Fear and Loathing at the Flamingo: Some Scattered Reflections on a Book and a Dream that Went Sour Before Any of Us Awakened
I cannot adequately express my initial reaction to Las Vegas … it was something like complete outrage. Never has any other place repulsed me so totally. We pulled into town close to midnight on a Monday night and the streets were thronged with ill-mannered, ill-dressed vulgarians moving en masse from one garish spectacle to another. The general ambience was something like that of a frat party … not just any frat party, but one held at the fraternity house having the lowest cumulative GPA on campus, at the campus of a college notorious for accepting any slack-witted imbecile who includes a $45.00 check with his application. There was a kind of uniform in evidence: males of the species favored askew ball caps with baggy athletic clown shorts and oversized T-shirts; females paired stretch micro dresses with stiletto heels … all had used the same mason’s trowel to apply pounds of pancake makeup. It was like a full-scale audition for “Hot Chicks with Douche Bags,” though very few hot chicks were in evidence … if only someone had told these poor creatures that a two inch long skirt is not for everyone. The din of hoots and hollers was unbearable. But wait! We had yet to enter the casino.
After 2 am, the casinos were still packed. Everyone was still “humping the American dream” as HST said, though I wished they looked like caricatures of used car salesmdn from Dallas. There was nothing so tasteful in evidence.
The thing is, everything is so cheap and trashy, not least of all the people themselves.
The appeal of gambling is lost on me.
We are staying at the Flamingo and our burlesque show is said to be “the steamiest show on the strip.” I cannot get excited about the prospect: “The show provides a high energy performance with the use of outrageous props such as bathtubs, guitars, lollipops, and feather boas.” I’m struggling to understand the quality of mind that finds a bathtub “outrageous.” These props are the most pedestrian ones imaginable, but probably suitable for the debased minds that wander into the show. Debbie Reynolds in a silver afro wig singing Sergeant Pepper’s is beginning to sound mighty appealing by comparison.
Elevator 1: On my way down to the mall-like lobby to find coffee. Trapped with a group of Ukrainian tourists, apparently minor functionaries in the Mafia. Most were grumbling good naturedly about having “lost everything” with more than a little ill-advised pride (“learn to enjoy losing”). But one had hit it big at the roulette table playing the number 28. Clearly he was destined for bigger things than his associates. He was wearing those tight high-waisted jeans popular among men involved in east European organized crime.
Elevator 2: A man makes a general comment to the other occupants of the elevator : “Another day in paradise.” There was no hint of irony in his voice, but he was so happy to be hemorrhaging his annual savings and his smile was so sweet and sincere that I couldn’t bring myself to punch him. The other occupant wished him well as he exited the elevator, then turned his attention to my mustache. It is a pretty Vegas-worthy growth and tends to attract uncomfortable attention from other men in elevators. There was the college baseball player from North Dakota who all but proposed marriage to me. But I digress.
Tourists at the strip hotels fall into two camps: foreigners and xenophobic American bigots. Every time the former communicate in something other than good old uh-MERK-in, the latter roll their eyes as if to say, “who let these fuckin’ greasers in.” The foreigners are at least as susceptible to the American Dream as the Americans themselves, if not more so, given the fact that they traveled further to find it.
The pool pairs terrible insipid pop music at high volume with overpriced drinks. More poor fashion sense, though it’s nice to see that some women actually do wear high heels with their bikinis. Men past a certain age display what David Foster Wallace so aptly described as “rat snout tits.”* We leave disappointed when it becomes clear that the promised (and much anticipated on our part) booty shaking contest is not going to happen. Perhaps not enough volunteers signed up, but this seems unlikely, as many young women were practicing desultorily.
Still unable to find a tin ape that shakes dice or a plastic zippo with a roulette wheel embedded in it. That these were $7.50 and $6.95 respectively fills me with anxiety about what these trinkets would cost over 40 years later. And why is trash from 40 years ago charming in a kitschy way while trash from today is just trash? And don’t get me started on why slot machines no longer have a heavy lever to pull. We were fit back then, by God. Now a push button is all we can muster. Ah, nation in decline.
Have secured a small Las Vegas snow globe, lots of postcards, and a couple books of photographs of old Las Vegas. So far, the best signage is downtown and on the way there. It’s no less vulgar than the strip, just older. The area is gritty, but a locals bar called Dino’s lounge redeems it entirely. Two drinks for $4.50.
We will head downtown to Fremont street on the way out of town, but my basic response to the city in the context of HST’s famous book is pretty much set: The essential character of the American Dream is nightmarish. Excess and the myth of easy money mark everything to an appalling degree. In that respect, Vegas is just like anyplace else, only more so.
