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| by Miss Cath |
| Saturday, 01 March 2008 04:57 |
72 Hours in Las Vegasby Miss Cath'Darling,” he whispered in my ear, 'what do you say we go to Las Vegas for some fun?” Las Vegas? Sin City? Non-stop excitement, casinos, extravagant resorts, elaborate buffets, shopping, and carousing? It took me less a minute to decide I was definitely game for some gaming. I was going to take Vegas by storm and all the glitz and glamour would be mine for three whole days. “Yes', I exclaimed. 'Let’s go!' It had been a few years since I had been in Vegas, and I wasn’t sure where to stay. After checking some Internet travel sites and reading horror stories about mold-infested hotel bathrooms, I chose the Golden Nugget; it had received a four-star rating and had the highest number of positive reviews. As much as I wanted to stay at one of the mega-resorts on the strip, I know I like hygiene more than opulence. Plus, the Nugget has the imprimatur of Sinatra, who recorded a live album there. I made the call. Upon arrival in Nevada, we went directly to the neon-encrusted Nugget, which is on Fremont Street in the older downtown area. Fremont Street is where the original casinos stood back in the day, before all of the outsize ritzy development on the Strip. A lot of people avoid the area now, thinking it’s seedy. It’s not. Honey, trust me. I live near Philadelphia and I can show you seedy. Crack house, anyone? My beloved and I were very pleased with our lodging choice. The Nugget is impressive not only in cleanliness but in service. The room was tastefully appointed, the bathroom came sans mold and I felt like a princess. But we didn’t spend much time in the room. There were excesses to be pursued! Slot machines to be played! Souvenirs to be purchased! Shows to be seen! Cocktails to be had! Now we all know that whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, so I can share only a few of the choice highlights and lesser scandals from my excursion. With that caveat, here goes: After a few rounds of successful and not so successful gambling at the casinos on Fremont, we tried the Nugget’s buffet dinner. I worried that I’d be unable to control myself in the face of an over-the-top Bacchanalian orgy and I’d gain ten pounds in one sitting and regret it in the morning, but it was more like a sane, well-stocked cafeteria. Very enjoyable, with a choice of desserts. A little sparse on the chocolate items, and they didn’t offer cheesecake, so ladies, consider yourself warned.  After dinner we hit the Mermaid, a Mardi Gras-themed no-frills gambling hall with a snack bar in the back. It’s across the street from the Golden Nugget. The Mermaid is down and dirty, but I mean dirty in the metaphorical sense. Lapsing into Jack Benny mode I chose penny slot machine near the snack bar. My machine was lucrative and played John Phillips Sousa marches every time I hit a jackpot. The Mermaid snack bar offers your standard issue goodies and specializes in 99 cent hotdogs and 99 cent fried Twinkies. Fried Twinkies! I was both fascinated and repulsed at the thought. I wanted one, but I was afraid. They seemed rich and exotic yet enticingly down market at the same time. I had just eaten a few desserts at the buffet (Ok, I’ll admit that I had more than one. But that’s all you’re getting out of me. Whatever happens in Vegas…) so I decided to save my Sousa slot winnings. Day two was spent uptown on the Strip, touring the tourist attractions like…well… tourists. We hit the Bellagio, the Venetian, Excalibur, New York New York, Luxor, Caesars, the Mirage, inhaling all of the glitz and glamour. We also stopped by the Wynn, which is fairly new and upping the ante in terms of swankification on the Strip. The place just reeks of money. Not yours, however. You’ll be losing that inside once you elbow your way into a seat at one of the crowded high-dollar tables. In fact, the place is so fancy that the owner is known to put his elbow right through $139 million Picassos from time to time. And from what I hear, what would most likely lead to suicide among the rest of us didn’t even lead to tears. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Keeping with the big money theme of the resort there’s even a Maserati dealership on one side of the Wynn building. Two of the cars were outside so we could check them out freely. My beloved was impressed and was telling me about all things automotive when I spied a bright yellow sports car parked near the dealership in a reserved zone. 'Is that a Maserati over there?' I asked. 