So I kinda wondered for a second about how things would go if the shoe were on the other foot.  What would it be like if, say, the Republican candidate for President (a generic boilerplate one, not specifically McCain) had emerged victorious in November ‘08 and had also, for sake of argument, been from Illinois and decided to move those prisoners to the exact same prison?

Politics is very often nothing more than screaming about what the other guys are doing, even if you don’t particularly care one way or the other about it, just to keep people upset and to score a few points of your own if you can.  Personally, I happen to agree with the Democrats when they say that Gitmo represents what we don’t want the world to see about us, that it’s a recruiting tool and the like.

I also think it’s pretty hypocritical to talk big about standing strong in the face of terrorism, and not even having the prisoners of the war on terror in a place in our own country, not to mention the fact that it’s in a place that we as citizens can’t travel to,  yet it’s okay for the military to house prisoners there.  There’s just something messed up about that.

Anyways, regardless of the politics around it, what would it sound like if a Republican tried to move those prisoners to Illinois?  It might sound a lot like this (and maybe Obama should have sounded a little more like it):

My fellow Americans, I have made an executive decision today to close the military prison at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.  It has served for too long as a beacon for the enemies of our country to look to as a reason to plan attacks on American citizens and soldiers.

I have also decided to move the prisoners housed there now to a number of different prisons all across the country, so as to decentralize the prisoners and reduce the risk of a concentrated attack on any one prison.  This is just one part of the process, however – these dangerous individuals are going to have to go somewhere.

That’s why I am moving the most dangerous to my home state of Illinois, to send a message to the rest of the world.  We are not afraid of you, we can handle you, and we will not be scared of your presence.  You have no control over us, and we will stand strong in the face of your bluster.

Now, I’m sure there are many people out there who believe this may be a bad move.  That it may be dangerous.  That it puts American citizens at risk.  And my answer to them is:  Yes.  It might.  But I believe it is a risk that can be managed, and I believe that the risk of what might happen is more preferable to the current risk of negative outcomes from having our prisoners in another country, off of our shores and in a country we are still in a conflict with as well.

This is in no way a reflection on the men and women who have served at Gitmo to guard these prisoners.  It is simply a way for us as a country to say to the world, We will not live as though we are afraid of you evildoers any longer.  We are stronger than you, and having you in America’s Heartland doesn’t frighten us.

This will take effect immediately, and I hope Congress will work with me to achieve my goals.  Thank you, and God Bless America.

Let’s assume that the Democrats want more study or further investigation into the Gitmo closing.  Maybe a bi-partisan commission.  What do you think the Republican followup would sound like? :

“Our president is truly a brave and bold man!  I agree with him, that even though it may be a risk, it is one worth taking and I for one would volunteer space in one of my state’s prisons to do my share for our military effort!”

“When the Democrats say that this is a bad move and needs more study, it is indicative of the weak spine that personifies their party, and shows their fear of these cowardly terrorists.”

“This is something that should have been done a long time ago, and I applaud the efforts of our President.  This is a strong statement to our international community, and I believe will show our continued commitment to fighting the War on Terror while not expecting others to watch our prisoners.”

“The people criticizing this move on the other side of the aisle need to get tough and get with the President on this.  Gitmo has been a burden on this country for so long and such a touchstone for negativity on the international stage that to leave it open for one more second is unfathomable.”

“The prisoners at Guantanamo may or may not be guilty of war crimes, but if we can’t try them in Iraq or Afghanistan, the best thing is to do so within the boundaries of the United States.  It represents the idea that we take care of our problems on our own terms, without fear, and I commend the president’s decision to close the prison.”

“Democrats who are expressing concern over the placement of these potential terrorists should learn that America is tougher than a few hundred men in prison.  If these men represent an increased risk to the people around the American prisons that they end up at, it’s better than having them at a place that terrorists use as a motivator to attack our troops!  And I will not stand in the way of anything that would make our troops safer!”

Sound about right?  Why does this have to be so tough?  Can’t we just show some balls and accept that maybe even if these guys are in northwest Illinois, it’s still probably going to be extremely safe, going by the odds?

Let’s fast forward to present day.  Every local news station spent a morning this week camped out at Navy Pier to do some in-depth hardnosed reporting about the opening of the new Harry Caray’s Restaurant.  Mr. Caray’s wife, Dutchie was out there, Mr. Cub Ernie Banks was on-hand, and there was much rejoicing over the new outpost for dining and revelry on the tumbleweed-choked food desert that is Navy Pier (yes, tongue planted firmly in cheek).

I didn’t get the chance to see every single second of coverage of this epic event, but what I did see managed to avoid one specific thing – any appearance of Mr. Caray himself, in terms of video remembrance.  Oh, there were goofy oversized plastic glasses and very likely steins of beer being hoisted bright and early, but I didn’t see anything about the career of the man who is the namesake of this, the third (I believe) location in an empire of Italian Steakhouses around Chicago.

All of this has made me wonder – are we forgetting that Harry Caray actually called a hell of a lot of baseball games for both teams in this town?

We pay a lot of lip service to the deceased gentleman, and every time someone does a terrible impression of him for a cable company, there is much outrage and handwringing and defense of the man’s memory.  But as we get farther and farther away from Caray’s actual lifespan, and his memory gets more diluted, are we going to get to a point where he’s just a cartoon, a restauranteur and a Will Ferrell impersonation?

