It’s a Tuesday night and I’m in Vegas. I hate Vegas. I love Vegas.
I’m a little buzzed and the music is far too loud. Tell me that you know me but you don’t really know me but it doesn’t even matter.
Why do I hate Vegas? Because I hate amusement parks. Vegas is begging for you to ride its pony, go ahead, that saddle’s waiting.
Vegas is the fake excess, maxed out. People come to Vegas, eat their complementary shrimp cocktail and leave. People come to Vegas to feel like they matter. They stay in pretty hotels and take pictures against pretty flashing lights. They wear their finest clothes and send their dollar bills down the throats of slot machines. People see the fake Eiffel Tower, the plywood Coliseum, and they feel they are going somewhere in life. They see the chlorinated Venice Grand Canal and they feel like they know what they’re talking about. Someone refill that man’s margarita tube.
Vegas is Rome. Vegas is Rome right before Rome fell. You see Vegas and you never want to touch capitalism again. You see Vegas and you think, the American dream is Elvis’ ghost.
Vegas is great if you haven’t been to Europe. If you’ve never had a chance to see and feel and taste the real thing. Vegas is nicely clustered, and did you want girls, because strip clubs have free limo service. Nothing complements ‘I’m a confident male’ like arriving in a limo at a strip club.
How much are people willing to pay for fantasies? A lot. Even people like me, although in our fantasies we’re just smarter than everyone else.
But Vegas does have great shopping. Waist cincher, designer dress, shoes and bag for under $300? Holla. Before you judge me, please understand I’m paid to say the right things while looking good. The trick of the trade is the business card timely handed by well-manicured hands.
I understand why Vegas exists. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas because you can't pack up smoke and mirrors. And it makes me a little sad, and it makes me feel a little hollow, but I get it. It’s all right. Enjoy...