'No, that’s a Ferrari. I bet it belongs to some sports star or celebrity. Or maybe to some supermodel.' Who else would be driving a Ferrari right up to the door of the most expensive hotel in town and leaving it in the one reserved parking spot in the whole place? Obviously it had to belong to a sports star, a celebrity, a supermodel or maybe even a clumsy connoisseur of fine art. The explanation sounded logical to me. Then the resort door opened and I could see two figures heading toward the Ferrari. I strained my neck to see who it was. My honey was right, it was two lingerie-clad Victoria’s Secret models catwalking toward the car in stilettos. And thongs. When they moved closer and my vision cleared, or some would say reality set in (and still others would say some much-needed sanity set in) I realized it was two grannies. They got into the Ferrari and gunned the engine like a real life version of The Little Old Lady from Pasadena. Vrrrroooommmmm! My ears ached, the ground shook, Richter scales in California registered, and the car surged forward toward the Maseratis. As I stood there in shock, the car stopped in front of us and the passenger window glided down. The woman, who was clearly over 65 --I kid you not--smiled giddily and yelled something over the roar of the engine. I could have sworn she hollered, 'Your mother was right, you should have started a hedge fund!' but my beloved said she just let out a 'Wheeeeee' as they tore off down the driveway. Once inside the Wynn we checked out the shopping area where I entered the Louis Vuitton shop to see how the other half lives, or at least spends. I was clutching my yellow vinyl purse with a license plate design printed on it and eyeballing the outrageously expensive wallets and bags when I saw the saleswoman approaching. I could feel my face reddening because I just knew that she knew I wasn‘t going to buy anything. I wasn’t dressed like a bum - in fact, I was looking super cute in my new skinny-in-spite-of-multiple-desserts jeans and a pink sweater--but this was a leather goods store and I was carrying a vinyl handbag. She probably just closed a multi-thousand dollar purchase with someone glitzy and glamorous like Nicole Kidman or Catherine Zeta-Jones and didn’t need me hanging around gawking. 'Excuse me,' she said. I knew it. She was going to ask me to leave. Not that she’d come right out and say so - these days you’d be asking for a lawsuit - but I figured she’d tell me they were closing for lunch or something like that. 'Excuse me, miss, I like your bag, it’s so fun,' she said, pointing at my purse in all its vinyl glory. 'Come and see this,' she said, waving the other salesclerk over. The other woman approached and laughed when she saw my bag. 'I love it! Where did you get it?' she asked. 'It’s not Prada,' I said. “It’s pra-duct of China.” ( Ba-Doom-Cha) After bidding adieu to my new friends I was on a handbag high and joined my beloved who had been waiting in the hall. He suggested we press on and have exotic cocktails at Trader Vic’s. Hmm, I’d never been to Vic’s, but I’d heard about it. Gal on the go that I am, I’ve been to many a tiki bar and quaffed many a Polynesian rum drink, but Vic’s is reputed to be one of the best. There would be tiki god statues and tropical greenery and we’d sip exotic libations. I’d peek out coquettishly from behind a palm frond while a pufferfish lamp illuminated my sweetie’s baby blues. We’d listen to bird calls and Hawaiian chants, and, jungle drum roll please, inhibitions would be lost. Oooohhhh. When we got to the bar, which is at the Planet Hollywood hotel, I felt like I was in an industrial warehouse instead of a Polynesian paradise. The décor was minimalist, all glass and chrome, with one large tiki god in the middle of the room. No tropical plants and no pufferfish. Something that sounded like Yanni was playing on the sound system. It was a big bowl of wrong. 'This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,' my beloved said. 'Let’s at least have a drink since we’re here.' I ordered one of the exotic cocktails from the menu. The bartender had no idea what I was talking about. I showed him the listing. He said he didn’t know what was in the drink. Heavy sigh. I told him to give me what a woman sitting near me was having. Something in a ceramic coconut. Whatever. I wished I was back at the Mermaid trying one of those fried Twinkies. In fact, the coconut concoction cost $9 and I could be having multiple fried Twinkies on that budget. I could have fried Twinkies to spare. I’d be good on fried Twinkies till doomsday. My beloved, who was having a mai tai and balancing precariously on a Calvinist barstool, said he knew just the place to go once we finished our lackluster cocktails. He took me to the Peppermill Lounge near the new Palazzo hotel and the Slots of Fun casino on the Strip. I thought I died and went to heaven.  The Peppermill looks like a chrome diner from the outside. When you go in you can head to the restaurant or veer left into the bar. We veered. It is literally the coolest bar I have ever seen. The room is pitch black, lit entirely by pink and purple neon and accented by rows and rows of fake roses. Tons of them. It must be seen to be believed. The décor is straight out of Valley of the Dolls. Whoever designed this place is a visionary. Seriously. The best part is the fire pit in the middle of the room. The fire explodes up out of a pool of water in an amazing juxtaposition of the elements. Someone paid attention in high school science class and now we can all reap the benefits while drinking. How cool is that? We sat on one of the soft couches that surround the fire and ordered gin and tonics. We raised our glasses and toasted, 'To propane! To Water!' We warmed our toes near the fire. It was hedonistic bliss. My sweetie leaned over and whispered in my ear, 'You know, when