And She Was
I recently heard a Jerry Seinfeld routine in which he suggested that the average adult man’s fashion taste freezes on whatever he was wearing in his last great year. Which is why I’m still walking around in the same Chuck Taylor’s I wore in high school.
There’s a fair argument that says the same theory applies to music. Which might be why U2, REM and a-ha remain atop my iPod playlist. (Just kidding about a-ha, though “Take On Me” is an excellent song.)
And so it is that with an astounding forty-eight hour layover in New York City under my belt, I am off to Breckenridge, Colorado, to celebrate the waning days of my bachelorhood. And I have created a playlist for me and my bretheren comprised almost entirely of songs released during the years 1984-1993. A sampling:
Van Halen – 1984/Jump
Genesis – Tonight, Tonight, Tonight
Jane’s Addiction – Jane Says
Public Enemy – Don’t Believe The Hype
Guns ‘N Roses – Welcome To The Jungle
Blind Melon – No Rain
Spin Doctors – Two Princes
Talking Heads – And She Was
Pink Floyd – Learning To Fly
Eric B. & Rakim – I Know You Got Soul
And don’t worry, Ms. Keller with be gathering with her female friends. There will be lace doilies and fine linens, to be sure. But if I know my wife-to-be, there will be plenty of phallic bendy straws to boot.
High School Musical
“Listen,” I said, “you’re an exotic dancer, and I’m a guy whose hero is Mister Rogers. That ought to suggest to you that this isn’t gonna’ end up like it usually does.”
I’ve blundered into some unusual experiences in my life, but this one took the cake.
In the end, I would have been better off sticking with my original plan — staying in my hotel room watching Steven Soderbergh’s approximation of Las Vegas, Ocean’s Thirteen, on pay-per-view — to actually experiencing Sin City’s worst elements first-hand.
It all began innocently enough.
My colleagues and I were celebrating our week of twenty-hour days, sleepless night, and banner ratings high atop The Palms Fantasy Tower. I was drinking Belvedere fresh off of a deep tissue massage and two hours of sleep in the previous thirty-six.
And… cue the warning alarm.
Next thing I know, a handful of us were taking in the Las Vegas skyline from Ghostbar, one of two open-air clubs atop The Palms. I find myself playing the role of the skeptic (“What do you mean it’s an amazing skyline!?! It’s all paper mache and klieg lights!!!”).
At some point, a colleague says, “Ok, let’s go to Happy Town.”
‘Happy Town,’ I think. ‘Sounds like a good place to me!’
Not until the limo turns away from The Strip do I inquire, “Um, where’s Happy Town?”
“The Spearmint Rhino, dude.”
Now, I don’t get out much, but I catch ET and Extra! from time to time. So I’m suddenly aware that I’ve been unwittingly roped into a trip to one of the nation’s most (ir)reputable “gentleman’s clubs.” And I’m not psyched about it.
See, I’ve had a no strip club policy for years. I probably don’t need to explain why, but I will. My mom used to take me to her ERA (equal rights amendment) meetings in the mid-Seventies. I met Gloria Steinem at the Chicago Democratic National Convention in 1996 and put the experience right up there with meeting Michael Stipe or Walter Cronkite.
More than gender politics, though, and cash-for-sex (or something approximating sex) notwithstanding, it’s just not the kind of place I frequent. Hundreds of drunken men oggling silicon-enhanced young women just isn’t my scene. Heck, hundreds of drunk men doing anything isn’t my scene.
So I’ve avoided bachelor parties and left more than my fair share late night events just before they turned he corner. This time, though, I was stuck. Or at least I felt stuck as my three male and two female companions poured out of the limo and through security. A colleague, fully aware of my discomfort, paid my cover.
And I stepped through the rabbit hole…
The place was dark. There was no center stage as I’d imagined (or seen on TV), but instead a series of tiered booths. Scattered around the room were small, elevated, circular platforms upon women gyrated lethargically. Large, thick men in black with earpieces stood in the shadows (that is: everywhere) slowly scanning the room. The scene reminded the Mos Eisley Cantina (you know: the intergalactic bar in which Luke meets Han Solo), and my Jedi senses were telling me that Greedo was right around the corner. It did not feel like a safe place.
Moments after sitting (“Please don’t put me on the outside,” I plead to no avail), and before even ordering a drink, a slender blonde with too much red lip gloss and too little clothing (her bra and underpants seemed two sizes too small) sat on my leg.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Um, um… Benjamin,” I said sounding more like a question than a statement of fact. “What’s yours?”
“Divinity,” she replied, cracking her gum.
‘Divinity,’ I thought. ‘Rrrrrriiiiiight.’
“Where are you from?” she asked, feigning interest. “What are up to in Vegas? Business? Vacation?”
I did my best to explain to her what we’d been up to all week, stammering through sentence fragments and awkward pauses. She commented that my job sounded cool, which is what led me to my “What I Really Wanna’ Do” speech, and our Mister Rogers documentary.
The elephant in the room — or, more succinctly, the 100-pound woman on my leg — though, became overwhelmingly unavoidable. So I asked, “Explain this whole process to me. You take guys into another room or something?”
“Sure,” she said. “We find a nice, quiet corner of the place and I dance for you.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure I’m into that,” I said. “No disrespect, but, yunno’, the whole thing kinda’ creeps me out. I’m not sure I get it.”
“Well, she said tapping her pointer finger on my right temple, “you’d always have it up here.”