I’m afraid we might.  Were I to commission a poll to do word-association around the words “Harry Caray,” I have a strong suspicion that the main response would be “beer.”  Followed by “big glasses” and probably only then “Cubs guy.”  We’re a little over a decade removed from Harry’s funeral and there are teenaged baseball fans who have never heard Caray call a game, will never understand the impact he made on Chicago baseball, never know much more about him than alcohol advertising and restaurants.

There is, of course, the argument that says that if not for the investors who threw a few hundred grand (a piece, I understand) behind the new location, we might have let his memory slide even deeper into the ether.  I suppose we should in some ways be thanking the board of directors for pursuing the opening – because god knows that a place like Harry Caray’s on a destination like Navy Pier will close only once the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse come thundering through town.

But consider this.  Google “Harry Caray” and the first result is two links for the restaurant.  Then you get a link to the Wikipedia page.  The first few video results are SNL impersonations of the doddering drunk uncle that he was percieved to be.  Hell, it took that Wikipedia page to remind me that he was the guy behind the popularization of the 7th-inning stretch tradition at Wrigley that has since been bastardized by Mike Ditka, Ozzy Osbourne and Jim Belushi.

Simultaneously, by expanding the Harry Caray restaurant empire, you dilute the essence of the man himself.  I personally have absolutely no idea what kind of relationship Mr. Caray had with food, although I tend to doubt that he was really all that interested in things like dry-aging vs. wet-aging of steaks and the like. (Note: I believe that Harry Caray’s is one of the only places you can get both a wet-aged and a dry-aged steak, which is actually pretty cool.)

We lose bits and pieces of Chicago history every day.  Someday, the Billy Goat will close.  Someday they might tear down the Picasso.  If Marshall Fields can fall, then truly nothing is safe.  Even…Wrigley Field.  Hell, even Hot Dougs is going to close at some point, perish the thought. And maybe I feel a little protective of the guy, since in appearance and in alcohol intake, he reminds me a little bit of my own grandfather, also long since passed.

So forgive me for hoping that even thought we’ve been inundated with goofy caricatures and dining ventures (which, in fairness, I’ve heard offer some pretty good food – I stopped in once and they wanted something like $6 for a bottle of Budweiser which immediately removes them from my roster of possible dining locations) that we still occasionally spend a second considering the contributions of the actual man who made this ever-growing posthumous legend.

*I’m not sure that this requires full disclosure, because I can’t see how it would affect anything, but the space that HC-NP moved into was where I spent a few short months waiting tables at the previous tenant’s restaurant, Joe’s Be-Bop Cafe.  If that place made it through multiple summer seasons, Harry Caray’s will no doubt last eons.

I’ve had a number of ideas and plans and propositions and such for my campaign, I’ve had slogans and some really great signs made upon my behalf.  I have taglines and everything.  Please see the “I’m Not a Scumbag.  Yet.” brainstorm from a few weeks previous.  I haven’t gotten to the campaign finances yet but if I could make a cheap Youtube Video about Catcher in the Rye being hijacked by movie studios then dammit, I can come up with something clever to make my ass some cash.

Since the announcement of the help-wanted ad (which, I hasten to add, I’m not even eligible for since they’re not even in my ward and even if I moved there all willy-nilly, I’d have had to live there for a year previous anyways, so there’s really no point in blueskying about this but to hell with it) I’ve also had a considerable amount of time to think about all the reasons why I wouldn’t want to be in this particular class of AlderPeople.

And there they are:

1) Nobody likes the new guys.

If the Mayor just plugged in a couple people he liked and knew this wouldn’t really be an issue.  But I’ve been the new guy in a few places and if you get any outreach from anyone, it’s from the loser’s lunch table that just needs another person to round out their afternoon card game of “War” or something else that’s not as cool as poker.

And if things are that bad at the high school lunch table for the new guy, just imagine what the Chicago City Council must be like.  I bet no Alderman would ever dream of trading their potato chips with the new councilman for a few Oreo’s.  It’s just not done.

2)  You’ll get nothing.

There are only so many dollars up for grabs in the Chicago council, and now that there’s two less alderpeople that’s just another few million that can flow into other wards.  And who’s going to want to give those up to a couple people that nobody don’t know from nothin’?

The two new AlderApplicants will show up, collect a paycheck, maybe try to do something good for their ward, and will then summarily get zilch.  No help from anyone.  The pile of scraps just big enough for a few wolves, and the new cubs in the room ain’t gonna have it to fight for them – unless Mayor Daley puts in someone like R. Kelly or Buddy Guy.  Someone like that with just a little bit of clout might get a few bucks, or their next tune will be “Daley Ain’t Givin’ Me Shit” and it’ll fly up the local iTunes rankings.

3)  I really am not interested in doing the Mayor’s laundry.

That’s what the new guys have to do, right?  Pick up the dry cleaning and probably do stuff like grocery shopping?  I mean, I know how to use Peapod and all that but really, I don’t have the time to run his shirts down to Bridgeport and back every few days.

4)  You get all of the shit with none of the perks.

Sure, you’ll end up with a pension at some point in the future, but is it really worth it for having to walk outside in your ward and have everyone around you wonder why the hell their sidewalks aren’t fixed and why the streetlights don’t turn on and the street sweeper doesn’t come around so much any more.

