An Oasis of Sin. It's a Terrible Place, & I love it

The biggest holiday weekend of Spring was celebrated, Vegas Style. Due to itinerary complications surrounding the hugeness of the state of California, I was flying there. And lucky for me, the trip to the Sacramento airport included a drawn out ride via Greyhound's absurd routes. I arrived early to check in for the bus, because some neurosis of my adolescence left a predisposition for preparing for the worst case scenario (which in all conditions is the failure to make transportation deadlines). Thus, I waited hours at the station and was fourth to check in for the bus to Oakland.

Yes, Greyhound suffers so as the only interstate transportation company for travelers who need to bring illegal drugs on vacation, and the carless, that the one hundred mile direct route from Santa Rosa to Sacramento can only be accomplished by going all the way to Oakland to switch buses after a two hour layover. But wasn’t I lucky for that schedule, because the bus had been oversold and only the first nine people to check in were allowed on the bus, which took an additional ninety-five minutes to depart as the driver and station attendant dueled over responsibility and complaint forms. Sorry, perhaps I needed to rant- as we all waited a passenger with specific needs decided that when he was standing next to where I was sitting down was the best time to forget about holding in the gas in his bowels. But I digress.

She did that for twenty bucks?!

I flew into Vegas on Thursday morning and caught a shuttle to the strip. I sat next to a well mannered chap who appeared to have only brought his golf clubs along. We were both in the city for bachelor parties, but he was a newbie, and so I took it upon myself to bestow my knowledge acquired from my last two visits to the city. A woman I met at Bear Republic Brewery kindly informed me of the best strip joints and clubs to visit, and of course I also told him to eat at the Bellagio Buffet.

Walking along the strip is always a real treat. It's mesmerizing, enchanting, bewitching. Nothing beats the neon lights in the blackness of the desert night- all the brilliant colors of the florescent rainbow, flashing signs with gigantic Celine Dions at Caesar’s and illuminated, choreographed fountain jets at Bellagio that dance to classic melodies. But even in the dreary desert daytime, the city is so surreal, so very terrible and wicked in its sinful magnificence, that walking the street, ignoring the flyer-flickers who want you to call the prostitutes in the pictures, or the creepy old guy who asks your friend if its her on the flyer; that keeping your eyes on the glass walled highrises that flash green and gray and gold in the sunlight, or on the women passing by as you play the guess which one is a prostitute game; that smelling the frying grease from fatburger and the sugary tequila from Margaritaville; that all those sights, sounds, smells, tastes, even the touches of deranged strangers you really should avoid; all seduce you until you want to see more naked shows, to spend all your money on the hedonism the city embodies, exploits, and excels in promoting. We should be proud that our species has successfully generated a development that so capably fulfills its purpose. It is a guilty pleasure. It is another world. And it is not America, but it is distinctly American.

After checking into the hotel- the Aladdin is now Planet Hollywood, how sad- I drew a bath and had a nap. My last visit fortunately included a successful bribe of the hotel clerk, (I had drawn and discreetly wrapped a twenty around my credit card when checking in, but the manager carefully watched the clerk assisting me, and I was given no opportunity to bribe) which got my party a suite upgrade, but at the Sahara even the freebie suites aren’t as nice as this mid-strip deluxe room. The upholstery, duvet, and wallpaper were fabulous large prints in dark desert colors. The carpet design almost induced vertigo by elaborate fleur de leis, and the tub in the bathroom was nearly elegant. After my respite, I took on the Desert Passage. This is a humongous mall that is in the hotel. Around five or so, since no one was to arrive for another six hours, I bought a movie ticket and set about finding a restaurant. This is not difficult: there are about thirty in the mall. However I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day except ten peanuts and an artificially sweetened yogurt, so my meal decision was very important.

