they call Las Vegas “sin city.” and if spending copious amounts of money on lavish meals with good friends and excessive spa treatments, well then yes, Mr. Post-card Cliché Man, call me a sinnah, and send me straight to hell so i can have some more green tea brought to me while i soak my patootie in a 170 degree hot spring. better stock up on sunblock and sno-cones.
Las Vegas is at least as hot as hell, and this is because it is in a desert. i remember “learning” in my religion classes (with the Atheist Jew professor who constantly told the Islamic scholars that they didn’t understand the Quran… remember that, Steve? and he called me a smartass, on more than one occassion) about how deserts are supposed to be sacred places of solitude and revelation. Mohammed went into one to be revealed to God, and so did Jesus, and Moses, and so on.
so leave it to the Church of American Hedonism to construct its many-tiered temples here in our very own desert, so we can reflect on the spiritual essence of those spinning wheels of plastic enameled with depictions of fruit, numbers and “bars” that purport to spin randomly but actually follow very specific patterns that lead you one-way to bankruptcy.
as you can tell, i’m not a fan of gambling. thus, i was hesitant about spending money i don’t have to go someplace where all you do is spend and lose money.
i arrived in Vegas with this preconstrued notion of hell on earth – strictly a metaphorical representation, but reinforced by the [lack of] air i experienced with my first breath outside the airport. if you’ve ever read The Stand by Stephen King, you know what i’m talking about – Vegas is hell to Boulder’s heaven at the Final Judgment.
America has wholly projected itself in Vegas: a land of opportunity in a wild and savage place, where one can strike gold with the fortunate push of a button and a little positive thinking. the grandiose palaces that line the Strip emanate American superiority; the lavish displays and abundant abuses of energy (probably enough to power sub-Saharan Africa for a year) represent our pride that teeters on hubris.
don’t get me wrong – i’m no Puritan – but as i arrived in this desert mirage such was my preponderance. it’s safe to say that changed over the course of the weekend. Vegas remains to me the playground of the rich, the beautiful, and those who wish they were both, but let’s be real: once you put me into a spa, my presuppositions were dissolved in the pure Zen bliss that is sitting in a hot bath as your shoulders receive a thunderous cascade of room-temperature raindrops.
yes, i did spend lots of time in pools of various temperatures, inside and outside, drunk and sober, and it did wonders for my senses. i flew out sunday night in an altered state of consciousness, and i didn’t touch any drugs. there was a point sitting in that hot tub that my mind melted and flowed through my veins like rosewater, sweetening every nerve along the way.
so, in a way, i suppose the desert did hold revelation and enlightenment. how’s that for turning a frown upside-down?
in sum, sorry, Mr. Stephen King, but i think that Carteret, New Jersey, is where hell will wind up being, when that day does come.
what happens in vegas doesn’t always stay in vegas, even though i didn’t take many pictures. but Jon and Andy did.
