My frustration with the game growing, my eyes turn to the street to see what’s going on. Some Abercrombie & Fitch reject with a fauxhawk walks in, with a white plastic guitar slung around his shoulder. I’m a bit confused until I realize there is a straw attached to it, and it is filled with booze. Another J. Crew clone walks out with a giant purple 4 foot tall slender plastic container, again filled with alcohol of some sort. It even has a neck strap for easy transport. If he let go of it he would tip over and fall on his face, the drink is so huge. Outside hordes of people walk by, in some sort of Vegas-induced psychosis, hypnotized by the neon lights and dreams of making that big score. An alarming number of them are either pushing strollers or carrying babies, which is odd and bothersome, being that it is late at night, and this city is not known for it’s friendliness to children. Several trucks drive by on the multilane boulevard toting big signs that read “Hot Girls To Your Room.” Vegas is not known for it’s subtlety, so outside on the sidewalk there is a group of Mexicans in yellow and red shirts snapping, then passing out what looks to be baseball cards with pictures of scantily clad women, along with the message: “Hot Girls To Your Room.” And in case you weren’t paying attention, several guys walk by with big lit up signs attached to their backs that say “Hot Girls To Your Room.” As if that point had not been made, I see a female (A. midget B. dwarf C. little person D. person suffering from skeletal dysplasia. You pick the term, I will not be accused of being insensitive. If it’s offensive, it’s on you, and you are a horrible person. I merely presented the options.) who is going up to random men on the sidewalk and starting a conversation, then moving on to someone else. The dealer informs the table that she is indeed a prostitute. Many things can be said about Las Vegas, but it cannot be disputed that there are plenty of job opportunities available here, and they do not discriminate.
Across the street is Caesar’s Palace, an upscale megaresort. It encompasses more than a city block and is made up of reproductions of various naked marble statues, columns and roman architecture, including the coliseum. Instead of gladiator battles and people being fed to the lions, this coliseum houses the latest Elton John stage show, and I begin to question how far we’ve really advanced in the last 2000 years. What is really disturbing is that Benny and the Jets is being played on a continuous loop from a massive speaker somewhere, and there is no escaping it. It starts off as a low pulsating bass tone, almost on a subconscious level, and before I know it, my whole body is permeated by it, and I am overcome by the sudden urge to commit horrible atrocities against humanity. It stops, I start to feel normal again, but a minute later it begins again, over and over and over. Guantanamo Bay detainees get better treatment than this. I’m going to ask to be water boarded later just to calm my nerves.
Looking across the street once again at the luxurious fake Rome of Caesar’s Palace, then back around me at the rundown charm of O’Sheas, I can’t help but be reminded of our country’s current economic decline and crumbling infrastructure. All of the great empires fall eventually. My advice for everyone across the street living above their means is to come over here to the party. Eventually they might not have a choice, and besides, it’s more fun over here. Where else can you play beer pong while Rome burns?
Rich Blecharz was born a nice boy in Pittsburgh, PA. But something went horribly wrong and he grew up into a cynical, sarcastic and opinionated wreck of a human being. In his free time he enjoys watching reruns of The Golden Girls while drinking cheap liquor from a brown paper bag. He is an Aquarius, and enjoys long, drunken, moonlit barefoot horseback rides along the creek in his backyard.