Upon my arrival home after my first visit to Las Vegas, I understood that the slogan: What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas is less of an advertising ploy and more of a devout prayer of gratitude. If this model for debauchery were to occur any place else in the universe, I’d be as convinced about the end of the world as one of those who trust ancient Mayan calendars.
First of all, George Clooney and Brad Pitt were nowhere to be found, although a poster of steroid abusing, black bow tie wearing, mostly naked, preternaturally excited men was plastered about as if they had solutions for the Middle East Crisis. I suppose, for some women, the thinking is, “I don’t know why, but I feel the need to stuff money down their pants, if they are, indeed wearing said pants and if they are not, I’ll improvise.” For me, well, as we have previously established, I like to look at men who are prettier and thinner than me and, as a rule, they keep those in London.
However, Las Vegas doesn’t just have greasy attractions for women who enjoy the thought of being crushed as part of a mating ritual. There is literally something debasing to women for everyone who even nods in that sexual direction, There was also Burt and Ernie, the cast of Toy Story, and Spiderman, who for some inexplicable reason, sat squatting next to a can with the word tips scrawled across the front, rather than performing the job he is presumably qualified and supremely needed to do while in Vegas.
I rather enjoyed the guy dressed as a eight foot tree whose purpose seemed to be scaring already unsteady drunk people by becoming animated when least expected. Although, I would suppose this sort of thing would be an every day occurrence for those at the level of drunkenness that these exceptionally loud people have attained.
There are those among you who are now hopping up and down like a urine filled Golden Retrievers because a couple of paragraphs back I mentioned the words “debasing” and “women.” in the same sentence, and your reaction was:, “Hurrah! Details!” You know who you are, I hope. If not, some of your hobbies might include porn and more porn. Listen up; I’m only going to say this once.
In Vegas, about 25% of the women seemed to have scrambled away from some sort of violent, apparel-destroying disaster just after doing their hair and makeup, but before they decided as what to ”wear”. The thing is, none of these apparent victims seemed unphased by this horrific catastrophe as they strode down the strip, some lucky enough to have salvaged a pair of Pretty Woman before-styled boots to keep them covered from the thigh down. The opposite direction was up for grabs, literally. Yet, they seemed more grumpy than appalled. Maybe they’re in shock.
There are many women who seemingly are forced to wear only half of a two- piece outfit; usually the top. The poor dears walk along, continually pulling at the hem of their blouses, which hover around their nether regions, wishing in vein that a Good Samaritan would lend them some pants, or gym shorts, anything to feel more at ease. Perhaps a charitable event is in order.
Then there are the prostitutes. Leave it at that.
The noise level is unbelievable. Similar to standing in front of an enormous amp at a tremendously loud concert, for which I can personally attest. (https://jamiegreco.wordpress.com/2012/05/21/why-i-shouldnt-have-gone-to-lollapalooza/.
There is never a moment of quite contemplation anywhere in this den of iniquity. This is probably to distract the folks who arrived with some form of monetary accruement but, having stuffed their money down the pants of someone they thought was a stripper or plugged it into a machine that, not only takes the money from those who seem less than eager to give-if the look on their faces are to be trusted- but exuberantly celebrates the acquisition at the top of their freaking lungs with actual bells and whistles and jolly music. (That sentence is gasping for breath it ran on so long)
Then there was Cirque Du Soleil’s Love; a stupefyingly extravagant tribute to the Beatles. The blaring, pulsating, tawdry noise wrapped in mummified drunkenness outside of this theater in the round, is wiped from the memory by the awe inspiring, mind bogglingly beautiful representation of the miracle that was The Beatles.
Human beings move in such a way as to place doubt in their home planet. Searing euphoria and palpable nostalgia is accompanied by wave after wave of the most beloved songs the twentieth century, or any other century can lay claim. The spectacle was equal to the Herculean task of capturing the sparkling, but brief moment in time when John, Paul and George…fine, and Ringo united as a musical force called the Beatles.
Oh, and I like that they played the music of the Four Seasons in the elevators.