Leaving Las Vegas

Having spent most of the week in Las Vegas at the Consumer Electronics Show, I am most happy to be leaving. Las Vegas is a metaphor for the very worst of our society, the lowest of our inclinations, and the basest misuse of our achievements.

For one thing, I am always taken aback by the unabashed marketing of sex, which is invasively pervasive. It is as if the rules of common decency have been proudly suspended. Near-naked women adorn the sides of building and busses, each sex show flaunting itself as grander than the rest, each "gentlemen's club" promising a more fulfilling night of fantasy. And alas, the entire service industry seems to have been caught up in the spirit of promiscuity, the restaurants and casinos filled with silicone-enhanced women eager to be tipped by half-drunk revellers with the fantasy of fulfillment in one hand and a five-dollar bill in the other.

And of course there is the gambling, which is where the real money is lost and made (by the gamblers and the casinos, respectively). If P.T. Barnum was right and there is a sucker born every minute, then that explains the steady stream of hopefuls sitting thoughtfully at the blackjack tables and mindlessly at the slots. Pushed to explain, they would grudgingly acknowledge that the odds are stacked against them. Even those with skill and smarts would admit that for all their wiles at best they improve their chances to something less than 50-50. But in the name of entertainment, there are always those ready to spend their hard-earned money for the outrageous possibility that in the final tally they will beat the house.

But perhaps the most repulsive aspect to Sin City is the thin veneer of false glamour that has been laquered on in thick, gaudy brushstrokes to every element of the experience. It is the artistic equivalent of painting by numbers; the aesthetic sensibility of velvet likenesses of Elvis and wild horses. Walking through the hallways of even the most prestigious hotels I am embarassed by the clumsy monuments to cheap decadence made by crafty artisans at union wages.

So my favorite time in Las Vegas is the moment I say good-bye, turning in my hotel room keycard with the scantily-clad dancer and putting behind me the images of tawdry hucksters counting their money under the neon lights of Gomorrah.