Now, there are those of you, of course — swanky San Francisco types, I’m talking to you — who like to turn up your noses at Vegas overall. I mean, Christ, have you ever tried to get a decent single-origin fair-trade half-skim half-2% double half-caf tepid latte no foam in that cultural Hiroshima? It’s a nightmare. It’s like Bergen-Belsen, I tell ya. It’s like Fairfield.
Then there are those of you who hear the word Vegas and make a joyous Fonzie sound (“Aaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy!”) and start shadow-boxing delightedly and doing jazz hands, singing Sinatra and tap dancing as you visualize yourself and your ten closest bra’s cruising Caesar’s Palace in sharkskin suits and two-tone shoes, the carnal barking sounds you make at each passing cocktail waitress almost — almost! — as clever and iconoclastic as your goddamn taste in movies.
This ain’t that Vegas.