Why Is Las Vegas?
It's difficult to adequately diss Las Vegas because most sentient beings wouldn't understand why it was necessary, while those who actually go there on purpose do so with vigor. In other words, the intentionals wouldn't begin to understand when I say that Linda and I spent sixteen hours in this sewer, almost half of it in our hotel room, and it felt like we were in a foreign country; a sick one, like Haiti or Bosnia. Built by gangsters, run by deprivers of the depraved, this is what Hell would feel like to anyone with a sense of decency, intellect, and hope. Okay, there are no doubt some acceptable reasons for the city to exist — there are some good people, perhaps lost, living there — and I hear tell that some of the entertainment is quite spectacular. But for the most part, I'd suggest most everyone who goes there deliberately — to enjoy what makes the city famous — ought to be sterilized.
Perhaps it's coming from California, now lushly lime green from the winter rains, where the Pacific vibrations resonate with the souls of those who would be tuned, plopping down in this electro-desert morass is physically discomfiting, for a start. Walk into the lobby of a hotel or restaurant, and the nostrils are assaulted with the tobacco industry's answer to public health, not to mention the cheapest available perfume, mixed with a palpable smell of primitive. Then there's the clanking of the slot machines, the clinking of ice cubes, contra-harmonizing the plus-decibelic drone of too many too loud creatures in a confined space.
We stayed at the Ex-caliber, something of an anachronism next to the Bellagio, Mandalay Bay, and Luxor. It features sub-Disney medieval towers of assorted colors not found in nature, situated amidst the Eiffel Tow'r, the Statue of Lib'rty, a p'ramid, and a giant sph'nx. Of course everything is giant. The whole raison d'etre of this septic truck stop is suck in the suckers in huge numbers, turn 'em upside down and shake 'em 'til their pockets are empty and their plastic's been canceled, and shove 'em out the back door.
If walking through the lobby wasn't bad enough — keep your head down; try not to notice who else is there — driving felt like demolition derby without the accidents. The inherent freneticism of the city makes Times Square feel civilized. Maybe it's those huge electronic video displays whose strobic effects could turn a stomach or at least dangerously distract any but the seasoned local. It was kinda like being in the midst of an MTV video; lots of flash, but no elan.
We were there for an engagement party. Linda's son-in-law's brother, a very nice fellow from Jordan was promising to marry a delightful young Lebanese woman. His substantial family arrived from the Southland for the ritual petitioning at the maid's manse, and then a horde descended on a local Middle Eastern restaurant. Regrettably the spot they chose was not up to their standards. The owner, dressed in a black untucked-in shirt and black pants — his version of noir sans gout — sat in the corner with a couple of scantily-glad women while his clients waited hours to be fed by a single waitress who made it through the evening without screaming. Most likely because the celebrants were polite and patient, and didn't get enough to drink soon enough.
I can understand that people have different tastes and that to shallow lives, mega-glitz and the self-flagellating thrill of dice and cards can provide much of life's meaning. What I can't understand is why the wedding can't be held in Los Angeles instead.
And that's SetonnoteS...I'm Tony Seton.
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