I was in Las Vegas for a couple of days with my friend Martin. With all respect to my parents, who go there at least once a year, Vegas is a scary place. On my way to the hotel from the airport -- and I swear I'm not making this up -- I saw two guys dressed as Elvis. Now that's scary.
Our hotel (the Mirage) was like another planet, and it really makes you stop and think when you consider that, in Vegas, there are dozens of places just like it. After you check in, you have to weave through what seems like miles of slot machines and restaurants and more slot machines and blackjack tables and still more slot machines before you get to the elevators that will take you to your room. The din of the slot machines dinging and binging unrelentingly assaults you. The glassy-eyed people sitting at the slot machines look mesmerized, but they don't look like they're having a good time. They don't even look happy when they win -- they just automatically start feeding their winnings back into the slots. There are people sitting at those slots at 6:30 in the morning. Are they still sitting there from last night, or did they set an alarm so they wouldn't miss a minute? And all over the city, there are thousands of people doing the same thing -- staring glumly at blinking, dinging boxes while feeding them the contents of their wallet, occasionally going back to the conveniently-located ATM machines for more machine fodder.
Granted, I know I didn't do Vegas the way you're supposed to. The slot machines gave me a headache, and going for a stroll in 100 degree weather with all that traffic was unappealing, so I spent most of my time out with a book at the hotel pool. The pool had waterfalls and palm trees and a bar and was all in all a pretty fine place to spend the day (would have been perfect if the drinks weren't so expensive). The pool wasn't great for doing laps (to the great disappointment of my athletic friend, who stood on the edge of the pool in goggles and speedo, looking in disgust at the people wading around with drinks in their hands, grumbling "These stupid chicks won't get out of my way"), but it was great for lounging and paddling around. Anyway, I gambled a grand total of $24 in the three days I was there, all on slot machines. At one point I was $4 up, but other than that it was more or less a steady downward decline. I started with one of the quarter slot machines, but it took my money too fast, so I switched to the penny slots, and embarked on my three day campaign to get free drinks, which was the main reason I spent any time gambling at all after the first afternoon. My parents had told me that as long as you gamble, the waitresses will keep bringing you free drinks until your eyes bubble, but it didn't seem to work for me. I kept trying to flag down waitresses as I slowly and grudgingly fed dollars into the penny slots, but the waitresses never seemed to see me. I managed only two free drinks the entire three days, and believe me when I say that I tried. My parents laughed hysterically when I told them this, and insisted that they always get drinks when they play penny slots, so it must be something I was doing wrong. Who knows? Maybe scruffy women in bathing suits and shorts carrying wet towels and Trollope novels don't give off "good tipper" vibes. It reminded me of when a friend and I went to see male strippers to celebrate our 21st birthdays (which were six days apart). We were far and away the most attractive women in the place-- although given the competition, that's not saying much -- and we kept waving money in the air, but we couldn't get any of the strippers to dance on our table. We were innocently confused at the time -- how could those guys prefer dancing for those three burly middle-aged women with incipient mustaches to dancing for cute young us? Of course, I now realize that most if not all of those strippers were almost certainly gay, and couldn't care less about cute young us, and the burly women were almost certainly shoving more money down their g-strings.
