I constantly surprise myself by liking something I thought I was going to hate. Whiskey. Disneyland. Death metal. And then there are times when my taste is reaffirmed so strongly, so unequivocally, that I amaze myself with my own flawless stylings: Casablanca. Antique jewelry. Louise Brooks haircuts. I have been doing a little thinking, and I have more or less decided that my personal taste is based mostly on the notion of authenticity, Disneyland notwithstanding. I was willing to give Vegas a try, much like my first sip of Jameson's, in the hopes that the burning sensation I associated with it would resolve into a pleasant and irresistible haze of pleasure. Maybe there was hidden depth.
NO. Even the building facades are plastic here. You can knock on the stucco; it sounds like Tupperware. Everything is bigger, cleaner, more American. It is horrifying. Thank the baby Jesus for rock and fucking roll.
I admit, here at Viva Las Vegas, I am the poseur. These people live this lifestyle all the time. They set their hair every night, and machine their own car parts, and genuinely love the music that grew out of Sam Phillips' airless box of a storefront studio in Memphis. There is a real connection to history and culture, and a respect for the doers of the world. And that, my friends, makes me a very happy girl indeed.
I will have pictures and more stories later, but I will say this: I have never had so many helpful hands down sets of stairs, nor so many admiring glances from women who appreciate the hours (yes, hours) of work it takes to accomplish this particular type of glamour, nor so many weak beers. As I said, Vegas is not perfect.