Las Vegas

Las Vegas strikes me as being the kind of place that Osama would absolutely hate. Not to mention the gambling and general debauchery, the city really does showcase the Western World's propensity for excess and unabashed extravagance. Everything in Vegas is ten times as big as it as it is anywhere else and proudly trumpets Americans' total lack of taste that so enamoured them to P.T. Barnum. It is a city built of want, not of necessity. None of this really needs to be here. Still, I'm glad it is here, otherwise I'd be standing on my own in the middle of a vast, barren desert without so much as a water source to keep me alive, let alone the 7/11 across the street, or that giant replica Statue of Liberty over there or the 400-foot glass pyramid behind it.

In past lives, Las Vegas was a fort and then a railroad town, its modest dimensions giving no hint at the tourist-eating monster it was eventually to become. Gambling was legalised in 1931 and the rest, as they say, is history. What this highlights to me is the vision and forward-thinking that Americans show with regards to all aspects of life, particularly in comparison with us humble Kiwis. Doubtless if Las Vegas was a town in New Zealand it would've simply meandered along and accepted its fate as a modest country town, with a few fish 'n' chip shops and maybe a Placemakers, that would only occasionally hit the headlines when a visiting All Black takes a junior coaching clinic or a prominent community figure is senselessly murdered by P-addled reprobates. In Las Vegas, some guys sat around getting drunk and said to each other, "you know what? Let's legalise gambling and see what the fuck happens. Yeah duuude!". And so they did. Imagination and commonsense are no barriers to progress in the American West, you see.

The aforementioned glass pyramid is the Luxor hotel, where we are booked in for two nights. The rooms are basic but acceptable, exhibiting some half-arsed attempts at Egyptian theming. The TV cabinet kind of looks like a temple entrance. The lounge chair looks a bit like something King Tut might've once sat on, only cheaper. Hieroglyphics are scrawled on the headboards and the faux-rock carving on the wall next to my bed is made of tin. I can't see anything particularly Egyptian about the air-conditioning unit (although I'm thankful for its presence) or the ice bucket.

Interestingly, the Egyptian Theming also extends to the internet facilities - that is to say, there aren't any. The only wireless network my laptop detects is named "ADULT***Vegas", and I'm not even going near that can of worms. Reluctantly, I get on the bell to reception.

While I hold the line, patiently waiting for a receptionist to answer and tell me to hold the line a bit longer, the recorded message fills me in on all sorts of fun facts about the hotel. Turns out it has 4,407 rooms in three buildings. Tremendous. The pyramid is 134 metres and 30 storeys high, and its elevators (or inclinators) travel on a 39 degree incline to the top floor. The vast interior of the pyramid is the largest atrium in the world by volume and the beam of light that shoots skywards from its apex every night is (yes, you guessed it) also the world's largest, so powerful that it can be seen by aircraft flying over LA, 250 miles away.

Just as remarkable is the buffet restaurant in the basement, "More". Its slogan is "Less is not more. More is more", which I find refreshingly honest in a town full of such lies and deceit. It boasts a salad bar 30 feet long: enough to accomodate three, possibly four average American males at a time, by my reckoning. Occasionally, another friendly recorded man comes on the line to remind me how important my call is to them, which is why I should hold the line for a few more minutes while I get thrown back on the Useless Luxor Facts merry-go-round.

I've pretty much got the hotel sussed right down to the number of steel rivets used in its construction when a receptionist answers the phone and tells me that there are no wireless facilities, but I can access high-speed cable via the TV for just $13.99 a night.
"$13.99?! That's outrageous!", I yelp involuntarily.
The silence on the other end of the line speaks for a woman who has heard that reaction many, many times before. I regain my composure and ask where I might find a public WiFi access point somewhere in the hotel.
"Sorry sir, we don't have any", she says. Bastards, bastards, bastards. My holiday is pretty much ruined. Looks like I'll have to find a way to amuse myself in Vegas that doesn't involve the internet.

Stepping out into the Las Vegas sunshine is like coming home and opening the oven door to discover that you've accidentally left it on all day. Unexpected, and warm to say the least. Forty degrees celsius in fact. The heat isn't proving a deterrent to the immense throng of people wandering up and down the strip with us. Vegas is a mecca for people of all walks of life, colours, shapes and sizes - but mainly large.

