Las Vegas rules, even if you’re under 60

  Bonnie Chau Chau is a second-year
English student. E-mail her at bchau@media.ucla.edu.
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I never really knew Vegas before Spring Break. Sure, I played a
few Circus Circus games when I was small, traipsed through the
requisite casinos, stared at the white tigers and wandered around
gift shops before swimming in extravagant hotel pools. But I never
really knew Vegas until now. And even those several days in Vegas
were not enough, I’m sure, to give me real knowledge.

But I know now that Vegas is another world. It is a gigantic fun
zone in the middle of nowhere, a hot, dry stretch of noise and
light and movement ““ and more people over the age of 60 than
one would think possible. For all the hype surrounding the alcohol,
the clubs, the strippers and the prostitution, Vegas really ought
to cater more effectively to its younger vacationers.

It seems like for every person having a “Fear and
Loathing”-type time, there are about two million elderly men
and women over the age of sixty wearing ill-fitting clothes and
permanently slumped at slot machines. These are the same people who
give us dirty looks on the monorail when they overhear us talk of
controlled substances, who rudely cut in line at those buffets
possessing wide varieties of sliced meat and pies and cakes and
where you sporadically look up to see a strange woman hovering next
to you yelling.

Younger people occupy a very tiny corner of a part of a section
of Vegas. Most of the showgirls and cocktail waitresses, after all,
look over the age of 50 at least. There are the college kids on
break, the 20-something professionals on vacation, the UNLV kids
and the young drifters. But these account for only the most
fractional percentage of the Vegas population.

And how deep into Vegas can we get? For those of us not privy to
the prestige of high roller rooms, we see none of the elegant
ladies and posh gentlemen. For us, the gambling masses consist of
$2 and $5 blackjack tables overcrowded with people who either look
like strange petty criminals or tourists having crawled out of the
plains of Kansas to partake in the festivities that are Las
Vegas.

Stumbling around the streets at 10 or 11 in the morning,
siphoning our margaritas by the yard out of those colored plastic
things, I’m sure a lot of vacationing parents pulled their
children closer to them and farther away from us drunken messes.
College kids like us are relegated to living 11 to a bedroom. We
must sleep three to a bed (and allow for incidents like the person
sleeping on the edge falling out of bed and onto the person
sleeping on the floor). We must stick close to someone who has one
of the two room keys. We must steal piles and piles of towels from
the pool and jacuzzi stashes outside for our bathroom use. In the
hotel gift shops, we must deal with cashiers who insist upon seeing
everyone’s ID since the alcohol we are purchasing is
“more than one serving,” and in hotel lounges we must
deal with bartenders who call security on us when we are simply
enjoying the live band because we’re in an “alcohol and
gambling establishment.” You don’t say. We must deal
with condescension, the always-looming possibility of getting
kicked out, and losing money we don’t have.

But somehow dealing with all these things doesn’t really
matter in the end. If you think about it logically, it seems like
at any given moment, the majority of the population of Vegas must
be losing money, and therefore the dominant mood should be pretty
damn depressed. But it is a testimony to the greatness of the human
spirit that we can rise nonetheless, amid all the annoying
restrictions, smoke fumes and unsavory characters to discover the
strange beauty that is Las Vegas.

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