Vegas, Baby—Vegas on a Bad Trip
A half-sane, half-stoned dispatch from the neon frontier, where grown-up toddlers run wild and the city that once ran on balls now hustles timeshares and kid-friendly snow globes.
There have been all kinds of stories written about Las Vegas. I love this town—the wild women, the drugs, the food, yes, even the money. There’s always something to do here. I suppose if I lived here it would get old; everywhere does that to me. When you’ve been around as much as I have, you get that way. But there’s something about Las Vegas that draws me.
It was the middle of the day, right before Christmas. My wife and I were heading out to Vegas to visit her son, who was stationed there. I never had any intention of writing another Las Vegas story—it’s impossible because it’s all been done before. I’m not the kind of guy to re-engineer something; if it’s already perfected, why bother trying to do it again? That’s the problem with this world: too many Pete, Pete, and Repeats. I wanted to relax, to soak this trip in.
The wife hadn’t seen her kid since he graduated from basic training in San Antonio. He did a little stint in Wichita Falls, Texas, before heading out to the body- and cum-filled holes of Vegas. Lucky for him, he’s chasing a higher calling and not bullshit. So, we rented a little house close to the base—intentionally far from the Strip. Good for all of us.
We were in Vegas several days before we even drove down to look around. Christmas Eve: cold, dry, and still crowded beyond belief. It had been over ten years since my last visit. Some idiot put in a huge-ass snow globe on the edge of the Strip. Whose idea was that? Anything to make a buck. From what I hear, the stupid son of a bitch is bleeding money. Good. Let it hemorrhage.
This place used to be an adult playground—strangely bright, yet deliciously dark. You came here to be bad for a while. That’s why I showed up years ago: to be bad for a minute. I wanted to do drugs, blow some money, and get a blow of every type. Vegas was the place. After a spree I could skulk back to my so-called normal life, pretending to be a good little church boy—though I never was.
Vegas was unruly, stocked with people of horribly good character. They had charm, wits, and stamina; they could turn nothing into something and then make you buy it triple retail. This town was built on balls—all sorts of balls. Maybe it got a bad reputation from books, movies, and crime dramas. Good. That’s what we wanted—well, some of us anyway.
Driving around the Strip I spotted the change. Sure, you can smell grass everywhere. There are Asians out the ass. The dreamers and schemers still haunt the corners, but they’re fewer, farther between. This isn’t their playground anymore.
Vegas has turned into a sandbox for grown-up kids with kids—millennial adults and Gen-Z-ers who crave a “resort” vibe. They ditch the littles for a show, pretend to be irresponsible adults for a hot minute, then grab the kiddos and play at being one big, broke-but-bubbly family again, living on credit, trust funds, or techno-money. Tech bros proving they’re “real men.” Modern-day Karens proving they have something a real man wants besides a good time. Vegas is now the adult playground for people with social disorders.
The whole place is a filthy mess of immaturity. If folks thought old-school Vegas was juvenile, they never dreamed of this. It reeks of stupidity. I hate sterile, clean façades pretending they’re something else—that’s why New York and Boston never thrilled me. Those eastern bastions are locked in identity crises. Out west, we embrace chaos. People come here to be different. Maybe that’s what I’m seeing more than anything.
After a few days, the wife and I headed to Circus Circus—legendary dump of dumps. A throwback that could have been glorious, but the first thing through the door: a timeshare hustler. The place is so strapped for cash it’s fallen to that level of stupidity. Old-school, cheap, and it stinks like a bus-station urinal. Even that’s changed.
The casino floor was a jumbled mess of complicated rules because vagabond millennials can’t behave in public—or be trusted even in Circus Circus. Every ten feet another carnival barker in black hawks timeshare dreams with “rewards” if you endure a three-hour pitch. The joint felt like a MAGA convention on LSD. Disgusting isn’t strong enough. So we did the Vegas thing: make the best of a bad situation.
We queued for the buffet, hoping for comfort. Instead, we got a Black lady berating the Hispanic couple ahead of us—six kids in tow—while she wrangled her five. She’d blown January’s rent and, by God, she wanted a return on investment. All we wanted was food.
Big mistake. Stale, nasty coffee from the cheapest vendor; the worst grub in Vegas. Then they slung us a $90 bill for two people. What happened to this joint, this town, this society? Off the edge, that’s what.
We nibbled, then bailed. Disaster. All we wanted was to go home. Maybe Vegas changed—or maybe I did—but it wasn’t enough. Driving back to our rental in Sunset Manor, we cruised old Vegas. A bit more friendly, still a rehabbed mess, but recognizable. In the end, we grabbed a Starbucks and retreated. I was furious, but one thing remained: I needed drugs. Yes, drugs.
That evening we hit Henderson for dinner at some California chain—beats Strip food. Afterward, I scanned for a junkie or homeless sage to score ganja. Then I spotted a dispensary. Weed is legal now. Back in Texas, you still land in jail.
Inside, I checked my ID at the door—was this a bar or a pharmacy? Clean, bright, smelled fantastic. I ordered 100 mg of edibles on a tablet and waited for my number like I was buying pastrami. They checked my ID again, swiped the debit card, and handed over a sealed candy bar with prescription-style labeling—dosage, warnings, the works. What the hell happened? Vegas matured. Society matured. Madness.
Back home, two bites and I was gloriously stoned—the best sleep in years. Why isn’t this a thing back home? I felt dirty buying weed legally for the first time in forty-three trips around the sun. How could this be?
Through it all, Vegas has become the realm of young bobbleheads—everything I never wanted them to be, yet with a sliver of sense. A strange new world, and, damn it, I kind of like some of it. Not all, but some. Vegas, baby. Vegas. Life, baby. Life.