Below The Fold

(Author’s Note: Once in a while in the newspaper biz, you get an assignment that, for whatever reason, “dies on the vine.” This means that your story won’t see the light of day, no matter how much you beg, cajole or cry. It’s nothing personal. It just happens, and the worst thing you can do is act like an asshole about it (indeed, I’m so grateful to my leadership at the Rocky for their direction and continued support, that this is nothing to fret about at all) . But I liked this story enough that I felt my loyal readers—those few of you who have found your way here while continuing to read my column every week—deserved to read it. At the very least, I owe it to the characters who went on this ride with me, who have been waiting patiently for the last seven months. So, I give this to you, unedited, unpublished, but most certainly not unloved…

After spending the last two years covering nightlife in Denver for the Rocky, I was beside myself with excitement at the prospect of a three-night jaunt into Las Vegas to give me a chance to spread my wings a bit and grab ahold of a new locale. It’s not often I get the opportunity to head to a new city, let alone write about the experience. So I was all in.

Welcome to Sin-City folks. Step right up. Please place all your cash in the depository on your right. Careful boarding the plane, folks. Thanks for visiting.

Have a nice flight home.

The idea hatched on its own—I hadn’t been back since my honeymoon, and that fiasco cost us a car, so with The German’s (my longtime foil and official drinking companion) birthday around the corner, I figured it was time to make another go of it. Do things right this time. Set the record straight, so to speak.

So, with the help of a creative travel agent, I was able to put together round trip airfare and three nights at the Stratosphere for $238 per person, “all-inclusive.” (except for a new $3/night “energy charge.” I must’ve dropped a grand on those table and these nickel-and-diming s.o.bs want to charge me $3 for the electricity I need to run the TV?…

Yes, sir, please place your wallet in that shredder there, sir. Step lively.

My assignment: recapture the “adult” side of Las Vegas.

If by “adult” you mean “bank-breaking, soul-stealing, drunken-decent-into-the-pits-of despair-spinning, where-did-I-leave-my-401K-passcode” side of Vegas, then mission accomplished. In Spades. And clubs. And hearts. And diamonds. Pardon me. I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.

Remember a few years ago when Las Vegas decide to clean up the strip? Make the town real “family friendly?” Provide a nice alternative to Disneyland? They started building rollercoasters and clothing the showgirls, and covered the entire city with a new child-safe coat of varnish, decorated with cartoon characters and cuddly teddybear mascots. Remember that?

They’d like to pretend it never happened.

“The only things families do is walk around a lot, drink water and eat at McDonald’s,” said our limo driver Phil as he took us from the airport to the hotel. Yes. It was a limo, and it was cheaper than a cab ride from Downtown Denver to DIA. We figured that pulling up in a limo might net us a little better attention pulling up to our hotel. Right behind those six… other… limos… ah well.

Yes sir, your checkbook too, please. That’s the ticket.

From McCarran International Airport to the Strat (at the far, far end of the strip, even past Circus Circus and the Sahara), I must’ve counted seven strip clubs, and seen several billboards touting topless shows like La Femme and the Showgirls of Magic.

The Showgirls of Magic. I made a mental note on that one. It just sounded totally awesome. Seriously.

We checked in, Mrs. Buzz and I in one room, The German and his companion in another, and our other friend, the ex-marine from Austin and his filly in a third.

We met for a bite in the Casino’s cheesy 50s diner (where a server sings a song every 10 minutes. This was our last meal in this restaurant.), and then made a beeline for downtown.

Welcome to the Fremont Street Experience, old Vegas alive and well. There was a custom truck show going on through the length of the pavilion, and the throngs of people weaved their way through custom jobs with ground effects and bass-booming kicker boxes and dancing hydraulics. Meanwhile, The German ponied up for a couple of yards of double frozen hurricanes, care of the Mardi Gras casino, and thrust one glass as long as my arm into my face.

“Drink,” he commanded.

And I did. With all the love and appreciation of a city with no open container law, we ambled up and down Fremont Street with nary a care in the world, stopping only long enough to pose with some showgirls and take a picture of The German and Mrs. Buzz holding an 11-foot Albino python around their shoulders.

We stayed long enough to catch two of the once-an-hour light shows that played above us on the blocks-long arch way—one a disco tribute, the other a tip of the hat to classic rock. By now it was past midnight, and the ladies were getting tired, so we opted to head back to the hotel.

But Mrs. Buzz was just getting warmed up, so we sent the other two couples off to bed and made our way to the craps table.

Why, that’s quite a nice watch sir. Why don’t you go ahead and place that in the bag to your left. Easy does it… There you go…

We started off nice and easy, just playing the pass line, backing it up on occasion and maybe taking the six and the eight. Soon enough, though, a good roller started lighting it up, and I was dropping $5 on the yo and catching a big break on the consecutive 12-packs. On one come out, she must’ve hit 5 sevens in a row. We were white hot.

Meanwhile, one bloody mary turned into I-don’t-know-how-many, and when I looked at my watch, it was too blurry to read, although I felt confident it was after 3 am. Finally, common sense grabbed ahold of me and I whisked Mrs. Buzz off to our hotel room.

We took count of our losses, and realized with a start that we were actually up… over $300 from all our spending over the course of the day. We hit the pillows, smiles on our faces and a stack of chips on the nightstand.

