Into the Fun House

I’ve just woken up from eleven hours of sleep preceded by two day-naps and am finally feeling more or less alive—that means I’ve just come back from Las Vegas. The Strip these days is a marathon survival course: 105 degrees in the day and non-stop temptation at night. I overheard the cabin attendant on the plane back to Denver saying that she had spent four days leave in Vegas and had slept only eight hours during that whole time. That’s not surprising because the hotels have nothing in the rooms to encourage you to stay out of the casinos. There wasn’t even a coffee maker in our otherwise luxurious room in the Bellagio—just tons of booze in the room fridge.

After a couple of drinks, though, it didn’t really seem to matter where you were. Hotels began to look alike—one large casino room in the middle of a theme park. You had to look for the lions to know it was the MGM or the Italianate marble floors and elaborate garden for the Bellagio, the Egyptian frieze to know it was Ceasar’s, the close-up of a woman’s behind in a thong to know it was Bally’s, or the New York shop fronts or the French stores etc. etc. Otherwise the machines were the same, the card tables were the same, the mini-dressed cocktail servers were the same, the important-looking people in a hurry with their with walkie-talkies were the same, and the gigantic statuary (griffins, lions, athletes etc) were the same.

But if Las Vegas itself has a sameness once the novelty wears off, that can’t be said for the people. English was definitely only one language among many. This wasn’t the Manolo shoes or Dior and Armani crowd. These were people happy to wear t-shirts spelling out the words Las Vegas in rhinestones. Children were few and far between and even those were misbehaving as if they knew they were where they shouldn’t be. When we checked in, three little Asian girls were playing chase around the fountains in the extremely crowded lobby. No one said a thing. What plays in Vegas stays in Vegas, after all.

The Bellagio’s casino floor was actually fairly quiet except for the din of atonal chimes and the occasional loud music announcing some bonus spin. Husbands and wives occupied side by side slot machines, playing what looked like traditional diamond games. Single women went more for the theme machines: hoot loot, wheel of fortune, Texas Tea which made a mooing sound if you won, Cleopatra, Blue Coyote which howled etc. Single men tended to either play the card tables or sit seriously at the slots, dragging on their cigarettes or cigars and taking a long time before pushing the spin button or pulling the arm—as if willing the machines to produce the solid payline. Some spent hours at the same machine. They probably broke even with the free drinks though, which was about the only free thing in the entire city.

The casino floor at the Wynn did come alive at 1:30 am—which is why I was short on sleep. A group of young women on a girls’ night out took up station in front of the Oz machine. They cheered everything. They cheered the wicked witch, they cheered Judy when she said they didn’t seem to be in Kansas any more, they cheered Glenda, they even cheered winning two quarters when they were playing five. Only the action from the men over at the dice table rivaled them. A roar would go up when the dice fell out the right way. There’s nothing like doing something physical, it seems, when you’re out for a night on the town and just want fun.

In the end having fun—or trying to—is really what Las Vegas is about. I’ve found that after the initial novelty wears off, gambling can be rather boring unless you’re serious about it and unless you are winning. It’s always amazing to me how everyone says they win. Maybe losing is not something you want to admit. I will. I won and lost several fortunes in my two days: up $40, down $40, up $30, down $30, finally ending down $30 again. Like everyone else I hate losing money, but I look on it as a money raffle. Just maybe one day I’ll be lucky.

What I really do appreciate are the fabulous food, the amazing opulence, and the glorious over-the-top excess of casinos trying to out do one another. It’s something like Oz—over the rainbow, a yellow brick road through the casinos, confusion about how to get out of the place, no sleep unless you lie down in the poppies—and, like the wizard, not real at all.