Dear Las Vegas,
We need to talk. My wife and I just spent a weekend with you,
the second time we visited this year. And we’re not even Las Vegas people. We
don’t gamble or drink. We like the musical artists and the light show at the
Bellagio fountain. But all the glitz and glamour and alcohol and cigarette smoke
and ear-splitting and soul crushing noise are way too much for our
not-so-gentle souls.
First, we like the people. I know service industry folk
thrive on being kind, but it seems as if you are filled with genuinely nice
people. From the waiter at the Hash House to the staff at the Strat Café to the
tattoo artists at Iron Horse, everyone was inordinately pleasant.
Second, if you don’t gamble or drink, prices are fairly
reasonable. Three of us ate at the all-you-can-eat buffet at the Palms Hotel
and Casino for $33. And there were two tofu dishes. OK, I did leave my backpack
open and the book of short stories I was reading fell out somewhere between the
bathroom and the parking lot, but we never paid more than $35 for dinner and always
under $25 for breakfast and lunch.
Third, there are neighborhoods with regular stores and
regular people. We sat for a couple of hours yesterday at the Barnes and Noble café
and read magazines, and I drank tea. The bookstore was tucked in a strip mall
with a movie theater and Hobby Lobby (boo, hiss).
But there is so much about you that troubles me. Why do so
many people smoke just about everywhere? We were in town to see Reba McIntyre with
Brooks and Dunn at Caesar’s Colosseum Theater which has a strict no smoking
policy. But as soon as the show ended the men’s bathroom was filled with more
smoke than choke-inducing Mumbai at rush hour.
And everyone has a drink, usually alcoholic. I’m not
teetotaler, but people started drinking early and never stopped or started late
and never ended. I am not sure. The guy sitting next to me at the Reba show was
lit after having had at least four 24-ounce beers during the nearly 2 ½ hour
show.
Don’t get me started on the gambling. People deserve to have
fun and throw away their hard-earned cash. But the casino at the hotel where we
stayed looked like a scene out of the Walking Dead. Scores of people stared
into the slot machines and silently and obediently dropped their coins in again
and again. I imagine the amount of money spent in your town over the course of
a day, a week, a month, I am not sure, could pay down the national debt.
I know what you’re thinking: if you hate me so much then why
did you come knocking on my front door and stay at the penis poking the sky
hotel the Stratosphere? Well, my wife loves country music, so we saw Cher in
May and thought we had to fulfill a time-share obligation this time. By the
time I wrangled myself out of having to sit for another 2-hour session, I’d
already bought plane tickets, the hotel, the rental car, and two tickets to a
show.
I first visited you in 2001 after a week of camping at the
Grand Canyon. You made a terrible impression then, too. Blaring lights,
oppressive heat, a cacophony of music and noise. I vowed never to return. I
made good on that promise for 17 years.
Well, I shall be back. Probably next March to see Cher again.
So, do something. Go on a diet. Take better care of yourself. Read a book.
Listen to some jazz. Maybe we can go for a run or bike ride together? But if you
find my book, Maigret’s Christmas by Georges Simenon, the thick paperback with
the blue leather Westminster Abbey bookmark, give me a call. You know how to
find me.