I selected well, choosing a casual sit-down place with a nice menu. The bartender told me the drink special was 3 4 1, which confused me. Then he explained that three drinks would cost the price of one, and I figured this meant I could drink my wine as fast or slow as I liked. No, not at all. This means that the bartender pressures you into ordering a second glass, then says it’s a better deal if he pours a third. I didn’t finish my glass, but nearly yelled at him when finally informed that 3 4 1 actually means three drinks for the one easy price of 14 dollars. Yes, one glass of wine costs eight. Two glasses cost sixteen. Three, fourteen. It makes perfect sense. Don’t get your panties in a bunch over it, he said to me. I left.

After the movie, which I had a fabulous time at, laughing more than anyone, so it was good I didn't have a date.... I returned to Dessert Passage. I picked up a bottle of regular cheap champagne, and a bottle of girly cheap champagne, played around on the atrociously priced internet (12 dollars a day!) and waited. When my brother and my sister-in-law-to-be arrived, I greeted them in the hall with the bottle of really cheap stuff, and we settled in to catch up. It was so good to see them. I had no idea how accustomed to being a loner I had recently become.

The next day we met the new arrivals at the pool midmorning for some sunbathing, stogies, and colorful tropical drinks. It’s Vegas! After a large group was assembled, we separated for boy/girl plans, met up once more for Mezcal in the boys room, then learned that three ladies in the bachelorette party got a free complimentary suite upgrade. I headed up with my future sister to the fabulous mansion of a room, where we met the rest of the bachelorette party. I mixed drinks and the ladies got to know each other, which went swimmingly, the potential awkwardness assuaged by my potent tequila infused cocktails (and of course the sweeping commonalities of kindness, generosity, intelligence, and humor in this fine bunch).

The eleven of us were dressed to kill and set off to find Hyakumi, the upscale sushi restaurant in Caesar’s. I even got a business card and free passes to a club for us for the weekend (not rare, just special, ok?).

Hyakumi had a lovely staff and a spectacular selection of sushi, although not as creative as my favorite place in Western Mass. The sake was smooth, the tofu perfectly firm, and of course the rolls were expertly crafted. We had a lovely dinner.

The next stop on the bachelorette party agenda was Thunder From Down Under, the Australian Chippendales show. We arrived a bit late due to the delay in finding our mustaches, a superb costume idea from one of the ladies, who distributed styles and colors appropriately. Mine was black and trim, reminding some of Paris. The bachelorette wore a stunning gray handlebar. We found that the accessory offered quite the easy line to men, and for the rest of the night a couple of the ladies were hounded with lines ranging from the most convenient “you’re wearing a mustache,” to the frat boy braying of “dirty sanchez!” and my personal favorite “it’s crooked. If you want to wear a mustache at least wear it straight.” And so it was in a flourish of brightly colored tops, pretty coiffures, and stylish facial hair that we entered Excalibur and tried to find the theater.

Thunder From Down Under is a show designed for bachelorette parties that are looking to avoid the discomfort of actually seeing strangers nude. The men are sculpted from some beautiful, greased-up, homosexual stone and never show what's hidden under the banana hammocks. We determined that at least three of them were former male cheerleaders from the spirit in their choreography. The beginning was a group number, then with the sexy use of cheap props, most performed a solo inspired by a typical female fantasy that was flirtaciously acted out with a volunteer from the audience. Now for all my careful dissecting of the performance in such a skeptical tone, know that the men did their best to keep out of perfect rhythm, thus sustaining the illusion of heterosexuality, and that I was screaming and jumping and clapping until my throat was sore. Because for all the cheesiness and rehearsed unsexy cartwheels, just a couple of times, I thought that maybe if I screamed loud enough, one would see me from under the rim of his Justin Timberlake tipped cap or knight’s helmet, fall desperately in love, and work as a stripper to support us for the rest of our happy lives.

