Archive for the ‘Casino Cynicism’ Category

Joker’s Wild

May 10, 2010

Astute viewers will notice the entirety of The Strip in the far background.

It’s refreshing to go into a casino whose ridiculous casino theme is “casino.” I hate sounding like a Dennis Leary sketch here but where did all the fucking casino-themed casinos go? It used to be, you’d walk into a casino, you’d see slot machines, table games, a keno bar, girls walking around selling cigarettes from a board around their necks and cocktail waitresses handing out free watered-down cocktails for every ten bucks you’d put into a machine. Then all of a sudden around the mid-90s we have the pyramids and the Eiffel Tower shoved up our asses and casinos stopped being casinos and started being theme parks.

Fuck. That. Shit.

That’s why it’s such a delight to run into a casino that’s still a casino. The first thing that strikes you when you wander in off of Boulder Highway and into the Joker’s Wild is The Smell. Oh if you’ve lived in this state[1] long enough, you’ll remember it. The stale, musty smell of week-old cigarette smoke, that tarry, sickly, treacly smell that clings to the air-conditioned entryways and hovers between the sets of doors that act as an airlock between the blistering brilliance of outside and the damp, dark, dankness of the inside. In that zone, that scant four feet The Smell hits you and you’re back where you started, seven years old and wandering through the casino floors of your youth, glaring at the poker machines and watching the keno balls rattle around in their translucent plexiglass dome.

More like this.

If there’s anything that hits me in the mouth and makes me put on those rose-tinted glasses and look back at something with a delightful nostalgic wax, it’s The Smell. And Joker’s Wild has it. Since I obstensibly “live” in that area (I found a sweet place to urban campout nearby), I find myself going back from time to time, just to catch a snootful of that sickly, stale tobacco tar and remember how things were back before I was cognizant and realized how shitty the entire universe is and just how fucking cynical I really am.

Joker’s Wild is a great club. No cloying ads depicting chiseled hardbodies with airbrushed gradient glows on their thighs inviting you to the pool, no night-club-all-day bars that play the same Alicia Keys song[3] on repeat while douchebags in designer jeans and italian shoes reeking of Axe body spray pump their fists over their gelled fauxhawks. No, just a real, live, honest-to-God oldschool casino experience. The way Sammy and Dean-o and The Chairman wanted it.

The martini has three ingredients. Gin, Vermouth and an Olive. If you ask for one with vodka, the bartender here will punch you in the mouth and then security will swoop in and take you to a back room where they threaten to cut off your cock. True story.

[1]by which I mean “the parts that don’t suck.”[2]

[2]also you sort of had to be here before the anti-smoking Nazis clamped down on us back in 2006 with their ridiculous Nevada Clean Indoor Air Act.

[3]newyorknewyorknewyorknewyorknewyorknewyork *blam *


Eastside Cannery

May 3, 2010

The Cannery does have a neat lightshow on its hotel facade.

Waiting around for, well for something. That’s my whole life, I wait. I may as well be in the army here for all the hurry-up-and-wait I do here in my life. While I’m waiting around for something that ended up never materializing (again, that’s my life in a nutshell), I wandered over to the Eastside Cannery to take a few photos.

The Eastside Cannery is that one hotel you see off in the middle of nowhere along the Boulder Highway between Downtown and Henderson. It’s the one with the, well let’s just say that it has a totally fucking rad light display along the outside.

The exterior of the hotel tower is ringed by these LED matrix stripes that somewhat resemble the CRT lines in a very low-resolution interlaced-scan display. Each line is capable of changing colors laterally and when manipulated in concert with the lines above and below, images whip and whorl across the face of the hotel tower. Lines bip and blip up and down like a stereo equalizer and little circles spiral and zoom in and out in procedurally-generated blobs of color, light and enjoyment.

Really, it’s neat. I pointed my camera up at it and got about a minute of video on it as the facade changed colors like an excitable cuttlefish dazzles its prey before lashing out with its lightning tentacles and crunching down on an unsuspecting arthropod with its calcified beak. Nom nom (video).


Heading into the Cannery I noticed something, something I really didn’t like about it. Holy shit is this casino floor bright. Seriously I’m used to shooting indoors with my ISO set to 400 or 800. I had to tone it down to 200 and close the aperture a bit to avoid overexposed photos. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a casino floor so brightly damn lit. It was almost uncomfortable.

The clientèle was strictly locals-only. Elderly casino players staggered and shuffled through the floor, players club cards dangling from curly cord keyrings as they glide on their walkers to their favorite machines, playing club card comps to win more club card comps[2].

