I’m sitting in a room inside the New York New York hotel-casino in Las Vegas. My kids are asleep, my wife is downstairs either gambling or running off with Sven.
Either way, I fucking hate this place.
I actually think something’s wrong with me, because Vegas meets all the criterion of stuff I like. Funky people watching—check. Bright lights—check. Unique food choices—check. I dig large and loud and fun. Carnivals are my joy. Las Vegas is one big carnival.
And yet …
I hate the phoniness of Las Vegas. Everything feels … contrived, as if we’re on the set of the Truman Show. There’s zero authenticity, and why, oh why, can I never find my way out of a casino? And why does everything smell like cigarette? And why did our dinner bill come out to $120? And why am I seeing the Blue Man Group tomorrow? And why was there a stray hair on my daughter’s pillow?
Oy.