After the show our dear bachelorette escaped without a forced volunteer romp on stage and we moved to the bar. Tequila all around, then the need to fill the large gap in the agenda. Some had mentioned the trendy ultralounge Rain, or Ghost Bar, or another one in the Palms, so we mobilized and checked out the line. The line was just fine because the cover was a whopping $30. So we gathered at the bar, had some vodka cranberries and shots of jack (I was wearing a mustache, the choice was made for me), and decided on ‘80s night at Mandalay Bay. Someone got us a limo, and off we went in style! I wanted to stand up with my torso out the sunroof, but the driver claimed it was broken. I thought of that episode of Six Feet Under when the lady gets her head smashed  on a low bridge by doing that, so although I told the driver I didn’t believe him, I fully supported his decision to keep the window shut.

The band at ‘80s night was great! In fabulous getup they played The Cure and The Cutting Crew and all the great hits as if they were lipsynching… We danced for hours. We created a very protective shield around ourselves, the great girl circle on the dance floor. Shoes eventually marked the center, although not quick enough, I have nerve damage in my toes from those hot little heels.

The night ended at PF Changs, where we impulsively went to feed before crashing. As soon as most of us sat down, any energy retained was immediately spent, and the night was over. But if you find yourself in that position, I highly recommend the fruit smoothie.

Saturday was mellow. The heat was blazing, just how I like it, and we were all dehydrated and somewhat hungover. The boys had visited the strip joint that one had heard George Clooney frequents, and I very much enjoyed the conversation that was repeated a few times over the course of the day between any of the three guys who got a lap dance and all the others who didn’t. It went something like this.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to get one, I mean, they were beautiful women, but I just wasn’t into it. I mean, how expensive was it, anyway?”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Shit!” or “Shit! I would have gotten three!”

Many went to the Bellagio Buffet. The vegetarian thing helped me do very well, completing three full plates and a little dessert. There's no excuse to not go if you haven't been yet: where else can you eat an ostrich egg omelet, or pile sushi on your plate next to fresh french toast covered with bread pudding or snow crab legs! It's the freedom, you see, of the buffet, that brings out the glutton in us all. And you must try the pesto mashed potatoes.

With two sisters and a former classmate of my brother’s I headed out on the strip that afternoon, and we ended up at Bodies: The Exhibition at the Tropicana. Now it did strike me odd that an educational, designed as though for a museum, exhibit would have a home at the Tropicana, but the revenues for this show and others like it all over the country serve as some explanation. The contrast of activities, from Chippendales to video poker to finally seeing what muscle tissue looks like, was so Vegas. And because one of my friends that day is a med student, I learned a lot.

We spent almost four hours in those rooms, in awe over the human body and the intricacy of all the parts and systems. For instance, one of the first displays was the three bones that enable us to hear. Each was barely the size of a comma on this page. The rooms divided the systems of the body after the skeletal room, starting with nervous, then an abbreviated digestive, a whole hell of a lot on circulatory, and finally skin. At times I saw anatomy that I had never read about in textbooks, like the greater omentum, this gross sac of tissue that covers and protects a lot of the abdomen. Omentum means apron in latin. I thought about how a friend had told me that everyone should have to take a medically oriented, immersive anatomy class. I have always agreed and now I know I missed out. Veins and arteries look like coral. I didn’t come up with that. But it’s eerily true. Ponder it awhile.

After Bodies we all met at the suite, where I tended bar again as best I could  for two rounds with few mixers and barely enough gin to keep the martini drinkers satisfied. Everyone happily mingled. The mood got a little rough when an arm-wrestling championship broke out, but that’s just the kind of machismo that surfaces when all these tough guys are gathered with pretty ladies to impress. No, it really wasn’t like that at all. We danced, we sang, we arm-wrestled. It was a grand evening. Eventually people got restless, meaning the boys wanted to gamble more, and most meandered downstairs to give the casino some more money.

Craps is really fun! You get a camaraderie going with the group at the table, and anyone can make everyone a winner, so spirits were up even as money was down. After a sizeable loss some of us went to the bar, some to blackjack, some to bed.

We did Vegas right. All these people, all this planning, were facilitated by cell phones and the size of the group. No one person was in charge, but not going off and doing my own thing was a challenge. This time I’ve given myself, this luxurious period of control, will be hard to release and trade in for a regular life. So I’ve decided to not do that.