I love Las Vegas, and I don’t even gamble. I have never gambled, because I already know I’m a sore loser. Anyone who knows me well knows not to make a bet with me, since it’s impossible to make me pay up. Once, when I was around 13, I made a bet in a sleazy bar with a hood, playing three-card Monte. I lost my grandma’s diamond ring. I cried so hard that the guy let me have my ring back for $20.
Anyway, if you go to Las Vegas and you are moderately attractive, you will be downright stunning in comparison to nearly everyone else you encounter there. Next to a horde of overweight smokers wearing Bermuda shorts, you will feel like a pinnacle of sophistication! The only places where this won’t hold true is The Bellagio, which is overrun with slick Eurotrash, and The Hard Rock Hotel, where a much younger crowd holds court. There, every male is a bland imitation of Ashton Kucher, and every girl looks like Paris Hilton. The Hard Rock people cruise the hotel in pairs, so desperately and grimly on the make that you want to pat them on their lacquered heads and say. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get laid tonight!�
Eating in Las Vegas is always fun, and paying $4 at Starbucks for a small regular coffee is amusing at first, too. But for me, the best thing about Las Vegas is shopping. The Forum Shops at Caesar’s Palace has a Louis Vuitton store, Versace, Dior, Armani, even a Gap and a Bebe. After a while, you don’t want to see anything with sparkly rhinestones but too bad, it’s Las Vegas. You can also go to a gigantic mall called The Fashion Show, where scary Asian saleswomen will assault you if you wander into the Saks or Neiman Marcus cosmetics department. I have learned to hold my ground with them, though, and to find someone more sympathetic (like a gay man or a middle-aged Caucasian divorcee type) who can be tricked into giving me a bunch of free samples.
In Las Vegas, the tap water is really clean and the desert air makes your hair lay nice and flat. The maid gives you fresh towels and makes your bed while you’re out tramping around being a tourist. I even had the pleasure of standing at a stoplight wearing my Prada sunglasses and Chanel handbag and saying “Fuck you!� to a silver-haired man who dared to make some comment to me.
Now that I’m home, I am just ordinary again, although no less deserving of maid service. I have four new lipsticks, a bag full of skincare samples, and a new pair of boots to bring the boot total up to a dozen. If you want to see what twelve pairs of boots look like all together, just let me know. If you want to know about the lipsticks, they are all shades of red. Two came from Sephora, where I heard a guy slumped in a chair say to another defeated husband: “They should hand out guns here so you can kill yourself.�
