Brent Hopkins Hopkins is just bitter
because he lost $5 and never got offered any free stuff. Make fun
of him by writing to [email protected]
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 “”mdash; 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””mdash; 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 “”mdash; 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 “”mdash; 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.