Every ten or so feet a Mexican is handing out free tickets to some unspeakably tacky entertainment show that you wouldn't for the life of you consider attending if you weren't in Vegas: clairvoyant reading, hypnotist shows, Elton John gigs and what not. They don't speak at all; instead they slap their wad of tickets forcefully against the palm of their hand and thrust them outwards in your direction, hoping this will somehow convince you that yes, a hypnotist show really is what I should be doing with my time in Vegas. Luckily I've been to South-East Asia before and know how to resist these rather forceful propositions.

Inside the casinos themselves, its a damn sight cooler but equally chaotic. I run a far greater risk of having an epileptic fit in here, too. In every direction, lights are flashing, music is blaring from unseen speakers, employees are yelling promotional slogans in my ear. Las Vegas really is an assault on the senses.

"The Strip Restaurant. Coming soon!", screams a billboard outside the MGM Grand. This makes absolutely no sense to me: why would you want some naked stranger bothering you while you're trying to eat your dinner? Elsewhere there are signs advertising the various musical highlights that Vegas currently has on offer: Barry Manilow, Johnny Mathis, Donnie and Marie Osmond, Elton John, and so forth. Vegas appears to be a sort of retirement village for entertainers who are no longer in their prime (and in most cases, never were). There are plenty of live shows and musicals permanently based in town - Cirque du Soleil, Spamalot, Love - but they too are outrageously overpriced, just like everything else in Vegas. Especially the bloody high-speed cable.

Some casinos are far more upmarket than others. It's immediately apparent that our dear old Luxor is among the shittiest on The Strip. The low ceilings, dark interior of the casino and lurid decor are a bit of a give-away, as are the rows upon rows of low-budget hicks from Arkansas feeding their children's education into slot machines. Excalibur (medieval themed) and Paris, Vegas (French themed, replete with Eiffel Tower replica out the front) aren't much flasher.

The most agreeable hotel we visit is the Bellagio. Unlike the rest of Vegas, the interior has been tastefully appointed, with high ceilings in the public areas and ornate decorations on the walls. The shops, too, are of an infinitely higher calibre - Prada, Chanel, Gucci. It even has the world's largest chocolate waterfall - a bit of a waste of chocolate if you ask me - displayed behind a large glass casing. Bellagio is definitely the place to stay in Vegas if you feel like splashing out US$600 a night. I wander past a Blackjack table where a lone moustachioed man in a cream suit is betting $300 a hand. At his side is a bottle of Miller Lite. For fuck's sake.

I mean seriously, if you're wealthy enough to be betting $300 a hand, surely you'd want to be drinking Bud Lite or Coors Lite, or maybe even Heineken Premium Lite? Just goes to show that money can't buy you taste.

I won't bore you with the details of dinner, except to say that it was large, unhealthy and delicious and involved a cheesecake for dessert. After nightfall we wander back to the Luxor along the strip, which is now a sea of flashing neon lights urging me to come on in and spend all my money. There's no escaping them now, inside or out. The Mexicans selling show tickets have been replaced by Mexicans advertising "Girls direct to your room in 20 minutes". This makes no sense to me either. Why would I need a girl to direct me to my room in 20 minutes? I already know the way, and I could get there in less than 20 minutes anyways. Vegas is a strange, strange place.

It's actually something of a relief to get back to the hotel room and dig into my book for a bit of wholesome, inexpensive fun. I half-expected to return to find my book had been confiscated, and be told by concierge that the hotel had no reading facilities but I was welcome to read one of their many fascinating brochures for just $24.99 a night. Joey is also puzzled by the many hypocrisies and contradictions of this city.
"Why is there a notice in the bathroom asking people to conserve power when every fucking night they shoot a giant beam of light into the air that doesn't do shit?"
"That's not entirely true", I reply, pointing out that it does in fact give aircraft passengers flying over LA something to look at.

Vegas is billed as a place where you can do pretty much anything you like, whenever you like. You can fire a machine gun, ride a roller coaster on top of a tower, rent a hot air balloon, walk down The Strip with a half-yard of margarita, learn magic tricks, get your palm read, eat dinner while a woman gets naked in front of you, rent a humvee limousine, pay girls to direct you back to your hotel room in 20 minutes, access high-speed cable internet, and much much more. And you can certainly eat donuts at 8.30 in the morning.

Krispy Kreme donuts aren't as magically delicious as they were before they switched to a new trans fat-free recipe, but they're still quite an experience. I've just bought the one, because it's a little early and I want to savour the experience. The initial pleasant crunch gives way to soft, gooey dough and the maple icing raises the enjoyment factor through the roof. What a way to start the day.

