If you are easily offended by a little frank sexual discussion, read elsewhere, but the following is based on keen observations from the male point of view. Hey, I might be married, but I ain’t blind.
The marketing slogan, “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas” might suggest a certain level of naughtiness, perhaps a wink at infidelity and promiscuity, underlining the word “SIN” in Sin City. But, in truth, it is really Cleavage City, USA because what you see here, more than ANY other major American metropolis is …
Tits! Boobs! Breasts! Knockers! Melons! “Major League Yah-bows” (from “Animal House”)!
They are freaking everywhere and too many of those are displayed by those of the female persuasion who really should not be advertising when Mother Nature (or Dr. Feelgood) has provided. It must be something in the southern Nevada desert air or in the disappearing water in Lake Mead or in the free flowing scotches and waters; whatever it is causes women, who would never reveal as much as the average nun, to follow the “limbo” – how LOW can you go (neckline that is).
And it isn’t merely the hot looking 20-somethings, with their tanned bodies honed by 24 Fitness – it is damn near every female. The result is often less appealing than appalling.
Far too often seen are the 50-something yentas, dying to return to their youth but stuck in that sagging tissue called flesh. The anti-wrinkle cream isn’t working and the nip-and-tucks require heavy duty bars of steel to work. But there they go, romping through the casino passages, oozing botox from numerous pores and wearing tank tops or plunging necklines to their pupik.
The employment of botox on such females should be outlawed. If you inject SO much of that material, and your lips resemble those of a platypus, well that’s TOO damn much.
Stood there; saw too much of that. It hurt the eyeballs and male sensory outlets.
Women, who normally shop at the plus-size stores, choose Vegas to unveil dresses with little neckline and even less material below the waist. Add 5-inch heels to the ensemble (skinny women wear stilettos and bigger girls wear cork heels) and it’s time to party at Pure.
What often troubles me is not the outfit; I understand the burning desire to locate one’s past burning desire. But if a woman wears such an outfit, the SOLE purpose is to be noticed – by the opposite sex (otherwise why wear it?). When men begin to notice, with that naked deer in the headlights glazed-over visage, why do women that automatically begin to cover themselves up? It defeats the purpose of the display in the first place.
And like the old movie, “The Only Come Out at Night,” they are seen in all forms, implanted shapes and pushed-up-to-the-point-of-bursting sizes. They can be viewed around the elevators, trying to slip past the guy checking on room keys (I guess it’s the hooker check to keep some working girls away from the innocent guests; the old geezers with the young pre-arranged escorts are prepared like Boy Scouts), or leaning against boyfriends at the crap tables (with their ASS-ets hanging out so far you can play Texas Hold ‘Em),
On the distaff side, to be fair, the most consistent thing about men in Vegas is the lack of consistency. Those dressed in expensive suits tend to be older; younger 20-somethings tend to look like beach bums by day and hip-hoppers at night. Men seem to enjoy dressing like dogs while their women look like divas.
And in each restroom I’ve made pits stops, the younger males do the “Snow White” thing, almost begging the man in the mirror to answer, “Who is the fairest of them all?” They preen for several minutes to ensure the spikey hairdo has the perfect … crease through the middle of their forehead. Or they wear a pork-pie hat and measure the perfect tilt to their brim while patting down the sideburns (didn’t they go passé with mutton chops???).
For sure, no one will ever mistake me for the late Mister Blackwell, And my attendance in the old school way of life renders me incapable of appreciation for such matters.
But, as noted earlier, I ain’t dead and I do the same type of window looking (not shopping) as almost every guest in this hotel passing by the Fendi, Armani, Tiffany and other high-brow shops.
I already saw the Grand Canyon; don’t need to see the not-so-grand canyons on two legs.
Last night’s entertainment, Cirque de Soleil’s “LOVE: The Beatles” was everything it was advertised to be and MORE! It was 90 minutes of complete kinetic energy, channeled through the greatest soundtrack of the 20th century – the Beatles.
Awesome. Breathtaking. Mind-numbing. Extraordinary. Pick a word; it would fit. Not only was the presentation beyond words, but the actual music itself is so brilliantly presented – the sound so definitively crisp (there were speakers in the back of each seat), the Liverpool Lads never sounded as good on any single, album or CD.
In addition, because Beatles producer Sir George Martin (and his son) produced the soundtrack for the show, he had direct access to everything that happened in the studio – including outtakes, banter among the group and alternative takes. The audience gets to hear some of the chatter between the Beatles (in between production numbers) and the pre-show music is the actual instrumental tracks to their hits.
What you don’t hear are the melodies, which were, so the most part, provided by the lyrics and vocals. You get to hear how the tunes got constructed and how deftly George Harrison’s lead guitar and John Lennon’s underestimated rhythm guitar licks applied perfectly to the compositions.
The ticket price is steep (in excess of $150) but that’s the new price of poker in Vegas. For the pleasure received, it’s worth every damn penny.
By the way, there ARE penny slot machines in The Bellagio! What’s up with that?!?
And I realized last night one of the essential old sounds of Vegas is missing. No longer can one hear the clanging of metallic coins in slot machine baskets when someone wins. It’s ALL done with paper tickets and is quite sterile if you think about it. You no longer see the coin buckets being carried from machine to machine by little old women; they simply do not exist. To be honest, I cannot recall (at this moment) whether actual COIN slots are located on the machines – only paper money feeders.
Without that unique sound, it just doesn’t SOUND like the Las Vegas I knew. But what else is new? Some further investigation is warranted so long as my wallet permits.
Until then … waiting to see the cheapest form of three-hour entertainment in Las Vegas – the Fightin’ 51s face the Sacramento River Cats spectacular … Shalom!