Karl Klockars

Before we begin today, how about a round of applause to Las Vegas for ditching that whole “embracing the family-friendly approach to tourism” thing and just completely embracing the fact that we all just need a place to go cut loose and get a little naughty or crazy or debaucherous.  The world never needed another Disney World and certainly not one in the middle of the goddamn desert.

That being said: You may recall at the end of yesterday’s discussion on Chicagoans in Vegas that we’d be talking about what the real sin out there in Sin City truly is.  There’s a lot of hinky stuff going on out there, most of which we never even really see because even in America’s Naughtiness Capital we’re still doing everything really bad behind closed doors, but at least we feel just a touch freer to do it there.

When I was growing up, all I related Las Vegas to was gambling.  Nothing but gambling.  I knew that people went out there to play cards (didn’t understand it – we’ve got cards here and we only play them during rainy days), I knew they played craps (which I only thought was just a vehicle for a funny name), and I knew they played roulette (which seems awesome to a kid because it involves a marble and large spinning machinery).  I also had a hunch that a lot of baccarat was played and there were video games where you got shocked or died if you lost, but that’s mostly because I watched a lot of James Bond as a kid as well.

It was always just gambling, and popular culture only served to reinforce that by showing the casinos, the huge gaming floors, and the movies about Vegas where people are only motivated by huge amounts of money that you can gain by huge risks.  It was always solely about the cash and only slightly about staying up late and eating too much.

And now, after 5 days and 4 nights in beautiful “downtown” Las Vegas, I can tell you with full conviction that the true “sin” in town is not money, nor love of money, nor gluttony nor being soaked in the alcohol of your choice.  It is nothing more basic nor simple than sex.

You may come to town thinking that the gambler is king and that everything else is second.  You may check into your hotel room feeling like you might be missing out on something because you’re not going to spend every waking moment at a table or behind a slot machine.  And after probably 20 minutes of wandering through your first casino floor, you start to comprehend that maybe this whole town is really just about skin, about hormones, about arousal, about plain ol’ (and certainly not so plain) sex.

Scantily clad cocktail waitresses and restaurant hostesses in the lowest of low cut tops are just the beginning.  And corporate-positioned “Pleasure Pits” where dealers all wear the same front-office-approved bustiers and corsets barely scratch the surface as well.  No, it goes deeper than that (and yes, that’s a completely self-aware pun).

It’s in the ever-present ads for the gentlemen in Thunder From Down Under.  Guys, when you get off the plane, these shirtless Aussies are going to seem to be everywhere.  It might make you uncomfortable a bit seeing as how you probably thought you were in the heart of Cleavage Country.  It might even make you a touch insecure before you hit the pool with your pasty February chest.  But you’re not seeing it from a woman’s eyes.  The ads tell them first and foremost – we’re here to get you turned on too, sweetheart.

From there, it’s not just casino-mandated short skirts and tiny tops, nor is it the race to be ever skankier (and from what I could tell the Rio wins the race there, with some of the Golden Nugget taking second prize, although I didn’t get to take in everyone’s cocktailwear).  It’s everyone.  I’m not saying that I was running around with an open linen shirt blowing in the wind nor was I rocking a euro-style Speedo or anything, but you lock into a certain mindset.

It’s a vibe that runs through the whole town that says, “when you’re here, you’re going to feel just a little bit more confident.  A touch cockier.  A little freakier.  Because everyone else does.  You should too.”  Everyone, from old guys just looking to pick up a whore outside the county or somewhere a little closer, to moms on holiday from their kids and their PTA and their pets and their chores and their tired little lives to the husbands who remember what it’s like to want them like they used to before the cubicle and the 401k and the college fund sucked the life from their eyes.

From singles in town for a night at the Palms to try to pick up a Playmate or someone who might be a Playmate or someone that’ll never be a Playmate but feels like one for just a weekend.  To that girl who otherwise wouldn’t wear the short skirt and the shirt with no sleeves, but you’re going out to an overpriced nightclub anyways and you don’t know anyone here and no one is going to judge you and you just want to cut loose and feel as sexy as advertising has convinced us that you “should” be.

All that and more. That’s what the real “sin” is, and the triumph is that no one seems to feel bad about it at all.  All that lust and no shame.

You can go drop a few bucks or thousands in the poker room, you can stay out late eating buffet after buffet or hide in your hotel room and drink yourself to death in the closet, you can do all these things and more and die a rockstar inebriate death, but if you don’t pick up on that subcurrent of lust just a little bit, then..well, you just didn’t get it, did you?

Tomorrow:  Las Vegas as Capitalistic Amphetamine, in a metaphor which has surely been made dozens of times by people far better than me, but I’ll give it a whirl anyways.