Slate's Bizbox
diary: A weeklong electronic journal.

diary
entries
12345

Entry 2

Posted Tuesday, April 2, 2002, at 12:43 PM ET

Chris Mohney is an editor and writer for the "Unofficial Guide" travel series.

My boss and I check into the Palms, the new off-Strip resort created by entrepreneur-wiz George Maloof. The Palms has a nice vibe. At first, I'm amazed at how quiet the casino is, until I realize that most of the crowd has been sucked into the lounges and sports book to watch the conclusion of the NCAA basketball tournament (sorry, Hoosiers). The rooms are decorated with simple, utilitarian elegance and simple, utilitarian earth tones. My lower brain automatically tabulates the hotel room's guidebook profile while I unpack. Spacious. Interior thermostat. Separate bed lights. Hair dryer and coffee machine. In-room safe, good. No sink outside the bathroom, unfortunate. Soft goods (the towels, bedding, drapes, etc.) in excellent shape, no surprise since the property is new.

Eager customers strap on the feed bag

We watch the game and then cast about for some dinner before we hit tonight's show. We decide on the Aladdin casino-hotel and plunge into our first buffet. It's a big spread, probably the most sumptuous in Las Vegas, and one of the most expensive at about $20 a pop. Don't begrudge the owners their prices, though. The Aladdin has gone through one comically inept incarnation after another, and its current bloated state landed the place squarely in Chapter 11. Like so many similar situations in Vegas, though, the Aladdin will probably survive simply because its backers can't afford to let it fade away. Even a tiny trickle of money beats nothing at all.

There is always, always too much food

I chow down on at least six different animals (I lost track, others may have slipped in). The Aladdin buffet has "stations" from various cuisines, like Asian, Middle Eastern, and so on. Crab legs are the mob favorite. Sliced beef and pork are big hits. A dour server dispenses skewered lamb and tandoori chicken at the Middle Eastern station. A bug-eyed girl, overwhelmed by the confusion of choice, nearly dumps a Caesar salad in my lap.

Eventually, we reach critical mass and can take no more, which is a good thing, since we're almost late for our show tonight. This evening's entertainment is Tease at the Blue Note, and it's one of the many upper-class topless shows that have sprung up in the past couple of years. These are not the nostalgic showgirl acts of yore, with feathers and sequins; those have mostly disappeared. The formula for this new wave of Vegas topless shows went something like: 6 half-naked dancers + 1 C-list soft-porn celebrity + 1 passable singer + bad dance-pop + cornball jokes + inane framing concept + bargain-basement lounge act = 1 fully realized load of crap. I had to review many of these last year as they debuted all over town, and let me say that I had the horrible experience at the time of becoming less and less attracted to the female breast (usually a perennial favorite). Too much objectionable singing, acting, staging, dancing, and general ineptitude can spoil even the sweetest honey pot.

But what do you know: Tease is actually pretty damned good. It's staged as a mini-musical, with a few actual live musicians backing up the singing (a first for a genre that, for some reason, formerly leaned heavily on the recorded music of Sting, disappointing him terribly I'm sure). And every one of the, uh, "actresses" can really belt out their lyrics. The story line is disposable and completely silly, of course, but the production is very tight and the sex jokes have a dorky Mel Brooks appeal. I'll be seeing a few more new topless shows in the next few days, but for now Tease is head, shoulders, and cleavage above the crop I saw last year.

Ghost Bar's outside patio, 40 stories up and livin' large

We head back to the hotel when the show is over, and to finish off the evening I check out Ghost Bar, which is the super-duper-hip "ultra-lounge" on the roof of the Palms. With its wide-open patio and staggering view of Las Vegas, it's a pretty obvious and direct competitor with the very similar Voodoo Cafe and Lounge on top of the nearby Rio hotel. One singular addition is a pane of Plexiglas in the floor that allows you to walk around with no visible support between yourself and several dozen floors of empty space below (it took me several minutes to nerve myself up enough to walk on this thing, even though it's only about 8 feet square). Anyway, I'm going to try and visit the Voodoo Cafe, not only to compare and contrast, but also to talk to a particular bartender there, a friend of a friend of a friend who has the inside story on where the local bartenders and waitstaff go after hours ... always an invaluable nightlife bellwether in any city. But now it's 3:30 a.m. my time, and I hear the siren call of the hotel bed.

diary
entries
12345

Entry 2

Posted Tuesday, April 2, 2002, at 12:43 PM ET
Print This ArticlePRINTDiscuss this in The FrayDISCUSSEmail to a FriendE-MAIL
Share on FacebookPost to MySpace!Share with MixxDigg ThisShare with RedditShare with del.icio.usShare with FurlShare with Ma.gnolia.comShare with SphereShare with Stumble Upon
Chris Mohney is an editor and writer for the "Unofficial Guide" travel series.
Join the Fray: our reader discussion forum
What did you think of this article?
POST A MESSAGE | READ MESSAGES
Washington Post
The Washington Post
OPINIONS
Assessing Sarah Palin
| Newt Gingrich, Grover Norquist, John Podesta and others weigh in.
Colbert King: She's No HillaryEditorial: Is She Ready for This?
PLUS » PostPartisan: Quick Takes from Opinions