By Kevin D. Williamson
Tuesday, October 03, 2017
Las Vegas was, for a time, home. I spent a happy year
there living outside the city on a ridge overlooking the Strip, from Mandalay
Bay down the road to all the other brightly lit curiosities. It was and is a
great place to live, and the events of Sunday evening will not change that.
Las Vegas, the largest American city incorporated in the
20th century, is a strangely conservative place. I want to write “in spite of”
its hallmark industry and its infamous entertainment district, but it might
very well be because of the vulgarity and vice for which Vegas is famous. “What
happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” they say, but everyone knows that is not so —
not always.
Mostly, Las Vegas is just good fun, cheerfully ersatz —
why not build an Eiffel Tower and a
New York skyline? — though the Strip has for some years been developing in a
way that almost nobody could have seen coming: tastefully. The newest hotels
and clubs are sleek and cosmopolitan (so cosmopolitan you might hear four or
five languages spoken while having a cosmopolitan at the Cosmopolitan), the
prime-rib buffets have been replaced by Michelin-starred restaurants (try Wing
Lei), and at the nicest bar on the Strip, you cannot — this would once have
been unthinkable — smoke, or gamble, or even expect to run into a hooker.
But the Strip — the weird little village of Vegas Baby —
is only a small part of life in Las Vegas. Sunday Mass at St. Francis Church is
at times literally standing-room-only, and it’s not the only one. It is not
really true that the locals never go to the Strip, but they are also an
outdoorsy bunch: hiking, hunting, fishing. There’s a great sporting-clays
course, and a dozen great golf courses. And, sometimes, you just turn your Jeep
off the road and go into the desert, where the coyotes look at you like they’re
expecting you to ask for directions. If you’re lucky enough to have a swimming
pool, you can use it in February, and get a nice winter tan.
But the Village of Vegas Baby has a funny way of working
its way into everyday life, too. I went into a Whole Foods in nearby Henderson
late one evening and saw a very pretty young woman walk by who looked for all
the world like Taylor Swift. For a second, I thought it was Taylor Swift, until
it occurred to me that she was an off-duty Taylor Swift impersonator. Elvis
isn’t the only one who has stand-ins working in Vegas. At the same Whole Foods,
I also saw a woman who wasn’t wearing any pants and wasn’t impersonating
anybody at all so far as I could tell. I suppose the line between pantyhose and
yoga pants is, from the right point of view, permeable.
The massacre was horrifying. There isn’t any place you
want to have a massacre, of course, but there is something especially
heartbreaking about having this happen on the Strip — a place dedicated to
nothing more or less than having fun. I am not so naïve as to think that every
kind of indulgence on offer in Las Vegas is entirely harmless, but Las Vegas is
in my experience one of our least offensive cities, full of decent and
hardworking people, kind and indulgent, living and working in the shadow of the
international circus in the middle of it all. They’re veterans and immigrants
and business owners who listen to a lot of jokes about the lovely, sunny, very
livable city they call home. They’re tolerant, and they have good reason to be.
And if the folks from Muleshoe want to come and stay at Caesars Palace, play a
little blackjack, drink some cocktails, see a show, and spend their money,
there’s nothing terribly wrong with that.
And there’s a funny flip side to Las Vegas’s purported
libertarianism, a kind of corporate nanny state. (You think gambling is legal
in Nevada? Try organizing a church raffle.) Las Vegas really does not want to
arrest you for drunk driving or to see you suffer anything other than the loss
of a sum of money big enough to miss but not so large as to keep you from coming
back next year. Poor Vince Neil, the singer from Mötley Crüe, came out of a
casino having had one or two cocktails too many and went into a rage when the
valet wouldn’t get him his Rolls-Royce. He pulled the old “Do you know who I
am?” routine. Of course the valet knew. That’s why he wouldn’t get him his car.
He’d had a DUI before in Vegas. Bartenders are well-practiced in dealing with
toasted tourists inquiring about prostitution, which is legal in some rural
areas not far from Las Vegas but strictly verboten in Sin City itself. “That
isn’t a conversation we can have,” they’ll say. Steely eyes, slightly ironic
smile. “Would you like another drink?”
There are downsides: An old friend of mine raising
children there told me how she had to drive miles out of her way when taking
her children to school in order to avoid the gigantic billboards advertising
the Adult Video News Awards, a.k.a. the “porn Oscars.” But, mainly, Las Vegas
is like a big, cheerful Rancho Mirage with a more convenient airport and
without the hassles of living in California.
People will keep going to Las Vegas for the same reasons
they’ve always gone, and the cleverer among them might look around a little bit
and discover some new ones. A few of them might decide to stay, as I did, at
least for a while, and learn to appreciate the very real virtues of a city
supposedly built on vice.
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