Robert De Niro filmed Casino this place was his home away from home.' Well, if Bobby was at the Peppermill that was all I needed to hear to solidify the bar’s cache in my mind. Go there; you won’t regret it for a minute. Later that evening we took a cab to the Greek Isles Hotel and Casino in order to attend a performance of the show The Rat Pack is Back. I was anxiously anticipating this highly lauded recreation of the Rat Pack’s summits at the Sands in the 60s. The Greek Isles is the old Debbie Reynolds Hotel. Debbie sunk her life savings into creating what she hoped would be a tourist destination for gamblers and movie buffs. Unfortunately, her husband at the time stole her money and didn’t pay any of the bills. Soon, the tax man came calling and Debbie lost her hotel. Poor Debbie! First Eddie dumped her for Liz, and now this! But I digress. Someone with an affinity for Greece swooped down and bought the place at a fire sale price and evidently has refused to put a penny into it. It’s a dump, frankly. 'How dumpy is it?' you cry. Well, I’ll tell you. I’ll use the ladies restroom as an example of the kind of amenities one can expect. In the stall, the wall access panel that opens to the plumbing is held in place with red and blue duct tape. The Wynn this is not, but a Picasso with a giant tear down the middle would look right at home. After I washed my hands I reached up to grab paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, and when I tugged at the towels the whole thing came down, conked me on the shoulder, slammed to the floor with a bang and broke into about five pieces. Thank goodness I was alone; I would have died from embarrassment even though it wasn’t my fault. I briefly contemplated a personal injury suit but then I realized from the looks of the place that I’d win more on the penny Sousa slot machine back at the Mermaid. When I came out into the hallway my beloved was waiting. 'What was all that banging and crashing in there? What on earth were you doing?' he demanded. I didn’t answer,I just wanted to escape into the ballroom and see the show. I muttered, 'Never mind.' The show was fabulous, a pure delight. The sold out audience was transported back in time to the Copa Room at the Sands. A Place in the Sun, as they say. The music was delightful and the actors playing Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Joey Bishop and Marilyn Monroe were superb. This being a budget-minded establishment, they didn’t offer programs identifying the cast so I don’t know who played whom. Regardless, the banter was hilarious, the joint was swingin’ and the crowd screamed for more. There was not one sour face in the audience when the show ended. Everyone was jubilant. Applause was never-ending. At the end of the show the Greek Isles gleamed bigger and brighter than any other hotel in Vegas. I highly recommend the show, but ladies, go before you leave your hotel. You’ve been warned. We made one last stop before leaving town. I decided that I was going to perish if I didn’t get to the Liberace Museum. My knowledge of Liberace was limited to knowing that he played cheesy piano for old ladies and liked candelabras and feathered capes. This is going to be a riot, I thought to myself. The museum is in a shopping center a few miles from the Strip. We saw gaudy costumes and jewelry and watched a video of one of Liberace’s performances. The music was lovely. He was a master pianist with great knowledge of the classical composers. The tour guide said he brought classical music to the masses. I hadn’t known that.  We also saw many beautiful antiques and classic cars. Liberace’s taste in private, away from his public persona, was exquisite. The tour guide told us that he dressed in wild costumes because the audience loved it. The wilder the costume the louder they cheered, she said. He did it for them.Liberace’s bedroom is recreated at the museum. It is plain, almost austere. Even he had to get away from the hype at times. So you can overdose on glitz and glamour, I mused. Liberace was mainlining rhinestones most of the day, no wonder he had to get away from it all. How many feather boas and gilded capes can one man take? His welcome respite of a bedroom contains a bed and a display case that holds a rare, breathtaking crystal glassware set. Queen Elizabeth owns the only other one, and she gave the maker permission to craft a set for Liberace. However, she said the molds had to be destroyed afterwards, so no one else could have the same thing. There, in the quiet of the evening, the pianist could relax and reflect on his friendship with the monarch. When we left the museum I felt somewhat sober on the Liberace issue. I fully expected to make fun of the place, but I just couldn’t. I was too impressed with his career, his music and his antique collecting accomplishments. I am probably the only person who has left the museum without a week’s worth of jokes. On the flight home from Vegas I thought a lot about my experiences. Glitz and glamour aren’t all they’re cracked up to be and more often than not they hide in unlikely places. In fact, I think they could be hiding inside a fried Twinkie and I certainly intend to find out on my next trip to Sin City. |
