During my little respite there, I had the grave misfortune of being forced into a trip to America's Playground, Las Vegas. In spite of the six dollar ATM fees, complete lack of smoking laws, temperatures rivaling those of Hades, uncontrolled tourist traffic (in sweaty herds of drunken conventioneers), and at every turn, boundless seas of gigantic asses perched on high chairs pissing their hard-earned moneys directly into ravenous slot machines, I tried to maintain high spirits. I'd never been there, but I'd heard tales of magnanimous all-you-can-eat buffets, whiskey-fueled partying, strippers, and the idea of walking through the hallowed grounds where the likes of the Rat Pack once convened for similar activities had a certain edged appeal. Whatever.
I should have known better. The harbingers of things to come greeted me at the airport. Seriously, what the fuck happened to the idea of jet-setting? When I was little, my mom used to put together her travel toilette the night before a flight, and it always involved heels and makeup and dashingly tied printed scarves and impeccable sets of Samsonite luggage. Apparently, I missed the memo from the airline letting me know that it was Asshole Day at Delta and that I should dress accordingly.
This guy was the first offender. Yup, you guessed it, it's the Illigitimate Son. Actually, all the benchmarks are there; the oversized clothes, the Chinatown sneakers, the gold chayun fresh out of the nickel presser assembly line coupled with other assorted gold-plated man jewelry of course, the blue-red-white-black power combo, and the oversized sunglasses to hide the look of pained longing in his fatherless eye. But whatever, I figure - we're in the Bronx, he's probably just assorted remnant New York City trash. This guy sexually harrasses me on the subway every day, no biggie.
But then this piece of shit shows up. You know, the Left Coast has it's own brand of very specific asshole that never shows up on our side of town, probably because we consider them to be, you know... homosexuals. The difference between him and the assorted NYC dicks is the fact that he actually pours countless hours of grooming and probably fair amounts of cash into looking THIS GAY. Guys in Vegas have this certain slimey, smarmy, shiny quality that's so much more repellent than the overt forwardness I'm used to - at least that's honest. These guys try to impress you by making themselves look good - which is so gross to watch and even grosser to listen to. If you were there, you would know that this guy a) was on the phone very loudly booking reservations for his VERY IMPORTANT CLIENTS at SPAGO and it has to be for TONIGHT, YOU GOT IT? He flies in at EIGHT SHARP and if it gets FUCKED UP he'll FUCKING KILL SOMEONE; b) was wearing a subtly open-weaved jersey that just hinted at his professionally tanned six pack abs and color-coordinated boxer shorts; c) had on one of those obnoxious fucking Ed Hardy trucker hats with the rhinestones on it; d) was basically faking the funk of a VIP even though his frat tattoos penciled him a complete fraud. Disgusting.
And then there was this. I mean, are you fucking serious?!?!? Can't you just see them making out lists of "Dad Colleges" and "Kid Colleges," and then cross-referencing them to make a Venn Diagram that would eventually become this trip? And Mom having to sit there the entire time even though she'd rather be doing the dishes, but she has to be in the same room because the kid is still attached to her by the umbillical cord? Do you realize that this poor bastard has never even had a girl in his room at their moderate two-story home in Long Island? And that if by some grace of God he actually gets to go away to college, he'll have to commute from his Aunt Alexis and Uncle Rich's house in Reno? And he's more than mildly embarrassed by his sweet matching Little Lord Fauntleroy suit there, and all this agression will one day come pouring out when he's hate-fucking his wife well into their third year of marriage.
But Vegas itself...
As soon as we stepped off the plane, we were greeted by Arctic temperatures and a heavy stench of stagnant cigarette smoke. And the din. OH MY GOD, THE DIN. For some reason, all slot machines are tuned to some note in the key of B flat major, so that at any time all the slots accord to create this otherworldly, constant, CONSTANT chord that is in perfect tune but sounds like mind-numbing, never ending dissonance. It's the creepiest, and it sort of follows you around everywhere you go, because this is a trend throughout all the hotels and casinos and your sleep for the duration of your stay. Then, you step outside to get a taxi to your hotel that's half a mile away (price tag: somewhere in the $30 range), just to realize that the sub-zero temps inside are orchestrated by what must be the world's biggest air-conditioning unit. Since my friends are considerate and booked the reservations at a moderately swanky hotel, we expected that our temporary digs would provide at least a moderate deviation. Oh no. You walk into the lobby, and smack in the middle of the floor, stretching in every which direction, POW! Slot machines! Poker tables! Craps games! Freezing cold and the stench! And the din! THE DIN EVERYWHERE!!!