Oh, wait – this is Chicago and 99% of the city wouldn’t recognize their Alderman if he fell asleep on your shoulder on the CTA.

Regardless, maybe I’m giving people too much credit (and especially government workers) but I like to think that I’d have a hard time facing the citizenry knowing that I’m filling a seat and not doing much else until the next election and The Man just puts in who they want.  But that’s just me.

5)  To be honest, I don’t have the ego.

From everything I’ve heard, there are a lot of inflated heads wandering around the hallowed halls of government.   Part of me believes that that is a good thing.  It’s hard to effectively govern when in the back of your head you’re hearing a voice that says “but what if you’re wrong?”

Maybe a better word is self-confidence, but certainly that leads into ego eventually.  And each and every vote would be met with “but am I doing the best thing I can for the city?”  Which one would hope is a thought that runs through every alderperson’s head at every vote.  I believe the real thought that scans across their grey matter is a lot more like “I know this is the right thing” or at least “I know this is going to work out best for me.”

Beyond that, I have heard stories about aldermen who essentially sit in thrones at their offices, who embroider their initials on everything, who rule over their fiefdom with all forms of haughtiness and hubris.  And I can’t be that guy.  Which is sad, because I’m sure all these egomaniacs will never be voted out of office.

Sadly, being arrogant sells in most societies.  It’s a survival mechanism of sorts – no one else is going to be your booster more than you are, so why not use a little bit of bluster to benefit yourself?  I am willing to admit that I lack that kind of personality trait.  I’m fine with it.

Back to the grind I go, slaving away in a life of obscurity and relative low profile.  Buy at least the laundry I do will be my own.

In a swirling perfect storm of happenstance, I spent most of my afternoon yesterday camped out on the couch watching Mad Men via the magic of On Demand cable programming.  This was the result of coming home to a sick wife who split work to drink NyQuil and zonk out in the hopes of a quick recovery.  (NyQuil + couch is how I otherwise spend most of my weekends regardless.  It’s like time travel!)

This reminded me of a plan I was formulating during my 5 Days In Vegas.  As you wander up and down the Strip today, you get the vibe that you’re smack dab in the middle of a gargantuan theme park.  A theme park for adults where half-naked men and women take the place of funnel cakes, but a themepark nonetheless.  This is in direct contrast to the retro-Americana swingin’ Rat Pack vibe which almost everyone envisions Vegas to be, even though it hasn’t really been like that for decades.

Yes, places like the Sahara and the Riviera still exist and are hanging onto that old-school setup (or more likely, can’t afford to make all the renovations they’d like to) but all the same, those casino hotel resorts like the Dunes and the Sands are not much more than memories upon which representations of New York and Paris stand today.

Here’s where you come in, Staff of AMC’s hit tv show “Mad Men.”  I haven’t been paying too much attention to the trades lately so I don’t know if you guys are writing or in production or taking 18 months off in between seasons like your forbearers on “The Sopranos” had done.  All I know is that Jon Hamm either still has or at one point had a beard.  Either way, here’s a little something to wrap your 60’s-centric brains around.

The idea of the Rat Pack era of Vegas is iconic Americana.  “Mad Men” has become iconic in its own right.  So…what does  a brother have to do to get the fine new creators of Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce to hit up a convention in classic 1964 era Las Vegas?  I know you can picture it now – the classic photo of the Rat Pack in front of the Sands…imagine how many posters you’d sell if you put Don Draper, Pete Campbell, Roger Sterling and the lovely Joan Holloway standing in front of that same sign, smokes alight and highball glasses in hand?  You’d bankroll the whole damned season, that’s how many.

I know you’ve done the “travel for a convention” storyline before.  But I wouldn’t worry about people thinking that you’re going back to the well a little too soon.  After all, conventions happen every year. Who’s to say that your cadre of advertising executives can’t come up with a reason to head out to the desert to get a little sun, make a few deals and chase some showgirls?

That mid-sixties era was also really the golden age of Vegas kitchiness.  Viva Las Vegas was released that year.  Robin and the Seven Hoods came out.  The original Ocean’s Eleven was just four years old at that point.  I am well aware of the dedication to detail that the art department is forced to adhere to.  It will not be easy to bring back that era.  But it can be done.

For starters, you’ve got an entire stretch of Las Vegas that is pretty much preserved in amber on Fremont street.  Even the people who visit those casinos are still locked in 1964 even if their bodies have continued to age.  That’s step one.  Step two is to once again imagine how bitchin’ it would be to watch the cast sauntering down a digitally youthful Fremont – with no goofy rooftop up above blasting Kiss songs down at you.

Step three is to set up camp at the Sahara at the very north end of the Strip.  They’re still old-school as hell, they’d probably happily trade the time you spent taking up space for the resurgence in income they’d get after the publicity they got for hosting your filming.  Also, there’s pretty much jack shit around there since all the stuff they wanted to build just up and died when the economy went to hell, so there’s less to erase from all your backgrounds.

Beyond that, your cast is already on board – hell, they went and did a musical revue in Vegas last year which seems to have been a hell of a lot of fun.  Don’t you think they’d like to go back and build more of a mythology around the show in the vein of a Mad Pack sort of debauchery? It’s really a no-brainer.  It’s like peanut butter and jelly.  It’s peppermint and chocolate.  It’s sour cream and chives.  Mad Men and Vegas is two great tastes that go great together.