Bravo Twenty Niner, heading in on final approach. Copy that control, we have the green light to drop. Dropping in ten.

Upstairs was a bingo hall. I’ve honestly never in my life seen a bingo hall. I figured they were just in boring Back East states where gaming isn’t allowed. So seeing one was kind of an OOP, like that spark plug inside the agate from the Cretaceous.

My most recent video game console is older than these "retro classic" poker machines.

The Eastside Cannery sports some retro, vintage slot machines. If you can call machines with a copyright date of 1999 as “retro vintage,” that is. They take coins, and being a dude who grew up[1] around the old coin-op mechanical slots and digital-toggle (pre touchscreen) poker machines, the clatter and clank of coins dropping from a chute into a steel catchpan was sweetly, wistfully nostalgic. It brought back fond memories of smoke-filled casino floors in Gardnerville and Carson, electronic blips and tones filling the air in a cacophony of FM synth accompanied by the mechanical click-clack-clonk-tack of the analog roller-drum slot machines coming to a stop.

Do I hate the Eastside Cannery? No, not as much as I hate say the Mirage or the Wynn, but I also don’t love the property. It’s too bright, too clean, too impersonal and antiseptic. It’s the sort of place that was made for and appealing to old retired folk living in the suburban sprawl of the east valley. All in all, I’m pretty ambivalent.

[1]lies. You never grew up.

[2]this is how my grandmother gambles and it confounds me how she just goes in with an armload of players club cards and leverages comps against comps in order to win more comps. She never goes in nor leaves with cash.

Stupid Sexy Billboards

May 3, 2010

It’s taken me a month or so and I’ve started to dig through the backup files in my recollection and try to puzzle out exactly what the fuck it is about this city makes me utterly hate it. And I think I’ve discovered it: the needless and crass oversexualization of the casino advertising design.

Yes, I realize that sex sells. Diet Coke has Cindy Crawford guzzling cans in a red Corvette while ZZ Top riffs in the background and European travel brocures all flaunt images of topless beaches while Maxim magazine sports more chiseled manflesh in its advertising than Playgirl and Flex combined and yet, it’s been posited by ad magnates of the early-to-mid twentieth that needless oversexualization of ad copy doesn’t necessarily correlate to any increase of sales.

But yet here we are, 2010 and here’s a chiseled, marble-in-flesh seductively inviting me to… the damn buffet at the Eastside Cannery? I don’t get it, but this will be the first entry in my new category depicting needlessly sexy casino asvertisements.

"Oh tee hee shove this big glistening complete turkey into your face and then shovel down a couple thick slices of marbled prime rib and some asparagus spears down your unstoppable gullet and don't forget the mashed potatoes and two big old slices of double-pumpkin chocolate cream pie with hand-whipped cream and gummy bear sprinkles for dessert and you'll totally get a chance to go on a date with a shining bronze supermodel like me, tee hee!"

New York New York

May 1, 2010

The NYNY's Team America city caricature skyline. Did they have a big teary-eyed ceremony where they demolished the World Trade Center towers so it mates up with the present Post-9/11 skyline?

Hey great, another day another theme casino. As I shuffle through the photos I’d taken of the property, I wonder aloud at the risk of sounding like Jerry Seinfeld when I ask: “What’s the deal with all these theme casinos?”

I can’t put my finger on it exactly, where and when the theme casino nonsense started up. Much of the blame must be levied upon the economic dip in the late ’80s coupled with how the idiots of the Baby Boom generation started taking over from The Greatest Generation and decided to take everything that was good about America and crush it underfoot like a cigarette butt[1]. Gone would be everything that was ever actually fun, to be replaced by things that their focus groups and marketing attorneys would consider “safe, family-friendly, lawsuit-free fun!”

And there we go, “family-friendly” should be seen as a swear word. “Family-friendly” means that all the real fun as enjoyed by adults has been stripped out, chewed-up and re-inserted into a form that’s palatable by the young and addle-headed but thoroughly unenjoyable to those who actually you know, aren’t retarded, boring assholes.

The exact sort of retarded, boring assholes that go to Disney Parks! Have you ever been to a Disney Park? If you haven’t, you should go. Do it quick too, because a one-day pass is now like seventy bucks and skyrockets higher every day. If you’ve never been to Disneyland, I can accurately recreate the experience for you:

First, go to the DMV around noon on Friday, when every other idiot in town decides he wants to go to the damn DMV. Stand in the first line for two hours. Get your simple change of address form. Then go to another, longer line. Stand in that line for a further three. Once you get up to the front of the line, the clerk simply makes three mouse clicks and prints you out a paper. You then pay the clerk seventy bucks and then she climbs over the counter and kicks you in the balls. There’s the Disneyland experience for you! Family Friendly Fun! Get back in line and do it all over again! ALL DAY EVERY DAY WOOO DISNEYLAAAAAAAAND!!!

