotel/casino extravaganza might look like.
I knew how important the meetings must be. After all, Vegas has only ever grown, one hotel after another citing the claim of having “the most rooms in the world.” Vegas has the potential to be in no uncertain terms, the blueprint for how all future cities in the country might operate. I went over the facts in my head.
The Future of Las Vegas and Hotel Entertainment Life on the Strip
* Domed everything. Domed and air-conditioned, to counter balance the effects of both global warming, and ozone depletion.
* No real cash; only chips and play money. In a capitalist environment, cash is king, and spending needs to be made equal to “play time.”
* Moving walkways and at the very rare outside post, water misters.
* Circular re-uptake investment: companies pay salaries, provide benefits and entertainment and meals in the form of buffets, and employees gamble it right back.
* National sightseeing and world awareness. With global terrorism on the rise, and airplanes looking more like flying steel coffins than ever, who wants to see the real pyramids in Egypt anymore? Chances are, no future generations will be able or willing to make that trip, so why not erect the simulacrum in every major city in the country? When domestic air travel breaks down, we’ll all take buses to see the Seven Wonders of the World, right here in our own backyard.
* Location, detention, and stabilizing of “antiheroes.” There’s nothing more comforting than the thought that for those who want to see her, Celine Dion will be at one particular hotel, one specific venue, at all times. Lock her up in the entertainment pavilion of the Caesar’s Palace, and the rest of us will know never to step foot near it. Better than sleeping pills.
When the ambulances outside are forever being drowned out by the soundtrack noises of free money flowing in the casinos, I start to wonder. What do we do when surrounded by spectacle? How does one thing in Vegas outdo anything else anymore? With this in mind, I decided to create the perfect casino: the Vegas stop to end all Vegas stops. The last stop, as it were. It’s called “America the America,” and with 10,000 rooms in it’s Mount Rushmore themed front-building façade, it’s really the largest hotel in the world. But that’s not all. Here are the attractions:
* The New York Times Abe Lincoln Dinner Theater. Enjoy fine cuisine and hilarious stand-up comedy by some of the nations’ best Lincoln impersonators. Tired of learning craps by hotel room t.v. instruction? Bored of the oil men at the high stakes Texas Hold-em tables? Feelin’ lucky? Well, come try your odds here, where three times every night, one of two hundred diners will be assassinated during the evening’s performance from the John Wilkes Boothe Booth Balcony Section. 200 seated, 199 leave.
* Special roadside attraction on the Strip: Lockheed Martin’s Spectacle of the American Media. From miles away, the swaying sounds of the ambulance sirens can be heard, and they’re headed for America the America (the Casino). Here’s the scene: a man in a wheel chair is crossing the street in front of the main entrance to the casino when he gets hit by an exiting super-stretch limousine. Thrown several yards from his chair, he is wailing in the middle of the street while innocent bystanders attempt to take control and aid the man in his final minutes. Suddenly the ambulance arrives, and from within the vehicle, the limousine, and special grates in the hotel front sidewalk, there emerges one hundred costumed dancers who perform the America the America (the Casino) Great American Showtune Medley. Show times: once an hour, from 6p.m. to midnight.
* Main casino McDonald’s Executive VIP Lounge and Entertainment-plex. Featured performance: once nightly at 11:11, we blow up the World Trade Center Twin Towers. Thought the footage on t.v. looked fake? Wait ’til you see it in person!
* Microsoft and Gilette Special Rain Forrest Café and Weather Central Dining Arena. I like fog in the morning, hot cloudless afternoons, warm evenings and cold nights. Now you can order your table’s weather during your buffet, no matter the time of day! This amazing dining experience features new proprietary technology from Microsoft, which enables you to purchase your own weather. Just when you thought the lumber companies had leveled the Amazon for subistence level co-ops: dine in a stunning environment, surrounded by lush, tropical imported rain forest, by Gilette.
“In Vegas, I got into a long argument with the man at the roulette wheel over what I considered to be an odd number.” ~Stephen Wright
When we get back to our room, it’s eleven p.m., and my sudden panic, which has been lingering beneath the surface of supposed timelessness, perpetuated only by the definitive lack of a clock anywhere in the entire city, has erupted. I have hit bottom, gotten sick, and I need to get well — my dope, in this metaphor, is of course, the news. After persuading my girlfriend to let me watch some news while she is trying to fall asleep, I alternate between what I consider to be the semi-truthful news (edification before entertainment): the BBC, and that which is so obviously resigned to playing second fiddle to any nickel slot machine adorning the two feet of counter top real estate in any bar in the city: the local news (entertainment, loosely defined, before edification).
And in so thinking of the news at that moment as a vehicle which seeks to entertain us into learning something (though it might purport to do something quite the opposite in its very credo), I wonder how I am implicated in the transaction through my own passivity. I should know better, in fact, I do know better — real information about the problems in the world shouldn’t taste so much like candy, nor should they be followed in priority line-up after the mundane celebrity gossip. But so it is.
Exactly What Las Vegas Doesn’t Pretend to Be
In this reflection on passivity, though, it seems the local evening news had told me exactly what it is about Vegas that I find so comforting and inspiring, beyond the truth of it, beyond its democracy, beyond the lights and the ever competing spectacles. It is the very notion of its divine credo: to entertain until it literally keels over, to entertain us at any cost, that makes it so truly wonderful.
There is no false pretense, or rather — there is nothing short of obvious truth in the most false of its pretenses, operating on the Strip. Even after a brief visit there, one understands that in the entertainment that Vegas provides, it manages to tell us something about the world we live in — if only as a secondary or tertiary priority — and in so doing, it tells us something about ourselves. We live for the privilege of being entertained, the converse of which is also true: to be entertained is the one of the finest privileges of being alive.