And really, we’re all staring down the barrel of another summer of Staycations, so if we can travel vicariously to the distant past of America’s Playground through you guys, it’d really be doing us all a huge favor.

Think about it, won’t you?

The chances of me running out of steam now that we’re about 3000 words into this week of blithering are pretty good, and let’s keep in mind that “Fear and Loathing” only ended up being about 50,000 words or something like that, which means that I’m going to be almost a tenth of the way there to penning the unauthorized followup.  I’ve been eating a lot of grapefruit lately, and considering renting a Cadillac.  And may the deity of your choice save us all.

So!  What couldn’t we jampack into the previous hunks of blithering?  For starters, let’s begin here:

Age Matters. I’d like to take this opportunity to highly suggest that everyone in America go to Vegas before they reach the age where everything they do is embarassing or an attempt to regain their youth.  You should not be in the fannypack stage of life for your first visit.  You should at least be able to make it to midnight for a majority of your nights in town and hopefully be able to spend most of your day drinking (moderately) responsibly and be coherent to sundown.  Which leads us to…

Age Matters Part II: The Mattering On a similar note, you should probably know your way around alcohol before you hit the ground.  If you want to spend your vacation 24/7 hammered, you should probably try it in the comfort of your own basement before you spend a grand to get to someplace just to forget anything about being there.  Yes, debauchery is suggested and quite possibly enforced in a lot of places, but it’s very easy to go from “tourist” to “mark” to “victim.”  You honestly don’t even have to leave the airport to let that happen.  So if you’re still deep within the portion of your life where you are still worried about finals in your senior elective classes, wait a few months.  Practice your table games.  Which leads me to…

Teach Us, O Wise Ones You can download all the Blackjack Apps and play Craps Lite on every El ride and poke around with the online stuff at home (not at work, no, certainly never at work) but if the casinos really want more chances to get their moneygrubbing hands on our cash, they’ll take a few feet of valuable floorspace and have free 24/7 classes going on every hour on the hour.

Immabehonesthere – I only sat down at one blackjack table, and the lovely dealer in the shiny gold halter top had to basically hold my hand through the whole process so I didn’t completely ruin the game for the other two elderly folks at my table (which I eventually did anyways).  In her very broken Chinese, the lovely Xi Xi, originally from “Sayne Loueeeee” tried to explain that I should or should not hit or double down and I only half listened while randomly hitting the table hoping I’d just get 21 and I could stop doing the math.

I won ten bucks.

Similarly, I stood at a craps table for about 10 minutes while two extremely uninviting gentlemen dealers stared at me like I was the biggest goddamn fool on the planet every time I tried to touch my chips, lay a bet, roll the dice, etc.  I was just plain “R-worded” and basically ran away after they shoved some chips at me for the first time.  I cut and ran away from the Casino Royale and it shames me to say so.

Casino types:  For every few bucks you think you might be losing by having a table for people that are just learning (and you should really provide some “practice chips” too so we can pretend we’re winning, and then want to go win for reals), think of all the dollars you’ll make because those same people aren’t too intimidated to sit at a $10 table or roll a $25 bet at a craps table because they aren’t secure in what the hell they’re doing.  Which leads me to…

Your Damned Show Prices. I love Penn and Teller, and I’m sure a Wednesday isn’t a prime time desirable ticket (and let the record show that I’m not pointing at P&T directly, just the concept of expensive shows) but there were a hell of a lot of empty seats.  Vegas is having some tough times in terms of conventions lately – even though no one told the United Countertop Conglomerate Expo that – so what say you quit charging $80 or $90 a ticket?  Tell you what- charge half, and I’ll go see Holly Madison take her top off after stopping by Penn and Teller.  Or I’ll send the little lady to Thunder Down Under while I’m at Burlesque X or whatever it is.  Which reminds me…

Since We’ve Established the Main Sin is Sex: Would it kill you to have one strip club actually on the Strip? My interest level in them is slim to none but it’s damn near false advertising to have something called the Strip and then make you go off of it to find the Spearmint Rhino or whatever ridiculous named place you can find.

———-

That’s a good start at clearing out the rest of my brain from the detritus of our desert escape.  It’s been a full week from right now that we touched down back in Chicago and I still haven’t forgiven the midwest for not getting rid of the 10 inches of snow that fell while we were gone.  Thankfully I’ve nailed down the Hemingway Daquiri recipe I first stumbled upon at Rhumbar at the Mirage, which might be the best souvenir I could think of, aside from maybe a billion dollars or ownership of the Playboy club.

We went out there with the hopes that we’d get completely Vegas’ed out and never have to return, so it both surprises me and arouses my anticipation to say: Maybe next time.

The thing about Vegas and how it relates to capitalism is thus:  It starts out great.  A magical land of excess and a place where no one (at least the hotel denizens and the tourists) want for nothing.  Money is everywhere.  Food is everywhere.  Drink is everywhere.  It’s splendidly and unashamedly rich in all senses of the word.

Even your surroundings are all entirely on capitalistic steroids.  Everything is devoted to one thing and one thing only.  Money and what you can do with money.  Your hotel room and feeding yourself and intoxicants and gambling cash are just one part of the equation.  Wifi?  Money.  Coffee?  Money.  Cabs or shuttles or buses or (almost) any transport?  Money.  Guys stand on the street in packs, holding small pieces of paper that they shove in your face in the hopes that you’ll spend your money on their strippers and prostitutes.  Beers are a dollar a can at the cheapest liquor store you can find.  It’s inflated, it’s excessive, and it’s pure gimme-your-cash capitalism.

