A Lament for Las Vegas

The city is dead, and I wander through it, a somber sleepwalker, mildly adrift through a sea of shuffling gawkers, always fighting against the tide. Not because of making any sort of grand statement, but merely because they refuse to move past internalized senses that those not them have no free will. NPCs meant to bring about a sense of wonder and depth to an otherwise hollow experience. Outside, the sun beats down with an unrelenting fury, while buskers beg, and men and women in neon shirts—poverty doesn’t discern gender—flick cards promising experiences both carnal and intimate. All while, on the inside, past the smoke-filled halls and air-conditioned nightmares, lay white marbled expanses lined with luxury sold at inflated prices. Gucci. Dolce. Gabanna. Yo Gabba fuck me into oblivion.

Women wander these halls, adorned in white, like avenging angels sent to ensure no one breaks free from the beast of capital, dispatched in pairs or groups, to recapture a dead moment from a dead decade. My head throbs to the pulsating beat from an all-day party at a 21-plus pool, where nature’s sags are defied or tucked, acne blossoms across testosterone-addled backs of men twenty years past their prime, nestled beneath the backdrop of pop hits from a time when there was no cellulite or testosterone-bereft fogs of war, but the glory and folly of youth.

Oh what fun.

There’s a convergence here, of multiple disciplines and walks of life, into a place that was playfully labeled as one of sin, but became instead a few square miles in the desert—a virtual mirage amid the suffering—a temple to the systems that bind us to those in power. Each staggering monolithic structure more impressive than the previous one, although they have, over time and through creative decay, grown to mimic each other, victims to corporate mergers, buyouts and consolidation of ownership under vast umbrellas of shell corporations and holding companies.

Each wall in each building is adorned with the goofball, sly smile of celebrity chefs, long past their reality-television shelf life, but immortalized through their Americana menus and revolving door fast casual veneers. You too can enjoy a gauche gastronomical experience beside a paper-thin wall stained brown from the lingering smoke and desperation that permeates the air.

If this is living, then am I ever truly alive?

My world slows down, not speeds up, and with each passing day, there are more minor details I’m unable to shake. It’s impossible to visit a place this dead and not notice the signs of rot and decay, glazed over with artifice, and never meant to be experienced for more than a few sittings before the man behind the curtain isn’t just exposed, but on full display.

The Wizard being splashed across a dome, although he was never meant to be there, on such a display, so forsaken machines are brought in to do ‘generative fills’ on one of the most iconic movies, just to charge $200 per ticket for “the experience.” I don’t think I like Vegas very much, any more.

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You might be saying to yourself, “I’m receiving this, but it’s not on my Substack dashboard!”

You’re correct. I’ve tried previously to leave Substack. It didn’t work out super well, and I ended up back there. I don’t like Substack and I figured I’d try another platform for now. You don’t have to stay here. I get it. Last time I switched there were complaints, but this is for me.

I got a hearty chuckle out of reading this piece recently. Maybe you will as well.

Don’t forget to check out my latest novel, Iconoclast!