Viva lost wages, part 2: big portions and small budgets.

If I take Las Vegas at face value, it's harmless, vaporous, like an episode of American Idol.  If I don't take it at face value--if I let it annoy the fuck out of me, if I let my slot-machine neighbor's cries of joy at winning $1000 get to me, if I remind myself that I'm getting pummeled with stimuli when I'm not in my hotel room--I am the most miserable human being on the planet.

Our trip was fine, overall.  Treasure Island was suitable: the beds were super-cushy, the coffee shop served agreeable fare.  For two boys with little need for fanciness, it more than fit the bill.  We ate a sumptuous seafood buffet at the Rio our first night; I got together with my girlfriend's parents and we had nice prime rib the next night at South Point while my friend had lovely-sounding sushi at Caesar's.  

We got sloshed on cranberry vodkas (me) and Bass (him); I threw up for the first time in forever.  I bought pants.

We rented a car and only used it one day, but we used it wisely by leaving the Strip our last day and venturing out to Valley of Fire State Park.  I am so glad we did; I was suffering severe cabin fever.

The last night, we ventured over to the Palazzo, the new sister hotel of the Venetian--gorgeous, sumptuous, spacious, marble-dominated.

But something finally crystallized this weekend while I was sitting in a casino cursing myself for losing yet another $20 on Hot Hot Penny: I'm not a gambler.  I don't have that innate need to ride a high for that long.  Like all suckers, I am seduced by the possibility of big (or even minor) winnings, and when I fall short (most of the time), I get angry.  No wonder I once walked away from a blackjack table in tears because the action was too fast.  I think, "What do I have to do to get to that place?"

No doubt I'm missing out on something, but maybe not.  I surmised on it two posts ago, and in the airport I surmised in haiku that it's probably just as efficacious to pay 10-11 bucks for a good mixed drink at the casino bar and spend an hour nursing a buzz, as opposed to nursing the possibility of a buzz at the roulette table.  Or hell, pay $60-70 for a show.

Oh well.  It ain't called Sin City for nothing.  I guess the Strip is just so relentless in its adult-playground bombardment that I feel bad when I'm not fully playing.  It's a place that shouts, "Give in!" and I'm naturally suspicious of a place that tells me to be an excessive, overindulgent tourist.  I don't always like being reminded that I'm little different from the dude smoking cigars and placing his Kentucky Derby bet in the sports book.

That said, I'll probably go back at some point.  As mentioned, my gf's parents live there, and if they don't move to Atl. anytime soon (the housing market being what it is), we may reconvene soon.  There's probably a good Strip experience to be had, and I just haven't fully had it yet.