Chris Mohney is an editor and writer for the "Unofficial Guide" travel series.
My first task today is to check out Siegfried and Roy's "Secret Garden and Dolphin Habitat" at the Mirage. Sometimes you just have to admire the S&R publicity machine for adamantly refusing to counterspin all the tired homoerotic humor about the tiger-taming duo. The Secret Garden poster depicts the fey pair peeking out from foliage invitingly, and Roy has even bleached his shorn hair. Sadly, the Garden is being cleaned out today (insert joke here), so I must come back this weekend to learn its mysteries.
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StumbleUponDowntown Las Vegas is my main destination this morning. It's time for yet more hotel checks, and working downtown has its ups and downs. On the plus side, downtown is more compact than the Strip, which means I can walk between the five hotels I need to evaluate. On the minus side, downtown runs the gamut from low-market all the way to downright sordid. Despite my instincts to the contrary, I can't help but stop by the Gold Spike, one of the most decrepit casino-hotels downtown. It's a very depressing place, but I do run into a cheerful bunch of oldsters working the "Copper Mine" (one of the few remaining clusters of penny slots in Vegas).
After the hotels, I grab a seat for Stars of the Strip, one of the longer-running cheapo impression shows. One probably shouldn't worry too much why Stars of the Strip is no longer on the Strip and is instead roosting at the Lady Luck downtown. The show's tickets have a face value of $14.95, though they're really sold for $5.95 (which includes a drink), but the show is almost always free. Welcome to the land of the loss leader. Still, Stars of the Strip is not bad, and you can't beat the price. It's the first Joe Cocker impression I've seen where Joe actually gobbles a bottle of pills onstage, and it also features an interlude starring the World's Largest Harmonica.
I hit a few more hotels on the way back to my own room, then it's an early dinner of scrumptious Korean barbecue. Bulgogi is my new best friend. Then my boss and I drive to the Mandalay Bay casino-hotel for Storm, the troubled effects/dance/music show. Despite repeated retools, this mess of a production makes absolutely no sense. And it's a shame, because many of the performers have talent to spare. The best paraphrase I can provide is that the elements of Fire, Earth, Water, and Wind get together for a chaotic, assaultive fiesta featuring all your favorite Latin dance-pop. I hereby dub this show "Hispanic Room."
The real treat of the evening is that I finally get to see Mystere, the other Cirque du Soleil production in Las Vegas. Set at the Treasure Island casino-hotel, Mystere is even more fun and bizarre than O, which I saw yesterday. In fact, it's a toss-up between Mystere and La Nouba, the third of Cirque's permanent productions (based in Orlando). Both are so well conceived and executed—not to mention full of mind-boggling feats of skill, chutzpah, and artistry—that I'd be more than happy to pay to see either again, despite the steep cost of admission.
One of the interesting things about all the high-end shows is how contagious successful routines become. As soon as anybody comes up with a gimmick that audiences respond to, almost every other show in town will attempt to replicate the bit. For example, I've just this week seen three versions of two different routines; one involves acrobats flipping around and "flying" over the audience by clinging to long sheets of fabric suspended from the ceiling, and the other has two contortionists/strongmen slowly lifting and balancing one another in impossible, painful-to-watch positions. Of course, a contagious routine can be ill-advised too. Not long ago, Vegas was afflicted with what my boss describes as "an explosion of bolo-swinging gauchos."
My nightcap is a visit to Rain in the Desert, the dance-performance club in the Palms. The place is quite large and packed, and I feel like I'm the set of Attack of the Torpedo-Breasted Women. The only thing I find unpleasant about Rain is the veritable army of security goons. They are on every stairway, lurking in every doorway, controlling every access point, and wandering on hunter-killer missions throughout the crowd. It's like partying in a police state. I suppose their presence is necessary since the club has six visible VIP areas, and those VIPs must be secured at all times. The best thing about the place is its complicated, tarantula-like lighting rig that not only flashes strobes, lasers, and spotlights, but also rises up and down while flexing its metallic legs—and it even shoots fire!
Though tomorrow's Friday, I'll be working through the weekend, seeing more shows, clubs, and hotels in Las Vegas. Then it's off to Mexico for my vacation—a week in a tiny, rustic hotel on the Pacific with no television, no phone, and no slot machines. Hasta luego.
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