“Again, no disrespect, Divinity — I mean, you’re lovely and all — but I don’t want it up there.”
Which is when I told her it wasn’t gonna’ work out, and that she’d find better business elsewhere.
After a few minutes of squirming and trying to disappear into the crushed velvet booth, another woman approached. Which is when I excused myself, walked out the door, and hailed a cab.
Eleven years ago nearly to the day I spent a weekend in the mountains above Telluride meditating on whether or not to accept the job IÕve now possessed for pushing twelve years. I was concerned that the office would feel like high school. Based in no small part on what I knew from watching the network, I worried that my colleagues would be more concerned with gossip and fashion and being hip and cool than elevating cultural discourse, creating substantive art, or contributing to the greater good.
Life is, after all, pretty much like high school. And the Oscar’s, Grammy’s, et all are pretty much prom. In this era of amusing ourselves to death — obsessing over Osama’s beard and Britney’s tummy — we’d rather know who’s wearing what, who’s kissing who, and who’s fighting who. Preferably caught on tape.
Now, I love many of my colleagues, think they do good work, and know that most of them aspire to something more as well. Last night, though, in the moments before I pointed my suede bucks for the door, I thought, ‘I just wasn’t made for these times.’
This morning, as I grabbed my bags and headed for the airport, I passed my reflection in a mirror and smiled.
I will not bake cakes piled high with frosting and sprinkles from which Valium-fueled starlets tumble ploddingly. I will not channel Buck Rogers, all swagger and cool, consequenceless and cavalier. I will channel Mister Rogers, and be proud of my values, no matter how square they might make me. I can’t worry about what my fellow sophomores – I mean colleagues – think or say.
Because, as Lester says to William in Cameron Crowe’s “Almost Famous,” “We’re uncool. The only true currency in this bankrupt world if what we share with someone else when we’re uncool.”
So when the sun came on Tuesday morning, there was nothing left to do but smile at my lack of cool, and decide what to where under my cap and gown.
Alive In The Superunknown
I woke the same as any other day except a voice was in my head.
The Las Vegas Strip might be one of the sketchier spots on Earth at six in the morning. I’ve run it all week long, each day driving me one step closer to despair.
This morning led me past Hollywood, Cairo, New York City, Rome, and Paris — all in less than an hour.
A handful of frat boys stumbled near The Luxor. A glassy-eyed couple made out in front of Caeser’s. A pair of teenager’s clicked by Paris, Paris in Lucite heels. A woman sat in a crumpled heap in front of the Bellagio. And overlooking it all: a three hundred-foot Toni Braxton (brought to you by Pepsi).
It said, ‘Seize the day.’
Try as I might to embrace the spirit of the place, I just can’t get behind Las Vegas. It’s not so much the over-sized buildings designed (it seems) to be razed with just a few bricks of C4. It’s not even the philosophy of excess; I’m all for it (in moderation).
Here’s what gets me (relish the paradox, people; I do every day): celebrity culture.
This town — and to be clear, Las Vegas is just an amplified, concentrated, saturated totem for the rest of culture — says one thing: you deserve to be treated like a star. You deserve 10,000 square feet, a granite-tile bathroom, door-to-door Towncar service, Belvedere vodka, Beluga caviar, and $15,000 Dior gold-feather, diamond-crusted flip-flops (I saw ‘em on the Today Show).
Problem is, The House always wins. So it’ll cost ya’.
But… we’d be happy to extend your credit line!
I’ve seen it play out over and over this week. From the outside, The Palms looks hip and luxurious. Inside, it might as well be the Meskwaki Casino in Tama, Iowa: orange carpet, Formica poker tables, ash trays on every urinal, and thousands of stumbling, mumbling, short pant and Lucite heel-wearing living like Britney on a maxed out Mastercard.
And as goes Vegas — I would argue — goes the world.
Moreover, these, of course, are the values the company for which I work embraced (some might say originated, concentrated and saturated) this weekend. To that end, somewhere around mile five — quads burning, mouth dry — Joan Osbourne’s “One Of Us” gave way to Soundgarden’s “The Day I Tried To Live” on my iPod.
One more time around, I resolved.
One more time.
Bouncing Off A Satellite
The last twenty-four hours have been a study in contrasts.
Tuesday night, I woke to the sound of crickets, wind, and waves.
This morning, I woke to the sound of air horns, sirens, and traffic.
Wednesday morning, I jogged past modest, gray clapboard houses on a sparkling Madaket Bay.
This morning, I jogged past multi-million dollar, gold-tinted, flashing light-strewn high rise hotels and casinos.
I left Nantucket on Cape Air flight #1 at 6:05. Eight hours later, I arrived some 2800 miles west at Las Vegas’ McCarran airport.
This year’s MTV Video Music Awards are being held at The Palms. En route to MTV News’ makeshift offices, I passed a woman sucking on oxygen, leaning on a walker and dropping playing the Wheel of Fortune slot.
Six, hours later she was still there.
Twelve hours later, I finally checked into my room, ordered room service, and collapsed into bed.
Six hours after that, I woke from a nightmare. I was standing in my front yard with a few buddies from high school. The dusk was painted red. The atmosphere was shimmering and shaking, broken by strange light waves. I came to with a melody in my head, and this lyric on repeat: “I’m floating away…”
It says nothing. But somehow says it all.
Nantucket, Massachusetts (Summer 2007)
September 4th, 2007