For a while, this seems fine.  Pure, almost.  They’re not doing anything other than trying to get as much as they can, when they can, as often as they can.  And were you in the same situation, you’d be doing the same thing.  I used coffee as an example above.  There are no coffeemakers in any major Vegas hotel room, forcing you to go down to the main level of the casino and grab your Starbucks or whathaveyou…and maybe you wander past a slot machine that’s open, or a blackjack table whose limits are lower at 9am.  You get the idea.  They rope you in and take everything you’ve got and anything else you might have.

All that is the Strip.  One long section of Vegas.  This is the only part of town that most people who visit (around a full ten percent of the country last year, according to what I’ve seen) ever see.  So they go back home feeling great about leaving their cash behind.  And yet, this is just one major artery in this desert civilization.

Now we’re onto the second tier of Vegas as the Tiered Methamphetamine of Capitalism.  Imagine the Strip version of capitalism as being the bankers, the oil barons, the steel kings and agriculture rulers, big money all and yet a very small portion is where it’s packed into.  If you take a look around, you start to see the millions and millions of people who never make it big time, the ones who carry this capitalism on their back and don’t ask for much, they just want to get by and be happy.

This is essentially the middle class.  When you’re in Vegas, you have a pretty decent idea of the fact that yes, the cocktail waitress that walks the casino floor in a thong covered with lacy Ace bandages might actually have to live somewhere.  The reality of where she goes home to never happens to cross your mind.  But all over town, everyone who supports the Strip and all of the drunken revelers who stop by have to lay their head somewhere.  You don’t see it.  But it’s out there.  And it’s not that pretty.

Miles of subdivisions, endless ranch houses, broken down abandoned joints underwater in their mortgage and people just trying to make ends meet are the reality of Las Vegas.  You just never stop to see if because you’re there for the weekend and don’t have to care.  The one guy who gave his AIG bonus back willingly is the equivalent of the handful of people who leave the strip to just go check out the rest of town.  It’s rare.  The executives who wonder why people are mad that they’re giving out tons of bonuses while the rest of the country flounders?  That’s the parallel between the Strip and those surrounding it.

From there you just get deeper and darker – sleazy casinos that are the real face of dismal capitalism, begging and pleading for your cash in any way that they can get it, no matter what.  Uncared for, uncleaned, like a slot machine in a dentists office, for a few extra quarters from those that need a fix that minute of gambler’s high.

The whorehouses and the Gamblers Ruin type of places, the joints you end up at, not head toward.  The dregs of the Vegas Economy, where you find yourself when you hold that throttle for too long and it burns the hell out of you.  Again, this is where not too many people find themselves (especially not willingly) but where they’re forced to turn after…well, I don’t even really want to find out.

It’s like the bell curve.  You’ve got the few people on one end living it up and having a time that never consider the rest of humanity.  Then there’s the heaving, teeming masses that make up the majority of us, unwashed and without frills but still living life, and on the far end of the spectrum, the busted down misfits of reality.

Tourist.  Waitress.  Whore.  Right on down the line.

If you’ve found this interesting, I’d like to show you this matchbook which has info on where I can teach you more secrets in just a few easy lessons, payable by check, cash, or poker chip.  I’ll be easily found in a dingy classroom at an abandoned high school, possibly in the shop section, ready to dispense more science as I see fit.

Following at some point:  Random Vegas observations, thoughts, and cancelled paystubs paid directly to the dealer.

That being said: You may recall at the end of yesterday’s discussion on Chicagoans in Vegas that we’d be talking about what the real sin out there in Sin City truly is.  There’s a lot of hinky stuff going on out there, most of which we never even really see because even in America’s Naughtiness Capital we’re still doing everything really bad behind closed doors, but at least we feel just a touch freer to do it there.

When I was growing up, all I related Las Vegas to was gambling.  Nothing but gambling.  I knew that people went out there to play cards (didn’t understand it – we’ve got cards here and we only play them during rainy days), I knew they played craps (which I only thought was just a vehicle for a funny name), and I knew they played roulette (which seems awesome to a kid because it involves a marble and large spinning machinery).  I also had a hunch that a lot of baccarat was played and there were video games where you got shocked or died if you lost, but that’s mostly because I watched a lot of James Bond as a kid as well.

It was always just gambling, and popular culture only served to reinforce that by showing the casinos, the huge gaming floors, and the movies about Vegas where people are only motivated by huge amounts of money that you can gain by huge risks.  It was always solely about the cash and only slightly about staying up late and eating too much.

And now, after 5 days and 4 nights in beautiful “downtown” Las Vegas, I can tell you with full conviction that the true “sin” in town is not money, nor love of money, nor gluttony nor being soaked in the alcohol of your choice.  It is nothing more basic nor simple than sex.

You may come to town thinking that the gambler is king and that everything else is second.  You may check into your hotel room feeling like you might be missing out on something because you’re not going to spend every waking moment at a table or behind a slot machine.  And after probably 20 minutes of wandering through your first casino floor, you start to comprehend that maybe this whole town is really just about skin, about hormones, about arousal, about plain ol’ (and certainly not so plain) sex.

