Vegas looks like a giant bus station now.
I miss when people dressed up. You’d walk through a casino and see suits, nice dresses, people who looked like they had money. Now everybody looks like they’re waiting for a relative or an ambulance to come get them.
There used to be some mystery. You’d see a guy at the bar and think, “I wonder what he does for a living.” Now you think, “I wonder if he knows where his shoes are.”
And these are the guests! They paid four hundred dollars for a room and came downstairs looking like they’d been denied one.
Pajama pants, shower slides, dragging a blanket through the casino. Buddy, you’re at Caesars Palace. At least dress like Caesar invited you.
Walking up and down the Strip used to be a fashion show. It was like a model runway. You’d find a place to sit and just watch everybody go by. Beautiful women, sharp-looking men, people who put some effort into being seen. Now you’re watching the sidewalk so you don’t step in human shit. That changes the whole evening. You leave the room thinking, “Maybe we’ll see a celebrity,” and ten minutes later you’re scraping your shoe off on a planter.
You used to tell your wife, “Look over there!” Now it’s, “Don’t look over there. Keep walking. No, I don’t know what he’s doing. Apparently the bushes are his room.”
And some of what you see lying in the bushes between casinos will scare the hell out of you. You’re walking past fountains, marble columns, a hotel that cost two billion dollars, and suddenly you’re worried whether the shirtless guy in bushes is breathing.
I’m not asking everybody to wear a tuxedo. But there ought to be a difference between “I’m going out in Vegas” and “The fire alarm went off at the hooker motel.”
Vegas used to make you feel underdressed. Now I put on a shirt with buttons and somebody asks if I’m the manager.