By Joe Stein. Time. July 26, 2004
In a pass off to its Rat Pack roots, Vegas booms with a profitable mix of
fault and sensation. An inside look at how the party got so hot
My tin hurts. Its 7 A.M., and somehow mortal after person after
person has persuaded me to pull an all-nighter so they arsehole show me
their
little cut of meat of Vegas--their glossy strip club, their late-night
pool-cabana scene, their Studio 54, their swank ultralounge. And now,
at
an after-hours nightclub, the low-pitched pumping, my eyes jolted open of all timey
few seconds by the haze of manufactured cleavage, they are offering me
a beer. Not stock-still a light beer. All I wanted was to think a nice Cirque du
Soleil show, work my expense reputation at Le Cirque with my only famous
friend, Robert Goulet, and crash at the new hotel at Mandalay Bay,
where
my standard room has two bathrooms and third flat-screen TVs. But New
Vegas wont let me be. It needs to show me what a abundant time its
having, with its supersized, sanitized, non-intimidating version of the
same sins I dont want when Im at home. I am deeply considering taking
the beer so I can finally get sick and get the nurse to embark me home.
This New Vegas, this stomach-churning Vegas, was built from a scrap
heap
of roller coasters. When gambling popped up at every racetrack and
lottery counter and on every riverboat and square foot where a Native
American formerly lived, Las Vegas had an identity crisis. It built theme
parks, believing that if its vices had become acceptable, it might as
comfortably be a peddler of family-friendly activities. And it stumbled.
Because what Vegas hadnt understood is that, compared with even the
most(prenominal) worn-out vices, like keno and showgirls, roller coasters bite. So
now Vegas has reinvented itself again, return to vice but sanitizing
it by creating the biggest, nicest place to sin ever imagined, a Sodom
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