Scantily clad cocktail waitresses and restaurant hostesses in the lowest of low cut tops are just the beginning.  And corporate-positioned “Pleasure Pits” where dealers all wear the same front-office-approved bustiers and corsets barely scratch the surface as well.  No, it goes deeper than that (and yes, that’s a completely self-aware pun).

It’s in the ever-present ads for the gentlemen in Thunder From Down Under.  Guys, when you get off the plane, these shirtless Aussies are going to seem to be everywhere.  It might make you uncomfortable a bit seeing as how you probably thought you were in the heart of Cleavage Country.  It might even make you a touch insecure before you hit the pool with your pasty February chest.  But you’re not seeing it from a woman’s eyes.  The ads tell them first and foremost – we’re here to get you turned on too, sweetheart.

From there, it’s not just casino-mandated short skirts and tiny tops, nor is it the race to be ever skankier (and from what I could tell the Rio wins the race there, with some of the Golden Nugget taking second prize, although I didn’t get to take in everyone’s cocktailwear).  It’s everyone.  I’m not saying that I was running around with an open linen shirt blowing in the wind nor was I rocking a euro-style Speedo or anything, but you lock into a certain mindset.

It’s a vibe that runs through the whole town that says, “when you’re here, you’re going to feel just a little bit more confident.  A touch cockier.  A little freakier.  Because everyone else does.  You should too.”  Everyone, from old guys just looking to pick up a whore outside the county or somewhere a little closer, to moms on holiday from their kids and their PTA and their pets and their chores and their tired little lives to the husbands who remember what it’s like to want them like they used to before the cubicle and the 401k and the college fund sucked the life from their eyes.

From singles in town for a night at the Palms to try to pick up a Playmate or someone who might be a Playmate or someone that’ll never be a Playmate but feels like one for just a weekend.  To that girl who otherwise wouldn’t wear the short skirt and the shirt with no sleeves, but you’re going out to an overpriced nightclub anyways and you don’t know anyone here and no one is going to judge you and you just want to cut loose and feel as sexy as advertising has convinced us that you “should” be.

All that and more. That’s what the real “sin” is, and the triumph is that no one seems to feel bad about it at all.  All that lust and no shame.

You can go drop a few bucks or thousands in the poker room, you can stay out late eating buffet after buffet or hide in your hotel room and drink yourself to death in the closet, you can do all these things and more and die a rockstar inebriate death, but if you don’t pick up on that subcurrent of lust just a little bit, then..well, you just didn’t get it, did you?

Tomorrow:  Las Vegas as Capitalistic Amphetamine, in a metaphor which has surely been made dozens of times by people far better than me, but I’ll give it a whirl anyways.

Anyways!

Prior to our departure, our local library offered up numerous tomes of wisdom about the city of Sin, but nothing specifically spoke to the Chicagoans among us who flee the winter months and get a little bit of mid-60s sunshine.  So, where there is a need and a niche to fill, here I am, back and refreshed and ready to drop some serious tourism Science.  Without further ado, here are some of the basic Chicagoan need-to-know data points.  Thank me later with chips or free play to any MGM Mirage property.

1)  Yes, you can walk anywhere.

Everyone always talks about how much of a “walking city” Las Vegas is.  They tell you, pack extra cab money.  Buy the monorail passes for unlimited rides.  Know what buses run up and down the strip.  And all of that is great advice.  For everyone else.

My tireless staff of researchers have crunched the numbers, and from Mandalay Bay at the south, all the way up to Stratosphere at the north-assed end of the strip, it is a grand total of (drum roll please)…under 2 miles.  And you know what?  You’re never going to walk that far.  So don’t sweat it.

For a little bit of perspective, you know how long the Strip is if you dropped it into Chicago?  The piece of road that basically makes up the whole of Las Vegas?  If you’ve ever walked from the north end of the Magnificent Mile – say, by the Drake – down to the Congress Hotel.  That’s it.  It’s a bit of a hike, but you could do it if you had to.  You’ve probably done it without even thinking about it when the buses get backed up.  And that’s Las Vegas.

If you’ve got a hotel room in the center of the strip?  You’ll go one way one day, one way the other.  And then you’ll wander all around the casinos and go back home.  No worries.  Staying at the south end of the Strip?  You’ll have no problems wandering up about as far as, oh, say, the Venetian.  Take a cab to Fremont Street.  That’s a ways.  And honestly, anything north of the Venetian is just going to remind you of the motels on North Lincoln Avenue, so don’t feel obligated to get up there too rapidly.

2)  Here’s where you should eat.

You, as a Chicagoan, are unbelievably spoiled when it comes to good food.  (Or, perhaps, I’m terribly spoiled by all the places that I tend to drag us to for food.  Either way.)  There are so many different places in Chicago where you can get cuisine that’s pretty similar if not superior to the places in Vegas.  This is in some ways good, in others, bad.

It’s good because you don’t have to waste your time with boring unimpressive food.  You can save your calories for the stuff that’s truly awesome.  The problem is finding it.  Herein lies the bad.  Go to Burger Bar by Hubert Keller?  You’ll no doubt only be able to compare it to Kuma’s.  Go to a fancypants cocktail bar?  You’ll only compare it to Violet Hour.  Thai food?  German food?  So on.  You get the idea.

