Las Vegas is a drug – a wild one, a staggeringly fun one. But you must use, as the finest fine print always reminds us, responsibly. Because this drug’s ultimate purpose is to melt down your brain and devour the dumb animal that is left behind. And no one knows how a drug is going to affect them until they have tried it.
Heather was alternately excited and apprehensive ever since I signed up for the offer to stay at the Wynn. I don’t think she was worried about succumbing. I think she was worried about the stress and exhaustion of adequately resisting the dangerous extremes making it impossible to enjoy. I can understand that. Saying “no” in Vegas feels so lonely and cold compared to what you imagine as the alternative.
She was working on only three hours’ sleep when we hit the freeway, so the drive passed without much music or conversation; just the occasional check of the football game on the radio as she half-dozed. It being a Sunday, traffic barely dropped below full speed anywhere along the route – which is a secret I’d like to keep from all the poor souls who choke these roads on Fridays seeking escape.
We stopped for lunch in Yermo. The food at Peggy Sue’s 50’s Diner has never been the real reason to stop there. But we rolled through Barstow without feeling peckish, and the organically-swelling kitsch of Peggy Sue’s, with the gift shop, the incomprehensibly-crowded menu, the peg puzzles on every table, and now, a garden in back with metal dinosaur statues, gives a truer road trip experience, which I wanted Heather to have.
”Diner-saurs” and also King Kong
We made our second stop at Primm on the state line – first filling the gas tank, then browsing the state line outlet mall for stylish bargains. I bought my first-ever pair of Hugo Boss jeans, and she bought a man purse at Wilson’s Leather that is going to make a fine bag for daily necessities plus basic supplies for spontaneous art-ing. Not too many female purses suit that specific profile.
The sun was setting as we made our first drive up the Strip towards the Wynn, which sits on the north half beyond Bally’s and Caesar’s and the beautiful budget Vegas holdouts like the Imperial Palace and O’Shea’s. In the parking garage, the warm baritone of casino magnate Steve Wynn rumbles over a loudspeaker, sharing details of the magnificent restaurants within, and his personal excitement at having coaxed Garth Brooks out of retirement to play a few shows.
When you self-park your crappy car, the first thing you see inside the self-park entrance to the casino is the Wynn’s indoor full-service Ferrari dealership. In addition to cars, it sells Ferrari clothing; for people who want a shirt that informs others that they own a Ferrari even when said Ferrari is not in sight.
A casino floor has a way of destroying a human’s ability to walk in a straight line at a steady speed – sort of like those urban legends about how changes in the Earth’s magnetic field could make pigeons go drunky and crash into one another. Between the noise, the thick milling crowd, and the flowery lobby garden that triggered her allergies, Heather was already feeling overwhelmed by the front desk. She sat on a bench as I checked us in.
Of course, as I described in my previous entry, no luxury purchase goes quickly, even when I am trying to hurry things along. Our check-in agent wanted to sell me on some available upgrades to my room, including one that would ONLY be $5 extra a day. She only had ONE of this room left and she would LOVE to put me in it. And that’s how we got placed on a higher floor with a bigger room, but unwittingly traded my view of the Strip for a view of the pool and golf course, which is essentially a blackest black void at night. Ah well – one must always be careful, when entering the world of good taste, not to succumb to the temptation to blow a stack every time something is less than perfect. Besides, our room had these amazing robes: silky on the outside, soft absorbent terrycloth on the inside. Seriously, once we had our luggage dropped, our robes on, and a bath running in the tub with their complimentary bag of bath salts, it didn’t matter how many yahoo douchebags had jostled us on our way.
The agenda for the evening was simply to dine well and then undertake an expedition on the Strip. The wireless Internet was non-functioning. Because I am not classy enough to know whom to call in this situation, I called the concierge, who sounded disappointed in my request. She transferred me to a rep from the hosting company, who advised me that, if I was on a laptop, I should try taking it over by the door of the room, because the signal was weak at my desk. This is comfortably-familiar IT person logic. Sitting on the floor of the entryway, I indeed was able to find access, and thus scout out our dinner menu. The IT person promised to open a “trouble ticket” and attempt to “boost the signal”, which is something he’s probably learned to say in order to mollify angry assholes, as if there’s a special “boost” button he had simply yet to press, like those magic software programs they always have in movies that can “enhance” surveillance photos to 100x detail with a click.
Red 8 is in the Wynn’s “casual dining” category of restaurants, which is code for “still expensive, but we won’t make you wear a tie”. Dinner for two with a dim sum appetizer and one cocktail each came to $90 after tip – definitely beyond my usual definition of “casual dining”. But as a “nice meal” (which I wanted Heather to enjoy at least one of during the stay), it did just fine; my crispy pork belly and craft cocktail were both solidly-yummy and the atmosphere was, within the adjusted hotel level of overall swankiness, stylishly cozy.
Heather tries the swanky life – finds she can enjoy it controlled doses
Bourbon + Thai Tea + Rock Candy Syrup = Good Drinkin’
After dinner, we went searching for a restroom and the mythical “Tower Lobby”, which, the check-in agent had informed me, was an exclusive lobby for “Red Card holders” (like myself, now) that hosted a morning coffee/tea reception among other goodies. This took us through some of the hotel’s convention hallways, which, in most hotels, is where designers opt for the most tortuously bland decor possible. Even here, though, the Wynn cannot help but cram aesthetics politely but deeply into your cramhole.
Seriously, this is just in the hall outside the bathroom
We found the Tower Lobby, at the bottom of a grand staircase right out of Titanic. A couple of extremely-well-dressed people in expensive chairs shifted in alarm at our appearance, and a lobby attendant scurried urgently up to inquire with infinite pleasantness if he could help us with absolutely anything that involved us leaving. He didn’t say the last part out loud, but they never need to. I considered whether to be offended – after all, I was now in my Hugo Boss jeans, which should have acted as camouflage. There must be something else that gives me away – an odor, maybe.
I showed my Red Card and asked about the coffee reception. He said that we were indeed welcome to attend said reception at 7am the next morning – in the seating area at the top of the grand staircase. But, he shared with inifinite sorrow and regret, the area at the BOTTOM of the staircase and beyond was reserved for “Red Card VIPs”’; and I, alas, was not in this extra-rarified category.
This was something I had intuited about the swanky life but which I had rarely experienced so directly, and was a downright revelation for Heather. There is a mad stratification of privilege and envy that happens within the top ranks of prosperity, utterly invisible to everyone outside. No matter how pampered you may be, no matter how many flunkies and artisans are working to surround you with decadence and good taste, someone nearby is always getting more; and what’s more, you can see it. Sure, I had show tickets, a buffet credit, a basket of complimentary top-shelf toiletries delivered daily, turn-down service including chocolates and slippers, and free access to the fitness facilities. But I would have to pay to get into the spa area, which, judging by the brochure, looks like the Titanic’s shipboard Zen Buddhist bathhouse.
Only a few hours into some of the swankiest treatment we’d ever enjoyed on a vacation, we were already being shown how much better we COULD be having it. That’s an insidious thing, and can lead to a life of misery and ridiculous behavior if you let it. The rumor is, that when Donald Trump started building his hotel/condo tower in Las Vegas five years ago, he found out that Wynn’s 60-story tower was the tallest in town, and ordered his built to 65 stories.
Heather and I are in agreement that the design concept Donald Trump demanded for his hotel was “Massive Golden Penis. With pubes.”
End of Part the First
Part the Next: Night and Day on the Vegas Strip