Viva Las Vegas

For those of you who might be worried that I've gone soft and all you were going to get out of the Boneman from now on is snapshots of my kids and cutesey little Erma Bombeck baloney--I have only one thing to say to you--are you freak'n crazy? Every once in a while I feel like tossing one off that my Mom can read to her friends. Now that my Disneyland phase is over, I wanted to talk a little bit about Vegas. I recently made a quick jaunt down to Satanville to play at a friends wedding and it struck me as odd that I've never written anything about that hot, miserable, Godless, wasteland. I really don't care for the place, and the following is my explanation as to why.

Deep down, I should admit that I'm kind of intimidated by Vegas. For some reason, any proposed excursion down to Deviltown has always aroused a nervous tingle in my stomach. I can't really say why--I've never had a bad experience there and I'm not afraid of a little traffic, but for some reason it just fills me with a sense of doom and foreboding.

To be fair, Vegas has gone to great lengths to present itself as a family-friendly vacation destination. There's all kinds of new amusement-park attractions and rides and so forth, but it's hard to get into the family spirit when everywhere you look there're huge pictures of naked women. Billboards, taxi-cabs--you can't miss it-- "Dad, Daddy, look, look--why are all these ladies naked?" "It's hot, son--very hot here--sometimes the power goes off, you just nevermind about that, it's not polite stare?" Bless their hearts, as much as they've tried to put a wholesome spin on good old Las Vegas, at the very best they've turned it into Disneyland with gambling and whores. (A concept they seem to be doing pretty well with, I should say. By the way that's the last time I'll mention Disneyland for the rest of my career . . . if that's what this is?)

I suppose you know the Boneman well enough to know that I'm not personally offended by all the nudity and so forth--I'm pretty much all for it--especially if I'm by myself. But if I happen to be in town with my parents or in-laws, I still get a little embarrassed. I doubt I'll ever reach an age where I'm very comfortable with sexual matters being openly discussed or displayed in front of the folks. I still cringe, for example, if I'm watching a Braves game with my Grandparents and between innings they throw up one of those commercials about Genital Herpes. Maybe this kind of thing flies over there in Europe or whatever--but here in Utahville, Grandparents and genitals do not mix. "How about that Viagra--huh Gramps?" Please.

I don't know, sometimes Vegas can be cool. Just walking through the casino is exciting if you're not used to it--but for some reason, I swear, I'm always getting funny looks from the security people. I can't imagine why I'd strike anyone as potential trouble-maker, but it's like every Pit Boss in town has been faxed a copy of my picture. "Keep your eye on this guy--he once walked out of a casino with a cool 17 dollars." I'm always very well behaved when I sit down in the casino to give them my money. "Here you go," I say ever so politely, "please, just take my cash, I don't want any trouble. And while you're at it, here's my Christmas money." All I ask in return is a free Coors Light--if that's cool with everybody? You'd think they'd be glad to see me. And forget about going to a strip club--I can't get comfortable in those places. I've been dragged into one or two "booby-traps," in my unmarried day. Interesting places, strip joints, I'm not going to lie--but I always feel like a marked man. Maybe it's just my guilty conscience, but I can never shake the suspicion that the bouncers have got their eye on me the whole time, and any minute they're going to figure out that I'm a Mormon and toss me out on my ear. "Go recruit your extra wives somewhere else--you horny freak!!!"

As for gambling, I don't imagine that it's any too grievous a sin--as long as you don't get too carried away. I'm such a timid woodland creature in a casino that I've never had much of a taste for it. Except once I should confess. During the four year lost-weekend that divided my first marriage from my second, I took a bit of an interest in betting on sporting events. Fatefully, I was miraculously cured of this affliction one Sunday afternoon, when Steve Young got injured in the first quarter of a game I'd confidently wagered my ass on. Quite unexpectedly the "Steveless" 49ers got spanked by a 3A School--I wanna say--North Summit? "Steve, walk it off baby, it's just a little concussion--where you goin' in that golf cart? Steve Nooooooo . . ." An event I like to think of as the Mormon Miracle--I haven't had the faintest desire to enter into anything more than a gentleman's bet since.

Nowadays if I go into a casinos I'm like "okay, I'm going to lose 20 bucks at the slots, maybe get myself a complementary beer or two, and go watch Letterman." Usually by the time a waitress ever makes it around, I've blown my earmarked wad, and haven't even got enough change to give them their dollar tip for my free beer. Actually when you stop and take a look, the casinos are fairly sad places--they're mostly populated by grim, hypnotized-looking retirees slowly, but surely offering their pension money to the mob--clinging to the pull-bar like it was the iron rod. Where's all the half-naked hotties now?

I'm sure many Utahns love Las Vegas just because it provides a place where you can order a drink in public without feeling like a felon. And sure, it's a fun place to visit on occasion, but after it's all said and done, when you retire back to your hotel room and rest your smoky smelling head, you do it on a pillow that if it could talk, could tell some colorful stories and also tell you how crazy you are to lay your head on it. And when the morning rolls around, you wake up with a bad taste in your mouth, grateful to turn on the TV and hear Regis' voice--a calming reassurance that, while you painted the town red, the normal world was still spinning right along. A little Regis under your belt, and you feel renewed and absolved enough to order up a room-service Bloody Mary and begin to entertain plans for another exciting night on the town.

Oh it's a sparkling, glamorous place--but just beneath the fancy neon facade is a shabby, rat-infested hell-hole, where hopeless sinners stew in their own juices like so many putrid pickles bobbing in a broth of bilge water and bile and I'm kidding. I'm kidding. One of the best things about Vegas is how keenly aware you become of how much you love your own home town. If spending a week in Vegas doesn't make you homesick, I'd hate to live wherever you're from.