Las Vegas Ruminations…Part II “The Elevators”

It’s Saturday night in the city of sin and a phalanx of nocturnal revelers shuffles impatiently in front of a pair of gilded doors. The doors open allowing successive entourages to push past the expectant crowd gathered outside. Eyes lock, coy smiles exchanged, and open-ended invitations are extended as the crush of people is reversed. Inside there is barely room to move and no place to move to anyway. Whispers can be heard above the music pumped in from overhead speakers. We’re packed in tight like perfume-scented veal. This is one of the best and most random of Las Vegas’ many playgrounds…the elevator of your favorite casino.

The elevator banks in Las Vegas casinos serve in many ways as a microcosm. They’re unavoidable and essential to your stay in Vegas. Yet, they rarely receive the attention I believe they deserve. They have an almost tidal quality. Early in the morning they’re a mix of families making their way to the pool, the buffet bound, and bleary-eyed remnants of the previous night’s odysseys. This time of day the elevators assume a more familiar atmosphere. Eye contact is either avoided or limited to polite recognition. Children shift excitedly from foot to foot, waiting for the doors to open on the day’s adventure. While others can’t wait for them to close the chapter on a story best left unwritten.

As the desert sun continues its rise, so to does the flurry of activity in the elevator banks. Like molecules when heated, trips to and from hotel rooms seem to have a reactive association to the outside temperature. One can only surmise the nature of these hotel room missions. Their soundtrack is the sound of flip-flops reverberating off marble floors to accompany the march to the elevator banks. Women shielded behind over-sized eyewear stand confidently in swimsuits. They pretend not to notice the men checking them out. It’s in these moments that small talk morphs into proposals for future rendezvous.

The end of the day means the elevator banks once again become clogged with families returning from the pool. Parents clutch their children, refraining them from the overwhelming urge to push all the buttons on the elevator panel. Married men sneak peripheral glances at the girls who are busy recanting pool encounters. An impatient pall has overtaken the elevator. People want to get back to their rooms to recharge for the night ahead.

The night really starts when you load into that first elevator of the evening. For the well-lubed hotel guests, fresh from pre-partying in their rooms, this is their first encounter in the “wild” for that night. You stand waiting, perhaps there’s a wager on which elevator door will open first. The ding, signaling the arrival of your vertical chariot, marks the first moment of anticipation of the night. Who will greet you when the doors disunite?

It’s important to try and match the energy of the elevator upon entering. They are like hyper-accelerated ecosystems, each with its own evolutionary trajectory. You can exist in complete silence from floors 35 to 23, and then suddenly, one comment can unleash a torrent of conversation - the ebb and flow of riders creating an atmosphere of chance that rivals the gaming floor.

There are a few different types of “elevator playas”, that are worth mentioning. The “Host” acts as if you’ve been invited to his personal party. They might pepper you with a few questions about your day or plans for the evening. The “Host” usually keeps the conversation light and innocuous.

Next we have the “Inquisitor”, who usually is very curious as to, “What your deal is?” They like to push the envelope, by asking provocative questions and making any manner of allusions. When handled properly the “Inquisitor” can be a valuable asset to the elevator party.

Lastly, there’s the “Comedian”. They like to take advantage of the tight confines and lack of exits to work on material. The elevator usually represents the acme of their comedy career. The best you can do is pray they’re funny or that you don’t have far to go before reaching the lobby.

So the next time you are in Las Vegas pay attention to your time in the elevators. Often it’s the time spent en route to our destinations that goes unnoticed. Las Vegas elevators are every bit as sportive as the places they are depositing you. Remember, you can’t have “what happens in Vegas” if you don’t leave your room…usually.

Ruminations On Las Vegas....Part One "The Pool"

This past Labor Day I went to Las Vegas for a good friend's bachelor party. First off I should say that my friends and I are entirely too old to be engaging in this sort of "tradition". I mean we are just too old to be acting like hormonally challenged alcoholics, with our every perversion proudly on display. That said we soldiered on, and on, and on...

We stayed at the Mandalay Bay Resort & Casino on the "Strip". A property that the majority of our contingent was strangely compelled to never exit. You would have thought the desert sands had been transformed into ocean water. Our shipwrecked crew of hapless, middle-aged manboys stranded on this remote island, at least it was in keeping with the hotel's theme.

Mandalay Bay is known for its enormous wave pool and the Moorea Beach Club, a 21 and over "European Style" beach experience. At $50 to enter Moorea Beach Club, the value is predicated on how "European" the female patrons are feeling. Our view from the 25th floor provided an aerial vantage of a "sausage fest" of the highest order. $50 dollars saved we opted to stick with good, old-fashioned, American-style sunbathing. The familiar repressed, Victorian ethos we had grown accustomed to would have to suffice.

While at the pool, I noticed the hegemonic trappings of a generation raised on the cultural exports of MTV's "The Real World". The pools were populated with tattooed twenty-something's, peacocking for imagined fans. Men with their chests jutting forward, the strain of looking cool taking its toll under the hot desert sun, patrolled the rim of the pools. Flat-billed baseball caps proudly displaying cities most probably live no closer than a hundred miles of, were pivoted on their heads by the slightest of degrees. It's easy to spot the guys from Long Island and New Jersey. Their skin is Halloween orange and their hair gelled up, forming an inverted mote designed to keep the "cool" from escaping.

Over sized, mirrored sunglasses, a la Paris Hilton, were the accessory du jour for both men and women at the pool. Another quick note, piercings and tattoos no longer signify otherness when everyone in attendance has them. The majority of the women prefer to opt for the "slut stamp" on the small of the back. Most display Chinese characters and tribal art, the significance of which will gradually fade as their their forties approach. Men seem to favor the nipple piercing; on most it draws attention to sagging pecs. Meanwhile, flashes of light reflected off tongue piercings, punctuating innuendo-laden conversations.

For all of Vegas' wild poolside reputation, I found the crowd subdued. Maybe most were sweating out the previous night's debauchery. Or, maybe, $12 Pina Coladas and $7 Budwiesers will work to mute even the most frivolous of vacationers. Whatever the reason, nary a chicken fight was witnessed. I felt sorry for those that paid $1,500 for a cabana rental. At least they should get some aquatic theatre for that price. I couldn't help but think that this was a far cry from the Vegas pool scenes of Entourage. I guess all the action is at the Hard Rock pool.

The attitude permeating the pool grounds was Entourage worthy however. Even the homeliest of ladies, squeezed into ill-fitting swimwear, had attitude. When did our culture propagate the notion that everyone is a "star"? And as self-fashioned celebrities, staring vacantly through whomever cross their line of vision, they further delude themselves. I know this sounds like bitterness and perhaps it is. I'm bitter that being bitchy is celebrated and engaging one another is an infringement on one's cool. I watched whole groups engaged in the ultimate community building exercise, texting! It sends the message that wherever you're at and whoever you're with just isn't cutting it. There is a better party out there, with way cooler people. What happened to, "It's Vegas Baby!" I guess it's not this part of Vegas or these "Babies"...