Brent Hopkins Hopkins is just bitter because he lost $5 and never got offered any free stuff. Make fun of him by writing to afropic@ucla.edu Click Here for more articles by Brent Hopkins
For once, I’m going to have to differ with the great Elvis Presley. The King tells us “Viva Las Vegas,” but I just can’t hang with that. As far as I’m concerned, Vegas must die.
Where does this bitterness stem from? I took a little odyssey this weekend, one to the very heart of America’s nasty, rotten core. My gas tank filled and stereo cranked, I pointed my Honda eastward and hit I-15, beginning a pilgrimage towards this modern day Pleasure Island. Its neon-filled city limits penned me in for less than twenty hours, but while there, I gained a frightening insight into the way our society works.
I don’t want to come off as some hyper-puritan here, throwing out words like “Sodom and Gomorrah” and “pit of sin” like there was no tomorrow. All the stuff that goes on in that town is fine with me — I have no ethical problems with Vegas’ existence, and I sure won’t be firing off any nasty letters to Congress, demanding a constitutional amendment that makes the entire state of Nevada illegal. Gambling, drinking and showgirl-ogling are all fine and good with me from a moral standpoint.
The frightening thing about this town, however, is that its patrons treat it like an artistic masterpiece. From the way they wander Las Vegas Boulevard, eyes wide with wonder, you’d think that they’d glimpsed paradise. The clanging alarms, flashing lights and $3.95 prime rib buffets are an interesting cultural phenomenon, I guess, but they sure ain’t the high culture that most of these people seem to think it is.
If you go with the proper mindset, like you’re watching a B-movie at two in the morning, then it’s a nifty place. As much as I loathe the city, I had a pretty good time there, since I was laughing at the gaudiness. Most of the folks there, however, are photographing all the tacky splendor.
My friends and I perhaps erred a bit in our choice of accommodations. Rather than laying out the $400 bucks a night to put ourselves up at the Aladdin or any of the supposedly “nice” hotels, we opted for the Rodeway Inn and Suites. Doesn’t ring a bell? Don’t be surprised— you won’t be seeing any commercials with Andrea Bocelli scores for Rodeway anytime soon. But nonetheless, it was cheap and convenient, so I can’t complain about that. Maybe, though, if I’d gone in for some of those big suites, I’d be converted into a tried and true Vegasite.
Likely not.
After checking into our economy room, my friends and I hit the pavement in search of a good time. Looking for the ultimate in sleaze, my friends and I skipped the Strip and cruised to Downtown first. You won’t find the mega-resorts here, where there’s some semblance of family entertainment — this is where the sad, worn out gamblers go in an attempt to win back that last paycheck before the repo-man relieves them of their car and television.
Not surprisingly, it wasn’t too tough to find that cherished sleaze. As we strolled beneath the giant awning, which acted as an immense screen for badly-animated dancing figures, I saw a cavalcade of pathetic figures reveling. Their jaws dropped, their eyes widened and their sweating hands clutched their beer bottles even tighter as the lights blazed even brighter than day. The mass huddled beneath the shining lights, transfixed by neon cartoons that even the dumbest four year-old would find boring.
‘Why?’ you ask — because it’s big. The vast majority of the comments I overheard involved things like “Man, I ain’t never seen no movie that big before!”
I figured that this was the end of the road, that I’d hit rock bottom on my first try. Unfortunately for humanity, it gets worse. Much worse.
A scant 25 feet from this huge display of electronic opulence, I found a free topless show. Free! Not that cheesecake reviews are particularly tasteful at any price, but something tells me that the patrons of this “gentleman’s club” aren’t exactly the James Bonds of contemporary Vegas. Then again, I didn’t go in, so who knows, it could have been pretty and artistic inside. Call me an irresponsible journalist if you want, but even for the purposes of this article, I didn’t want to watch these women strut their stuff for a crowd of losers too cheap to pay for their porno.
Next we have the casino itself, probably the deepest shaft of sleaze. It doesn’t matter where you go, from the gilded MGM-Grand to the crud-bucket dives I was scoping out down in Downtown, the casino floor is the worst of the worst. Smoke-filled, loud, embellished by carpets that are almost as loud as the constant ringing of the slot machines, these rooms are a sad, sad sketch of what America likes.
Even at three in the morning, these places were filled with sorry characters. Some looked like they were making friends, cheering on their fellow players at the craps table. Most, however, played alone, smoking their way through a pack of Marlboros and running fingers through thinning hair until their funds ran out. These are the ones who staggered around the lobby, drunkenly unsure of where they were going, while the floor staff asked “quitting already?”
It’s sad, because the city preys upon people’s worst instincts. Losing big at the roulette wheel? Nothing a complimentary drink won’t fix.
Thinking of moving on? Well, how about a free pack of cigarettes while you’re still gambling?
And people eat it up.
The only place I saw a semblance of happiness was at a quickie wedding chapel, still servicing customers as midnight neared. This was one of the nicer places, where you could get Elvis to walk the bride down the aisle for only a small extra fee. I wasn’t tying the knot myself, just stopping by to check things out. As I was speaking with the clerk, who was a nice guy considering that he was offering marriage ceremonies over the Internet, a newly hitched couple spilled out of the chapel.
The bride, her nose ring shining in the dim light, clutched a bottle of Crown Royal and bellowed with happiness.
“It really works!” she crowed, indicating the new ring on her finger.
Even my hard-hearted, cynical soul had to feel a bit of hopefulness for this couple. They might have kicked things off in the wrong place, but maybe they can escape the chains of Vegas. Maybe they’ll go on to a life of happiness, and not the kind that comes from slamming down straight Southern Comfort after you win at the $2 Blackjack table.
I sure hope so, at least.
As far as voyaging to Vegas goes, whatever you do, don’t go looking for actual quality. You’ll go in with high hopes and go home with a cup full of nickels and the world’s largest headache. There’s nothing really inherently wrong with the city, though – if you go there looking for excitement, then you’re sure to have a good time.