Have you met the sort of people that think that a vacation to Disneyland/World is their pilgrimage to Mecca? They’re usually kind of incredibly boring. Uptight, got married right out of high school, ended up with three screaming kids and have boring but secure Union jobs being paid way too much to perform tasks better performed better and at much lower cost by robots. Usually blindly-religious. These are the sort of people that just lurrrrrrrrve Disney and think that Las Vegas is Sodom[2].

So of course some pencil-pushing dickhead behind a massive capital holdings company looked at the Disney Parks’ books and realized that they made money in best described somewhere between “a shitload” and “a fuckload.” This humorless, imaginationless desk-jockey then decided that if his holdings in Sin City U.S.A. were ever to earn enough money for him to dump his cash holdings into an Olympic-sized pool full of crisp single dollar bills perched over which is a big old sproingy diving board, then he’ll have to mindlessly ape the one thing the Disney Parks have done so as to attract up the boring sort of families that go to Disney Parks.

And that thing is THEEEEEEME PAAAAAARK HORSESHIT!!! Immediately and instantly the theme casinos started to crop up. The Excalibur had a lame King Arthur Knights of the Round Table bullshit going on and then the Luxor countered by being all Ancient Egypt and then hey fuck you check us out we’re the goddamned Aladdin[3] with our fuckin’ Arabian Nights theme and you know what suck my mom’s tits we’re the Venetian with our damn Venice theme and this is our pussy little cousin the Paris. Before long, you could walk from ancient Mesopotamia to Atlantis to the fucking Moon all within two miles of concrete pedestrian overpasses.

Smack in the middle of all the fake cultural-historical landmarks and themes sits the worst of them all, the New York, New York.

Now, it’s pretty classic egotistical provincialism for New Yorkers to think that they’re the center of the universe. Fuck’s sake I’ve heard New Yorkers describe their city as “Universe City.” And the media is completely complicit in this. You’d be hard-pressed to find a TV series, novel, comic book, cartoon or movie that doesn’t fucking take place in New York City. If anything happens in the world, it happens in New York first. ALL EYES ON NEW FUCKIN’ YORK OVER HERE! The city is the eldest daughter at a debutante ball. If your eyes aren’t on her what the fuck is your problem are you a faggot or something?

So naturally, why not put a fucking New York themed bullshit casino smack dab in the center of Las Vegas! It only makes sense, right, since New York is at least as culturally-significant as Hooters or M&Ms so yeah why not, let’s just shove a big old rotten slice of apple into the center of the big old drippy shit sandwich that is The Strip.

The first thing you notice about heading into the New York, New York is how unauthentic it is. Now, I won’t say that I know the first fucking thing about New York aside from the fact that the city got so butthurt over the 9/11 event that they pulled the episode of The Simpsons where Homer’s car gets impounded at the World Trade Center from syndication forever. For that alone the entire city can fuck off. Where was I? The first thing you notice about the NYNY was that the place doesn’t reek of piss. I’ve never been, but I hear that New York has the most interesting uric bouquet. That you can tell the boroughs from one another by the smell of the piss on the sidewalk. If the NYNY can’t even get this right, then what hope is there for replicating faithfully the real New York experience?

Because I guess big old streamers of static confetti jizz hovering in the air just screams "New York"?

Of course, there is none. Like the rest of this awful city, the NYNY casino is only a theme park reproduction of the real place. It’s what boring people who have never been there imagine them to be like. The Venetian and Palazzo replicate Venice about as well as the Casino Royale remake did. The Luxor is about as Egyptian as Bananarama and the NYNY is about as New York as I am.

I sometimes struggle to wonder to whom exactly the NYNY is designed to appeal? Real New Yorkers would be annoyed that some West Coast asshole can’t get every nuance of his beloved Universe City exactly completely one hundred percent correct. And after all, why shouldn’t the place be completely correct and authentic, after all New York is depicted in every goddamned piece of media ever conceived since Independence and all, you’d think we’d get it right by now. Tourists too cheap to go to Real New York? I’m honestly baffled at who the NYNY’s target audience actually is.

The NYNY itself seems to be confused, it doesn’t seem to know whether it wants to be a theme resort with a roller coaster and big old postcard skyline featuring all the iconic skyline features mooshed together along one line, catering to the family crowd – or an adults-only casino with showgirls and table dancers spiraling around poles at the blackjack tables.