But – when you find something good, it’s really good.  You just have to blow a good $200 on it or so.  So:  Get some deli at Carnegie in the Mirage.  Get yourself a hot dog from Pinks  (even though it really does suffer from comparisons to…well, everywhere).  And for gods sake, get a half-yard of something with rum in it and get drunk in public, simply because you can.  This leads us to:

3)  Embrace the Happy Hour.  Love the Happy Hour.

One of the things I completely hate about Chicago is our draconian rules about when and where one can imbibe intoxicants.  This is in direct contrast to Las Vegas where you can wake up and buy a bottle of rotgut vodka at 7am on a Sunday.  24/7 open bars mean the options for debauchery are much expanded, but be honest.  They’re 2 hours earlier there so it’s probably just enough of a chore to get to 1am.  (Unless you’ve got blow.  In which case you’re not concerned about laws about drinking anyways.)

But!  Your worries and concerns about spending all your discretionary funds on alcohol are for naught!  Because in Las Vegas (and other places, but we’re not concerned about that) you can plan all your boozing around the Happy Hour.  Why we in Chicago can’t take a few hours in the after-work timespan of the day to have a few drinks at reduced prices are completely beyond me, but thankfully Vegas picks up our slack.

Long story short, you can spend $8 for a bottle of Corona at some club at 11pm, or you can spend $2 for a draft beer at a restaurant and grab some cheap shrimps or something at the same time as well.  Or reduced prices on well drinks or $4 wine or something along those lines.  It’s awesome, and since you’re on vacation you really do all your best drinking during daytime hours anyways.  Don’t sweat not staying up til’ all hours of the night.  That’s nothing but trouble.

Finally…

5)  Know your timing.

I intentionally didn’t look at the weather forecast before we went out because I knew it’d be better than Chicago regardless, and that’s one of the main reasons why we went out there.  If you want to escape a grey midwestern wintry experience, you could do worse than Vegas, but at least be aware of the fact that you probably won’t be lounging by the pool.

In fact, when we got in, the pool wasn’t even open.  Alas.

So, spending part of your February in Vegas isn’t a terrible idea, but don’t plan on getting much color.  Just be aware.  Mid-60s is about where you’ll be in terms of temperature, and while I could probably have dealt with that just because I’m stubborn and wanted to go swimming, just go to Mexico if it’s that important.

———-

This is just a short primary list of all the things you might want to know, but these are the big ones.  Everything else you’ll probably figure out quickly enough on your own, or you won’t need, but I wanted to make you aware of these.  Or just put them in writing so I can remember before we head back out next time.

Tomorrow:  The real Sin of Sin City.

Why, it’s finally that most exciting day of days in Illinois!  No, not sentencing day for Disgraced Government Official Du Jour (although that is certainly a magical day as well).  No, it’s Primary Election Day!  When we get to decide what partisan hack will go on to fight off the other partisan hack as we figure out which sellout scumbag represents us in the hallowed halls of government.

It’s a glorious event, wherein we spent hours figuring out if we’re related to or could possibly ever be related to any of the candidates and then voting for them, and then voting for them again, and then loading up the buses to vote for them as well.  Then we take our low paying ghost payroll position, cash the check, and then play illegal video slot machine games at the back of the local corner store.  It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

Chicago is a place where everyone grows up to believe that we could possibly be a civil servant.  In fact, in a town where just about every job counts on the city government in some way, shape or form, we are all collectively one big Voltron that forms a council board and a mayor instead of tigers turning into a big robot.  I personally would prefer the tiger/robot version of city government, which will most likely end up as part of my platform.

What platform, you asky?  Well, at some point in the future, I will completely exhaust any possible outlet for gainful private-sector employment.  This is going to be a combination of the fact that I specialize only in dying industries, and I put everything else on a series of websites that basically disqualify me for everything, ever. It is at that point where I will turn to the government.

I don’t care if I end up being dogcatcher or alderman (and what’s the difference, really) or Senator or low-level staffer or anything along those lines.  I just want to use the following campaign slogan, or see someone that I’m working for use it.  Either or.  Here it is:

“I’m not a scumbag.”

Not bad, huh?  Really cuts to the heart of the argument.  When you see the same old smiling, gladhanding faces on TV, what do you think to yourself?  You think, “There’s no way I’ll ever vote for that scumbag.”  So what would happen if the next spot you saw came right out and said, “I am not a scumbag.”

Or a variation on the theme.  “Candidate Me:  Totally Not a Scumbag.”  “Candidate Me:  Everyone Else is Filthier Than Him” and the like.

Actually, it’s not quite right.  Something is needed to make it completely and totally honest:

“I’m not a scumbag. Yet.”

Perfect!

We all know that a few months days hours in Springfield makes every politician filthy as well as covered in a delicious cheese sauce.  So I’ll get people in the door by acknowledging my lack of scumbag-status…and get the rest by coming clean with my full intention to end up as a complete scumbag.  No one could ever accuse me of not being completely honest with the electorate.  I can’t lose.

Well, I can lose.  But I’d be losing to a lying candidate who wants you to believe that he’s honest, that he’s a stand-up kind of guy (or gal!) and that he’ll capably serve you in the government office to which you have sent him.  And no one believes that, do they?  We all want to, but I respect you enough to cut through the BS and really tell you what’s up.

