Clay Chucky

You know how when a person starts off with,

“no offense, but…”

what follows is bound to offend someone?

No offense, but, I hate Las Vegas.

First, there’s everything it stands for:  The greed, excessiveness, raunchiness, and wastefulness. The elevated importance placed on money and status. The incredibly insensitive display of indulgence when there’s so much suffering in the world. It represents the worst parts of America.

Then there’s the whole “anything goes” mentality that turns it into a giant frat house on crack. Its famous “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” mantra on the one hand is true, as you leave a part of your soul there. And even more of your salary. On the other hand, this concept turns even polite, quiet types into raving lunatics and cranks up the level of douche-iness on the already douchey to 11. There was a douchebag convention when I was there recently. It was called “March Madness.”

Vegas is an assault on all senses simultaneously. And everything about it is strategically set up to lead people to make bad decisions. Vegas is designed so you lose all sense of time, place, and manners. You can’t even walk the strip without losing your way (and your mind) because of all the ups and downs and twists and turns. You rarely sleep, and when you do, you have crazy, disturbing dreams. You become confused and overstimulated and tired. Finally the city breaks you down. “OK, fine,” you concede. “We’ll just sit in the one place that has chairs (casino floor) and put some damn money in a damn slot machine.” You tell yourself,

At least it might be fun to pull the lever and to carry around a bucket to collect the change!”

Oh, wait…

Vegas is too much of everything. Too many people, noises, lights, and children. What a great place for kids! The dancers on tables, and the hundreds of naked boobs pictured on cards littering all the sidewalks. And what kid doesn’t love a clown? Or a drunk! Plus, there’s the dangerous thrill of all the second-hand smoke.

I found myself mimicking the Jimmy Fallon “Ew” countless times on this trip. One small word sums up this monstrosity.

Cirque du OK
There are some positives. I actually felt thin there. Correction, I was thin during “day Vegas.” And not just thin, but classy and put-together. Stepping out in “night Vegas,” however, I was an old, frumpy fat-ass who might as well be wearing a track suit.

The food, even the “cheap” food is pretty damn good. And you can eat at the restaurants of all the chefs you know from reality TV. Also, the fountains at the Bellagio are surprisingly lovely.

Finally, there’s the entertainment. Not Celine, who perfectly represents Vegas on so many levels, yet, none of them positive (except that she knows she belongs in Vegas, and I respect that.) But the Cirque shows, which are visually stunning, and yet sufficiently eerie to be worthy of the city in which they have permanent homes. Beatles Love is a spectacular event that makes you feel like you are on psychedelic drugs, but in a good way. Except they have a character who looks like a cross between Clay Aiken and the Chucky doll; a miniature, psycho Clay Aiken. During the show, Clay Chucky walks around with a bouquet of flowers looking as frightened and confused as the rest of us. He could easily swap the bouquet for a knife and change the entire concept of the show.

Almost immediately after we left the theater and ventured out on the “night Vegas” strip we saw an adult wearing a Chucky costume. It was as if I expected him. In fact, I would’ve been surprised if we hadn’t seen a life-sized Chucky. It was time to go.

Not my town
Vegas is like that Clay Chucky. Cheesy, campy, confusing and creepy. Ew.