Viva Las Vegas!

Since my husband believes that the musical sun rises and sets to Billy Joel, I decided to sweep him away to Sin City to see the Piano Man in concert during my hubby’s birthday weekend. One heads for Las Vegas with so much hope. You can imagine yourself tapping the button to that magical slot machine that will start dinging, and with lights flashing wildly announce that you’ve won $10,000. As you’re on that flight from the drab Pacific Northwest to the warm, sunny dessert, you close your eyes as if to save all of your vision to drink up the spectacular neon signs.

We arrived in Vegas on a Saturday evening just in time to watch the sunset and ogle the illumination of the enormous casino hotels. Jeff and I had ventured to Vegas while I was still pregnant with Rachael nearly three years ago, and we were surprised to see that the Strip had expanded at least a mile each way. The Stratosphere used to be located way at the end of the Strip away from everything, but now the hotels and construction had made its way to the base of the spire.

The Strip had also gotten wider. We stayed at the Hilton, Elvis’ former stomping ground, at least two streets away from the busy boulevard, but the traffic there was just as bad as the actual Strip. Despite the expansion, Vegas was still Vegas, and this was made crystal clear as we inched our way, transported in our rented Jeep Wrangler, up to the Bally’s hotel sign. There in front of us was an enormous ass; a thonged, female, shapely ass that stood at least ten stories tall and belonged to one of the bejeweled, feathered performers in their house burlesque shows.

We got to the sold out Billy Joel show in the nick of time taking our seats as the lights went out and the music began. He played a thorough repertoire of songs, most of which I knew by heart, because my mom had been a huge Billy Joel fan and played his albums while I was growing up. Jeff was sitting beside me having the time of his life, while the annoying hand clapping lady sat a few people away from me on the right.

If you have ever been to a concert, or any public event for that matter, there are people in the crowd who should be shot or thrown from the building, and one of them is the annoying hand clapping lady. She does a monotone clap through the entire performance, no matter what the pace of the music is, and seems to be completely unaware that she’s irritating the hell out of everyone around her. She, along with the girls in front of you who think it’s cute to make everyone in their row get up like 100 times during the show, can really make a simple concert goer pro-nuclear.

Jeff and I decided to avoid the crowd at the parking garage and went into the casino to gamble; unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea, so we waited an hour to get a drink that never came and departed the MGM Grand for a smaller establishment with better odds.

Another thing about Vegas that never seems to change is the whole Sin City thing. Back in the mid-90s they tried in vain to make Las Vegas into a family place, and failed miserably. I remember thinking back then that there should be a few vacation destinations where kids are not allowed, and now that I’m a parent, I know Vegas is definitely one of those places. Thankfully, they’ve gotten back into the business of appealing to an older demographic, but the bad thing is that they are now targeting the college student/frat brother market, and they have the sexism to prove it.

I know Vegas has never been politically correct, nor do I expect it to be. However, while I’m rolling down the street in my boxy toaster on wheels enjoying the lights, I don’t know if I can appreciate a billboard advertising a supposedly trendy new nightclub that simply reads, “Saline or Silicone.” The waitresses are still scantily clad; while the pit bosses get to wear suits and tuxes, and tits are, well, everywhere. Even the sign for the country ‘n’ western hangout, Gilly’s, had a cowgirl with the nastiest set of inflata-boobs I’ve seen in quite awhile.

Women love sin too, so how come the only thing that Vegas uses to appeal to us is a few measly cabtop signs that advertise the “Thunder from Down Under” male review show? All us gals know that anything that young, buffed, and good looking is most likely gay, and not many of us are going to pay $50 to see some guy in a thong wiggle his ass on stage, no matter how much tanning oil he has dripping off of it.

As you might have guessed, neither of us won the $10,000 we had dreamed of, but since we are a couple of cheap-assed Jews, we didn’t lose that much either. In fact, much to the amusement of our Asian friends, who have admitted to us that those of that particular ethnicity are notorious gamblers, Jeff and I took $100 each and managed to return home with 40% of it minus our meals and a gift for Rachael.

It’s nice to know that a place nicknamed Sin City is just a three hour plane ride away, and I like the fact that I can go about every four years for a couple of days and not feel the need to return any sooner. I would like to eventually win that $10,000, but I also know that the fabulous, new Wynn casino wasn’t built on average people winning fortunes, just the idiots dreaming of having a shot in hell at winning them.