My mother-in-law is a third grade teacher and a regular reader of this blog. Based on her glowing recommendation of Las Vegas, she was partially responsible for suggesting that city as a vacation destination. I believe it was around third grade when I learned the art of writing the Five Paragraph Essay for book reviews and such. With that in mind, the following vacation review will be in Five Paragraph Essay form. Donna, I hope you don't take this personally as I would hate to offend a wonderful, patient and caring mother-in-law, a dedicated teacher, and approximately one-fourth of my blog readership.
Introductory Paragraph
Despite what you may hear from third grade teachers, Las Vegas is the worst city on the face of the earth. If Pigeon Forge, TN and Niagara Falls, NY had an illegitimate bastard child, pumped it full of steroids and hired Epcot Center to design the non-air-conditioned nursery, then the result would be close to the Las Vegas experience. Instead of dwelling on the city itself, however, this essay will focus more on the anthropological study of its visitors and inhabitants. I hate crowds and rude, noisy people and Vegas is full of 'em. Because nothing tells the story of a city like those who are attracted to it, I will attempt to highlight some of those that I find particularly representative of Vegas tourists. The three demographical subtopics will be: 1. Middle-aged women with fanny packs; 2. Shady Filipino men in floral print shirts; and 3. Homoeroticized trapeeze swingers.
Body Paragraph 1
Are you tired of pockets? Can't fit any more into that purse? Longing to mimic a marsupial? Why not try a fanny pack? An ideal tote for your Virginia Slims, spare change, and Carmex, fanny packs provide the perfect pouch for the hands-free Nevada tourist. After all, you can't pull the lever on those slot machines with a fistfull of quarters. Overall, the women of Vegas are a predictable bunch. If you're single and under 35, you're most likely wearing high heels and a mid-thigh-leopard-print-mini-skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. Your goal is to get into the clubs without paying cover and getting free drinks (and VD) from the bachelor party frat boys. If you're 65 or older, you're likely hunched at the slots, betting your social security check on the minimum payout line one nickel at a time, probably chain-smoking and possibly crying, slumping your shoulders with each dwindling credit. But the bulk of the women in Vegas (lit. and fig.) are fanny-pack sporting, Disney-T-shirt-tucked-into-Jorts-clad, visor-sporting, middle-aged female with Crocs and an attitude. Inexplicably, they are likely pushing a stroller (or two) and heading toward the buffet line. Too old and too married to get free drinks from the high-rolling Roulette fellas, and too young to play the penny slots on the Triple 7 Quicksilver Double Diamond machine all day, these are the ladies that can't wait to leave their husbands to their smoky table games and get back to their motel so they can let the kids splash in the pool while they relax with a blueberry daquiri in a lawn chair at the Super 8 Motor Inn. They're there in droves. I don't know why.
Body Paragraph 2
If there is a stereotype associated with shady Filipino men in floral print shirts, I am unaware of it. Therefore, the fact that I am put off by their probing, beady eyes is not meant to perpetuate a stereotype. It's meant to create one. Too short and sneaky to be conspicuous, yet too ominous to be completely unassuming, shady Filipino men in floral print shirts are everywhere in Vegas. You get off the elevator - there he is - loitering in the lobby, leering at you from the corner of his eye with a look of contempt. You sit down at the Blackjack table - there's another - puffing a cigar in your face and hitting on 18. You head to the buffet - you guessed it, another Filipino - plate piled high and taking the last of the pimiento olives. Again, I don't have anything against Filipinos generally. I'm sure the majority of them are very pleasant people who don't hang out in dark shadows of casinos looking like they just offed the pit boss and hid his body. But put one in a loud, garish Hawaiian shirt and put a scowl on his face, and you'll not find a more menacing sight my friend. Not ever.
Body Paragraph 3
I'm sure there was a time when a gay circus performer felt like he didn't fit in. Where was he to go with his feathered boa and unitard? Vegas used to be such a man's world. What with its smoky poker rooms, topless revues and mafia owned hotels. Well Viva la France! because Cirque du Soleil has rescued the flamboyant gymnast demographic from the bowels of discrimination. No longer will a performer whose interests include acrobatics, interpretive dance, slapstick humor and ethereal, house music be excluded from those whose talents are valued on the Strip. Too polished to be called a carny, but too outlandishly queer for the mainstream P.T. Barnum crowd, Cirque (as it's called by those in the know, a.k.a. me), is a haven for those who enjoy their circuses (circusi?) brassy and sassy. No longer just spinning plates and bowling pin juggling, this circus is the bee's knees! If by 'bee's knees' you mean 'stupid and boring'. Sorry friends, I know it's popular, but Cirque du Soleil is terrible. Waste of time, waste of money, waste of effiminate Chinese pole jumpers.
Conclusion
In conclusion, in spite of itself, I had a wonderful time in Las Vegas. I don't gamble and I hate (hate!) shows. Yet, something else pulled me 1500 miles west to Sin City. You see, there is one more demographic that I need to talk about before summing up. This demographic is the real reason why I was in Vegas in the first place: The brave cancer patient. You see, my wife and I usually plan a vacation to Mexico every year. It's our escape and our special place. This year was supposed to be extra special. Our five-year anniversary and her thirtieth birthday was last week. Eight months ago, we figured it was going to be a huge celebratory vacation. We had even tentatively booked a trip to Mexico before all of this went down. Then our lives took a detour. Plans were suddenly changed. Flights were cancelled. Because of chemo and surgeries and her need to avoid the sun, we had to decide on a place where we could spend most of the time indoors, yet still get far enough away to try to forget about our worries back home. We settled on Vegas. And it was great. We laughed and we played. We lost money on slot machines and ate big extravegant dinners. We completely forgot about the cancer and those damned treatments. We were as carefree as teenagers. A realization materialized not too far into our trip: Vacations aren't where you're at; It's who you're with. So despite the stupid crowds and lame shows, the loud casinos and shady Filipinos, it's a pretty great memory we'll remember on our fifty-fifth anniversary. So yeah, Donna, I guess it did turn out to be a pretty good recommendation from a wise third grade teacher. Thank you.