Sleep well, sir. Please leave your car keys in the bucket hanging on the wall…

…

Our 9 am wakeup call came an hour early, and indeed it was a several hours later before we realized that daylight savings was in effect. Our first destination of the day: In and Out. Home of the hands-down, end-all, greatest fast-food burger in history, the Double Double.

We opted for the joint on Industrial St., which allowed us quick access to our next diversion—the Elvis-A-Rama Museum. In a town with more Elvis impersonators than civil servants, the Elvis-A-Rama museum is second only to Memphis itself for fans of The King.

Indeed after a spin around the collection of $5 million worth of Elvis Presley memorabilia (make sure you catch the Karate Elvis exhibit at the end of the tour…it’s utterly hilarious and uncomfortable all at once), we were ushered in to an extremely intimate little theater for a quick three-song performance by Elvis impersonator Tom Bartlett.

“Thankya, thankyaverymuch,” he said to a smattering of awkward applause at the end. “Please step through to your right and spend a few moments in our lovely gift shop.”

Oh my, sir! Is that real gold on your wedding band? Why don’t you place that on the counter there….

One thing we did find in that shop: Velvet Elvis Paintings. No collection of Kitsch is complete without one. I selected a $60 portrait circa the ’68 Comeback, and we were on our way.

The Star Trek Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton was our next destination. We walked through the entrance, past the statue of The King and through the casino to “Quark’s Bar” and the entrance to the Star Trek Experience. The attraction has been expanded to two sections with the addition of a “four-dimensional” Borg exhibit that immerses the viewer into a kind of virtual reality assimilation. $30 gets you into that as well as the Klingon attack, and both are remarkable, in their attention to detail and commitment to create an exciting theme ride. In fact, one of our party had never actually seen an episode of Star Trek, let alone any of the movies ( I know, I couldn’t believe it either), and she had a marvelous time.

Sadly the line for Quark’s bar was a bit ridiculous after that, so we ambled back to the Strat, where we relaxed and got dressed for dinner.

Dinner was at Terrazza, a high-end Italian eatery at Caeser’s Palace. We were seated in an enclosed patio overlooking the Caeser’s water garden, which really is quite a breathtaking view, replete with Greek-styled marble arches and ornate landscaping. However, after dropping $120 for a small plate of spaghetti and four little meatballs, a piece of halibut, two beers (having been raised on Manischewitz, my wine palate is now thoroughly worthless, so I never bother) and a small dish of berries and cream, I found myself mentally calculating just how many bets I could have placed on the craps table, and I was convinced I’d just tossed away a winning roll on dinner.

Sure, we’ll take your first born… just sign here, sir…

After we finished eating, we decided to wander a bit, and found ourselves at the Barbary Coast. Named for the boom period in 19th century San Francisco history, the casino is located right across the street from the Belagio on side, the Flamingo on the other. With its Old West-themed anti-elegance, there was something about this place that seemed to draw us in.

And it was all downhill from there. After a whirlwind on the craps tables (I’m sure I was up several hundred dollars at some point), followed by a long stint at the slots, it was suddenly really late, and there had been a subtle demographic shift on the strip as well. As Mrs. Buzz and I made our way toward a cab stand, the legions of middle class tourists had given way to a seedier element—indeed, I actually saw a prostitute pick up a john just feet away from the entrance to the casino we were playing at. Now, this is Las Vegas!

Interesting side note: City law dictates only five passengers are allowed at any time in one cab, regardless of whether it’s a sedan or a minivan. When you’re in a party of six, that makes for a logistical annoyance at best—not to mention double the cost to get anywhere.

The note on your home? Why, we’d be happy to accept that. Just have a seat over here, sir…

Nonetheless, our run at glory and fame on the tables was coming quickly to a screeching halt. Our four-day budget had run its course in two, and now we were faced with whiling away another day and-a-half without breaking into my meager 401k…

Our salvation: the penny slots. The last time I was in Vegas, penny slots were relegated to places downtown where you might find table games like “Guess which hand!” or “What number am I thinking of?” Now, with the advent of multi-line playing, every casino has them, and we were able to turn $40 into hours of exciting and fun gameplay! The best part? The drinks were still free!

As our last day in Vegas began to wane, we experienced a snafu in our plans to see the Stratosphere’s highly touted “American Superstars” impersonator show (The Showgirls of Magic, we discovered, was dark on Monday nights. I can’t begin to describe the disappointment). It sold out before we secured our tickets, despite the concierge’s assurances it wouldn’t.

So there we were, on our last night in Sin City, 160 feet above the North End of the strip, curtains pulled aside to catch the twinkling of a billion lights, each one representing one more lost dollar, one more empty dream, on more unfulfilled fantasy, sitting on a queen-sized bed playing Gin Rummy, drinking soda pop out of little plastic bathroom cups that I’m now convinced cost me $73 each.

As we made our way to the airport the next day, I stopped at the sports book to drop a few bets for a few friends—mostly on the Broncos, which were 10:1 odds on winning next year’s Superbowl. I still had $5 left that I was going to drop on a hand of blackjack, but then I noticed that Arizona was 100-1 longshot on the Superbowl. I hesitated, thinking back to all of the “sure things” I had dropped cash on over the last three days. You see how far those had gotten me. Maybe it was time I gave a longshot a chance.

I looked at the heavyset attendant behind the counter.

“$5 on the Cardinals to win, please.”

Thank you for choosing Las Vegas for your stay sir. Enjoy your trip home. And remember, sir, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.