As I'm eating the donut I'm alerted to another thing you can and should do while in Vegas: get hitched. The neon sign opposite where I'm sitting advertises "vow renewals starting at $99". Bargain. "Come as spouses, leave as newlyweds", the sign proclaims, accompanied by a photo of a middle-aged couple in a post-marital, pre-coital embrace. It doesn't strike me as being a great advertisement for marriage, though. For one thing, the man (a 50-year-old Gavin Larsen) doesn't look happy at all. He looks like a man who is genuinely concerned that the hours pissed away at the slot machines drinking beer that he's so looked forward to are suddenly in jeopardy. The distinct fear in his eyes suggests that hours spent in shopping malls and queueing for Elton John tickets are a very real possibility, and the woman has a look on her face that you know means she is always going to get her way. Poor Gavin.

The other thing I haven't done yet that I must do is gamble. It's a delicate situation though: I know my mother and Joey won't want to and my father is trying to talk himself out of it at every opportunity. The fiendish glint in his eye whenever Blackjack is mentioned suggests that he badly wants to play - and he was a master back in the '80s, according to some, mainly himself - but it's a chapter of his life that you sense he wants to put behind him.

I spent many hours of my teenage years at the entrance to Melbourne casino while my father rode his luck somewhere inside. Every half hour he would come back out with alternating good and bad news, and every time he'd ask me to give him another half hour. "Bad news, Max", he'd say on the hour, "I'm $200 down. I need another half hour to win it back. Here's $3, go buy a slice of pizza".

Half an hour later I'd be guzzling the last of my coke when he would reappear, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm $200 up and on a roll. You've gotta let me go back in for a half hour. Here's $3, go buy a slice of pizza".

And so this would go on for days, sometimes weeks until eventually he would reappear, unshaven and bedraggled, and say "Alright, I'm even. Let's go get a pizza". They were good days, they were.

It doesn't take much convincing in the end to get my father in the game. I could've gone myself but I've only set aside $100 to gamble, and at $10 a hand this would be gone in approximately two-and-a-half minutes. At least with my father there, the opportunity for a bail-out exists. We find an empty table at Bellagio and pull up a seat. Almost immediately, we are bleeding cash. Our dealer, a kindly old man named Jerry, is on fire. He is apologetic at all times, at one point asking where we're from to take the attention away from how much of a hammering we're taking, but there's no missing the fact that my $100 stack of chips is rapidly shrinking.

We get a new dealer, Bill, and our luck changes for a while. At least mine does. My father is still taking a battering. He's on quite the run, getting fives and sixes to Bill's picture cards hand after hand. So engrossed am I in proceedings, however, that I haven't even noticed the acoustic version of "Some Day" by Nickelback that is blasting out over the hotel speakers. I need some inspiration from somewhere, and Chad Kroeger may as well be it.

I'm down to my last two $5 chips now. This is it, one more hand. Lose and I'm out, and I walk away forever. Here goes. I've got eleven, and Bill is showing..... a 6! Yes! If only I had enough chips to double. But my father has already summed up the situation and sends two of his own chips to sit next to mine.

From this point on it's written in the stars. I pick up an 8, Bill busts and all of a sudden I've got $40 next to my name. I can see why people lose jobs, houses and families over this sort of thing. It is undeniably exciting.

I can't lose now. Every hand I get is a winner. I end up with $105 in chips, an impressive $5 up on where I started. Why, that's almost 22 minutes of high-speed cable at The Luxor! My father has also launched into one of his inevitable recoveries and almost gets back to even himself. I think he senses how much fun I'm having though, and does the responsible thing. He gets me the hell out of here. I'll probably thank him for it one day.

Walking back to the hotel along The Strip one more time, I just cannot find myself enjoying Vegas. Granted it's not much of a family destination - not for this family anyway - but I find the total artifice of it all combined with the human scum element rather unnerving. We stop for a beer in New York, New York, where a Franz Ferdinand song is assaulting our eardrums while all manner of flashing neon signs assault our eyeballs.
"This is the first decent song I've heard since we got to Vegas", Joey says.
"That's not true. I've heard "Smooth" at least twelve times now".

Next up is Coldplay's latest attempt to corner the market for cynical, overproduced, hyper-commercialised muzak. Two British songs in a row in an American hotel! What next, a black man running for president?

Back in the relative safety of my hotel room I concede that I've been a little harsh on Vegas. I suppose that the city itself - like all the morally-dubious activities it celebrates - is best enjoyed in small doses. More than that, and it begins to get unhealthy. Two nights seems about right, in the end.

Still, $13.99 for high-speed cable. There are some things that even a reasonable man such as myself cannot reconcile.