The two Vegai

*** in loving memory of the old Jon Wiener, the one that strangers were afraid of ***

I made my first trip to Vegas last fall, and liked it so much that I made my second trip last fall, too. In fact, I made the second trip before I even got back from the first. And I don't mean that I booked a second visit on my way out of town or anything. I mean I was back in the casinos for another go-round before I was back in my apartment. So I guess that's what I could mean by the two Vegai....

But its not. No, the two Vegai both come from the first stay in Sin City. It was an excellent night, full of drinking and gambling, and much more drinking, followed by some more drinking and gambling. By the time I got back to the hotel not only was it light out, but the sun was hot. All around me, the high-rise hotels around me all seemed to have twins, my drunken double vision playing tricks on the mind....

Again, this isn't what I meant by the Vegai. The two Vegai are the two sides of the city: one where a $400 bottle of vodka gets you seats behind the velvet rope, and one where $5 chips get you a seat across from the Crash Davis of the Boston Red Sox, now a dealer at a 2nd (really 4th) tier casino. One where the rich go to blow off steam and money at top speed, and one where the not so rich hope not to get cleaned out too quickly. In the first, the bikinis at the pool are so small that you wonder why anyone would bother with the strip clubs. In the other, the alphas at the pool are so big that maybe you'll just hope (ahem) to see the girls later.

Its somewhere in this second Vegas that, taking cards from the former ballplayer, you'll find yourself an Italian, a Jew, a Pollack and a Swede, all proudly wearing a few strings of mardi gras beads collected in lieu of a larger cash payout for hitting blackjack. They've escaped Vegas #1 after helping themselves to its vodka and now they plan to milk free bourbon and cokes and bud heavies until, miraculously, better judgement steps in and sends them to bed, if that ever happens. In order of stereotype, they're happy because there are no italian women around to scream at them then age 30 years and gain 50 pounds in the space of 2 weeks. They're happy because if they want they can just tip a dollar every other drink, because the service really wasn't that great. They're happy because the dealer counts their cards for them, sparing them the difficulty of having to count to 21 (and just think of the trouble they've saved if one of their cards is an ace). They're happy because they're smart and attractive, but still not as attractive as their women, who are universally regarded as the most attractive in the world. And together they're happy because they're in Vegas, where everything gets done for you in the hope of a tip, even just a dollar chip, which means nobody will ask them to change one of the millions of lightbulbs shining overhead.