I’m a nice guy now.  But then I’ll spend 15 minutes with Mike Madigan and Pat Quinn and I’ll be morphed into a twisted smoldering wreck of a person I used to be.  So why not cop to it in advance and at least do one honest thing during a run for a seat?

In conclusion, here is my first campaign ad.  I just saved my donors like, thousands of dollars in not hiring writers and freelance producers and such.  Fiscal responsibility!

Hi, I’m just a guy named Karl.  You don’t know me now, but by the time I get done flyering your neighborhood, shaking all of your hands, kissing all of your children and sucking up to corporate donors, hopefully you’ll get to know me a little better.

For my entire life, I’ve lived in Illinois.  This means that I know just as much as you about what goes on in Springfield.  Chances are very good that that means “next to nothing” and you could barely name our governor, anything about the county board, and this commercial is on in the background while you’re in the bathroom during Wheel of Fortune.

Which is fine!  I’m just here to tell you that I’m running for anything involved in state government, which is cool because I’m not a scumbag.  Everyone else involved in state politics?  Totally filthy.  Except me.  Because I’m not there yet.  But with your help, I will be.

I can hear you asking already, “But Karl!  Won’t you just get filthy when you go to serve our interests in political office?”  And I’m here to tell you:  You’re absolutely goddamn right.   I’m going to turn into the same kind of whore everyone else has!  But here’s the difference – I’m not going to lie to your face and pretend I won’t.

So when you go to the voting booth, don’t cast your vote for some jerk that doesn’t even have enough respect for you to tell you the truth about their intentions.  I might do something good when I get in office.  But chances are more likely that I’ll pad my pockets, employ my friends and squander your hard earned money.

I’ll try not to, but I can’t make any promises.  This makes me the most honest politician you’ve ever met.  So vote for Karl.  I’m not a scumbag.  Not yet.

I’ll see you on the campaign trail!

Why?  Because I’ve already seen tons of shows from people that can cook.  I already watched the eight dozen travel shows from people that know about food.  The television landscape is chock-a-block with people who know what the hell they’re doing.  Maybe it’s just my learning style, but I get more from watching people fail rather than watching people do everything really well.

It’s like Rule #49 of The Internet:  If you want a right answer about something, don’t post a question.  Instead, post arrogantly about the wrong answer and you’ll be flooded with responses from people who can tell you all about why you’re wrong and how terribly wrong you are and no one has ever been more wrong on the internets.

If I had to point out the obvious downside of the Worst Cooks in America, it’s that the finale seems set up to make the guest judges or the hosts look like fools.  I think we all know that there’s no way that people cooking for a week or two are never going to be able to completely recreate the technique of a seasoned chef de cuisine.  So whoever “wins” will be a better cook at the end of it, but the professional judges who have to pretend that the food is restaurant quality (a lie) and the hosts who now apparently cook just as well as these hacks (as we’re being led to believe is going to be the result) are going to look terrible.

So here’s my suggestion.

The best part of American Idol is in the first few shows, when they take the over-priviledged kid who has been taking vocal lessons for a decade and thinks they’re King or Queen of the world because they’re leading the glee club and cut him or her down to size.  It’s not making fun of the freaks, and it’s not celebrating the talent.  It’s taking the hyperinflated egos of those who don’t deserve them, and telling them they suck.  That simple.

So:  Taking from that mold (hey, a food pun!) let’s create a new show, one based on taking those people who buy all the food magazines and own a lot of cookbooks and take good care of their fancy-pants knives and gloat over their spice collection.  Then let’s make them cook for real chefs and have them knock them into line.

I’m calling it, “So You Think You Can Cook.”

We’ll grab foodies and dinner party organizers and food bloggers and other categories that I conveniently happen to fall into.  (Keep in mind that as acting executive producer, I don’t have to compete.  I just hang out and go to dinner with all these guys after the shoot is over with.)  Then we put them up in front of all the guys who guest judge on Top Chef.  Did I mention that this is for Bravo?  Yeah, there’s that.  We’ll program it head to head.  It’ll be foodie-wannabe-tv war.  Glorious foodie war.

You’ll take the guy who considers himself a gourmet, the guy who makes his own pizza dough and scoffs at Boboli, and make him create a pizza for some of the best pizza joint guys from New York.  Then they can tell him how horribly tasteless his concoctions truly are, which is what his friends have been wanting to tell him for months so they could just order from Domino’s because they’re all drunk anyways.

We’ll cast the girl who loves to bake cookies and brownies and torments her coworkers because she’s made a new kind of pie with bacon and thyme and pears.  Then we’ll have her work a shift in a famous bakery starting at 3:30 in the AM and force her to be up to her shoulders in flour and making mountains of cakes until she cries.  Then famous bakers will laugh at her.

And we’ll all get special pleasure out of taking the individual who is so damn proud of his steak-cooking prowess on the grill.  First we have him butcher a few dozen ducks or rabbits or something at the prep table for an hour.  Then when his hands are raw and exhausted, we tell him they’re all wrong and toss them in the stockpot to try and salvage some sort of soup out of them.  Then we stick him behind the grill station for a shift and watch him literally mess himself.

Or die.

Television producers, the line to take me up on this brilliant foodie death show forms here. We’ll all be terribly rich and have a hell of a good time torturing those who have ever said to themselves, “I could work in a restaurant.  I just choose not to.”  It’s time to prove that they can’t.