Monthly Archives:

September 2011

A word, if I may, on some of the fashion I encountered in Las Vegas (and I will not be posting any ‘People of Wal-Mart’ style photos – I’m not feeling that cruel). The fashion of Vegas was like a glitzy version of the Jersey Shore, and that’s meant to be every bit as horrendous as it sounds. The ladies – if we can call them such – were in dresses so tiny that they often rose above their thong-threaded ass cracks. The boobs were barely contained. The make-up was… heavy and excessive. Don’t even get me started on the shoes. All I’m going to say is that if you can’t walk in high heels, don’t fucking walk in high heels. That looks worse than no heels at all, and all that hunching is not doing anything for your posture or back.

As for the guys, they fared no better. Board shorts and a tank top (or no top at all, when there really should have been), or jeans and a plaid button-down shirt were the only outfits that any of the gentlemen seemed able to pull off (when they weren’t pulling out a beer from a 12-pack in the doorway of a Walgreens). I’m gagging just thinking about it.

Bottom line, the fashion I witnessed was just one big sad, sorry mess. I expected glamour, I expected glitz, I expected excess bordering on sleaze, but what I found was just pathetic. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the venue, but whatever the case, it was dismal.

I opted for casual summer garb, but turned it out with a couple of jackets and some pastel-hued pants. It turns out I could have gotten by with swim trunks and a tank-top with nary a raised eyebrow – and I’m talking for dinner and shows. But really, what could I have expected from the preferred playground of pop-culture pseudo-celebrities like Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian?

While much of this narrative is coming out more negative than intended, there were definite charms to Las Vegas, beginning with the shows. Though the Venetian pumps out Phantom music ad nauseum (it houses the Vegas version of Phantom of the Opera) and from every possible outlet (elevator, hallway, gondola rides, Canal shops, even the street outside), there is more to be seen, including several Cirque de Soleil productions.

For our first show we saw ‘Le Reve’ at the Wynn, a hybrid of water and aerials (and not technically affiliated with Cirque de Soleil), and its intimate seating arrangement and dynamic production was an inspiration.

The next night I took in its pre-cursor, ‘O’at the Bellagio – actually quite a different animal entirely. While ‘Le Reve’ was impressive in its acrobatic aqua-technics, ‘O’ burned with a more resonant and haunting flame, weaving a dream-like hypnotic state in its wake. Both were a thrill to behold, but while billed as a night of theater, that emotional push and pull of a proper play or musical was somewhat lacking.

These are spectacles – you may marvel and gasp at some of the physical antics and visual tricks, but there is little to tug at the heart or challenge the head. Like the city they inhabit, there is a façade of glamorous tendencies that, if one isn’t careful, can seem like a lot, but in the end there is little substance behind it, except what you bring to the table. Sometimes that’s money, and sometimes that’s meaning.

The visuals are indeed a sight to see, though, so the best way to enjoy them is to take them in as a thing of beauty, one of the delights of Las Vegas – fleeting, superficial, and just dazzling enough to make it worthwhile – once.

I am sitting in V Bar at the Venetian, my subtly-scented home for the next few days. It is my first drink in Las Vegas – a grapefruit cocktail concocted by the bartender upon my request. Not too sweet, but not too terribly tart. The day is hot. As luck, and poor planning, would have it, Las Vegas has had three consecutive days of record-breaking heat (think 110 degrees) that looks to continue for the duration of my stay. On a good day, I hate the heat. When it gets to the high 80’s I’m uncomfortable. In the 90’s, I’m miserable. And in the 100’s, there’s no telling what atrocities I’ll inflict on an unsuspecting public.

Everyone told me not to worry – that this is a dry heat, not as sticky. Well, everyone is full of shit. 104 degrees is still 104 degrees – dry, wet, or soaked in gin. This is the kind of heat that hits you in the face as soon as you leave an air conditioned area. It’s difficult to describe if you’ve never been in it. Most of us have had that hot summer day moment in a city, when a bus or subway train stops in front of you, and the intense heat from the engine hits you right in the face, and it’s awful. Then the bus or train moves along and there’s the relief of coolness immediately afterward. Well, imagine that intense heat around you ALL THE TIME. It is relentless, it is energy-draining, and it literally left me with a headache after a few minutes of walking around outside. Still, Las Vegas, or so I was told, is not about what’s outside, but what is in…

After touching down at the airport and getting an initial thrill from seeing the Strip right there – big, bold and brash in the midst of the desert, and then watching it get bigger and bigger as we approached, my first impression was that it was, actually, largely unimpressive. It had immensity, it had bold, bright neon colors, but mostly it had the blatantly hollow and unmistakable air of FAKE to it. There was nothing real or authentic here – and while that may be the whole point of Vegas, it’s something I could never quite reconcile.

What’s the point of recreating Paris or New York or the canals of Venice (and all pretty badly) and pretending it’s beautiful, or even an approximate version of the real thing? And why would anyone come to the desert to see such a theme park? The same notion of paltry imitation I felt from Epcot Center as a kid is back again in adult form. Or supposed adult form, as the baby carriages and screaming children were rampant everywhere we went. Someone once likened Las Vegas to a Disneyworld for adults, and I can see that. Though as someone who never fully loved the Disneyworld experience as a kid, I was similarly underwhelmed here.

A word on the accommodations: The Venetian Las Vegas, and its sister property The Palazzo, are, on the surface, pretty enough. They’ve done their best to recreate the charm of Venice, from the Gondola rides (at $16 a pop, and electronically-guided) to the baroquely-gilded ceilings and archways, painted garishly in Renaissance-like scenery. The grand hallway off the lobby is a sight to behold, as is the immense scope and size of the front courtyard, but it rings of emptiness, of façade.

As for the room itself, it was billed as a full-on suite, and it was. My sixth-floor location looked onto the roof of the rest of the Venetian complex, and not much else, so any stunning vista of the strip was a world away, replaced by endless vents and ducts and fans.

Browsing the pamphlets on the hotel desk, I read that they recently received another 5-diamond AAA award, which seemed at odds with the two blown light bulbs in the bathroom and hallway, as well as the electrical outlet which the front desk tells me to simply reset, as it occasionally goes out. The holes in the pillowcases were disappointing, as were a few questionable stains on the couch, but those are nit-picky items – just unexpected for all the five-star billing that they’re so keen on advertising.

Overlooking all of that, I was determined to have fun, and to surprise my birthday mate Kim. The whole point of this trip was to meet up with JoAnn and Kim, and surprise the latter for her birthday. JoAnn and I hatched the surprise dinner at Tao a few weeks ago. We weren’t sure we could do it – a secret like that is too good to keep – but after putting an embargo on all things Vegas in FaceBook and my website, and only telling a few close friends of our plan, we looked set to pull it off. I dabbed on some of Tom Ford’s ‘Italian Cypress’ cologne – hey, when at the Venetian… and made my way down to V Bar to await the appointed moment.

Next to me, a woman with a 20’s-style bob, decked out in a sparkling, spaghetti-strap sequin dress, sits next to a man whom I assume is her husband, and whose outfit pales in comparison (a rather touristy striped polo shirt and khakis). I wonder if she is the slightest bit disappointed – her face is made-up perfectly, a slash of dark lipstick matches the severity of her bob. Her black earrings sparkle, catching what little light surrounds us.

The bartender has made an admirable effort, so I stay for one more drink before joining the girls at Tao. From the tray of nuts he has placed before me, I take a single walnut. It reminds me of Gram – and there, in a strange city, by myself at the bar, this melancholy memory makes me feel even more alone.

There is an exquisite joy – and sometimes grave pain – in being out of one’s element in a land far from home.