In the New Vegas, all blackjack dealers are also pole dancers.

I don’t know what it is about the NYNY, but I hate it, probably more than any other property here in Las Vegas.

[1]this is a bad analogy, since the kind of assholes that turn shit “family friendly” are also the same kind of fascist cocksuckers that go on anti-smoking crusades.

[2]Las Vegas sucks to hard for anybody to mistake it for Sodom. Maybe it’s the Disneyfied theme-park rendition of Sodom? Oooh~ I smell a new lame theme casino to pitch to Steve Wynn…

[3] The Aladdin is now the Miracle Mile Shops. They didn’t even bother changing the internal graphic design motif, it’s still 1001 Arabian Nights in there. Retarded.

Sam’s Town

April 27, 2010

I’m torn on Sam’s Town. I’ve early memories of trips into Darkest California, taking US50 on the long trip up the jagged cliffs between South Shore and Sac. On the trip, we’d stop at Sam’s Town in Placerville[1].

Maybe it was Placerville. People I know throw names of California towns at me as if I’d spent more than a combined thirty days in that awful, awful state. Honestly I couldn’t tell you a Stockton from a Brentwood from a Turlock if you put a revolver to my head and thrust a map into my lap.

Anyhow, the Sam’s Town I know – that I recall from the haze of two decades and a million miles – knew, was one of dollar hot dogs, a smoke-filled bar full of old men smelling of Old Spice, peanut shells on the floor crunching under your shoes and that sound most delightful to the ears if any child brought up in the Reagan Years: the electronic cacophony of FM synth.

Eight bit arcade games were the order of the day at the Sam’s Town of my memories. Namco, Konami and Data East were the names. Sam’s Town was a playground for the arcade-obsessed children and manchildren of the ’80s and my few trips there were memories as cherished as time spent with loves lost and family deceased.

Flash forward nearly a quarter century and again I find myself staring at a familiar Old West-y typeface glowing it’s intense red neon glow against a familiar field of white. Sam’s Town, golden place of my memories, Arcadia Of My Youth, we are reunited.

I navigate into the parking structure and as I approach the elevators, I’m met by, nay challenged by a particular sign, a warning plaque that bears wording every bit as grim as those warning open mine shafts and imminent crocodile attacks: no firearms allowed.

Hey, fuck you, Sam’s Town.

Ha ha. The library and courthouse say the same thing. Difference is, those are Government buildings and carrying there will end you up in prison whereas all private property here in Nevada can do is ask you politely to leave. Fuck off, Sam's Town.

See, I’ve been asked why I, out of all the places in the country, nay the world I could have chosen to relocate, why I picked Las Vegas. And it basically boils down to this:

1: the climate is great. Having lived in Reno/Tahoe my whole life, If I never see another flake of snow as long as I live, it’ll be too soon, and
2: Las Vegas is the craziest, most batshit bonkers place in the Union, full of some of the lamest, most hilarious people of whom to make fun. Vegas basically is a Saturday in The Haight every night. Full of the most interesting, entertaining people to watch make complete jibbering assholes of themselves and
3: I get to carry my firearm.

There are three objects which are never, ever out of reach, my cell phone, my flashlight and my pistol. Whether it’s a J-frame in a pocket holster or a Glock autopistol in a nice leather inside-the-waistband holster, a pistol is never out of reach. And I’m not the only one, practically everyone I know, from a sweet-natured grandmother in her sixties to a hot-headed filipina hustler all carry. It makes us feel safer, knowing that our lives and the lives of our loved ones are in our hands and not someone else’s.

Man how did that get there? Der waffen ist verboten!

Like all martial disciplines, carrying a firearm is no different than studying ju jitsu or learning boxing. You don’t do it to get in trouble, but to learn to avoid trouble, to spot the places where trouble congregates and deftly avoid it. None of us, nobody to whom ascribes to any martial discipline are particularly looking for a fight, but damned if they’ll go into one underprepared if one comes looking for them.

‘sides there’s all that “inherent rights” shit that those who wish to control us wish to strip from our very bones like a school of hungry Amazonian piranha. So fuck the bullshit, up the irons, I carry expressly because you, and fucksticks like the shitcocks that run Sam’s Town don’t want me to.

