THE first thing to strike me on arrival at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas was not the slot machines themselves but rather the smell of vomit and stale beer emanating from them.
The departure lounge was littered with human detritus. Hung over, washed up and cleaned out, they sat slouched in their chairs or collapsed on the carpet, bleary eyed, waiting for the plane which would take them back to their safe, normal, routine lives and away from the fantastic magic kingdom which had sucked them in and extracted all their money.
Most of my fellow passengers, however, appeared oblivious to or simply chose not to notice this scene of post-hedonistic malaise.
Vegas is a Mecca for white trash, a desert oasis offering instant salvation instead of the mere promise of bliss in the hereafter. The temples of The Strip gleam in the bright desert heat during the day and sparkle throughout the warm nights, enticing pilgrims into their air conditioned sanctums where the slot machines, roulette wheels, blackjack and craps tables lie in wait.
The casinos are monuments of kitsch. This is not just tacky decor, this is appalling bad taste on a grand scale. Nearly all the casinos now have their own particular 'theme,' ranging from the Egyptian pyramids and Mississippi river boats to medieval England and ancient Rome, all having far more in common with Hollywood than the originals they claim to represent.
The city has only been in existence for about 60 years and if it had not been for the coincidence of two events triggered by the Great Depression, it would still be the small railroad stop and mining town it was in the 20s.