Entering Sam’s Town, I immediately was overtaken by that sense of foreboding dread, that feeling of nostalgia ruined. The Sam’s Town I remember was a fun place, a delightful throwback to Old West Victoriana, with gilt print wallpaper and rough hewn woodwork and bars with peanut shells on the floor. The Sam’s Town I remember was a tacky tourist trap dive that didn’t seem so cunningly, cynically engineered by a group of market testers and focus groups to meet the requirements of a client looking to build a theme park rendition of what people think the Old West was like, it just was.

This Sam’s Town, the one on Boulder Highway and Tropicana is exactly that. So cold and calculated to resemble people’s half-memories of what they thought Victorian Times were like here in the Old West, which Honestly I find amusing in itself since the architecture design here is more reminiscent of Post-1906 San Francisco than 1880s Nevada – which according to the signage around the property is what they were going for, rooms are named Tonopah, Goldfield, Mesquite, Carson and Virginia City.

Enclosed facade surrounding the animatronics park. All these windows are facade only, there's nothing behind them - a complete photographic metaphor for this entire city.

The casino floor wraps around an enclosed park, skylights overhead let through the dazzling yellow light from the beating desert sun but keep out the soft breeze and occasional gentle desert rain. The park is one depicting transplanted florae and animatronic faunae that (aside from the one lone Bighorn) do not reside anywhere near this casino property. Supposedly every hour there’s a show, but I ain’t gonna stick around in this rutty joint long enough to catch it. Having been involved with lame casino animatronic shows, I can tell that it pretty much involves follow spots moving around, shining gobos through fog machines while the robot bald eagle gives a speech about the majesty of the wide open terrain of the Wild West, completely unaware of the irony of its situation, being completely enclosed within an empty facade.

View down on the park from inside the glass elevator.

Facade. Now I’ve used that word before to disdainfully describe my feelings toward the empty, soulless casinos here in Vegas, and if that word can be used to aptly describe anything, it describes this park around which Sam’s Town wraps.

See, you’d think that all these windows would be the hotel rooms, looking out onto the lame little park below from behind an approximation of the San Francisco-style attached townhouse high rise apartment motif the place is going for, but they aren’t. This entire property is ringed by an empty facade, a fraudulent depiction of success and wealth and business. To think that this tiny casino off on the edge of Las Vegas would be one to house a thousand room hotel is preposterous. It’s as if the owners and operators of this casino knew that they’re smallest of the small fry and they needed to build themselves a big presence to flex their muscles to the rube tourists who blind booked a room on Travelocity and ended up stuck at Sam’s Town. “At least we’re not in a lame small hotel.” They’d lie to themselves.

Sam’s Town is emblemic of why I find this city so distasteful. Style over substance, flash over bang, sizzle over steak. It’s the dead empty eyes of a heroin addicted stripper begging for you to pay attention to her and throw a twenty her way while she debases herself for a pittance of a handout.

There’s no class, no elegance, no refinement or grace, it’s just a shitty dive in a shitty part of a shitty city. Fuck Sam’s Town. The arcade here is a piece of shit too. How come every one of these casinos has the same six games and no Neo Geo MVS to be seen anywhere?

[1] recollection fuzzy, made more so with Dewar’s and menthol cigarette smoke.

The MGM Grand Fucking Deal.

April 20, 2010

For some reason I figured that it would be super fucking sweet to shoot the casino’s facade through trees. This is obviously because I have a congenital birth defect.

Being originally from the Reno area (Gardnerville and Dayton in particular, but I lived and worked in Neon Babylon for a spell), the Big House as it’s known today by casino workers, Grand Sierra Resort (or Grand Smokescreen Ripoff, whichever) was the biggest and most opulent club in the area. It was originally built as the MGM Grand in the late 70s and subsequently changed owners more times than some people change underwear (yeah I’m talkin’ about me here) and is now part-owned by a couple of hillbillies from Motley Crue (or at least was, until they realized that the property, much like a boat, was a big hole in the water into which you dump your money).

So being around a big giant resort casino that had fuckin’ lions inside wasn’t a big damn deal. We’d go in, have buffet, play laser tag and gawk at the lions. Big whoop right?

But to some people, well, to some people lions in a casino is a BIG HUGE COLLOSSAL FUCKING DEAL HOLY SHIT THERE ARE LIONS HERE !!!


Have you ever been to a zoo? Sure you have, everybody has. That’s like the sole reason to go to San Francisco. That and making out with hippy chicks in the rain when you say you have a bit of green on you and you’d be happy to engage in a bit of quid-pro-quo. Lions, especially semi-domesticated show lions are without a doubt the most boring critters on the face of the planet – and I spend most of my time around humans.

Do you own a cat? If no, do you have a family member who owns a cat? Sure you do, we’re all related to some crazy old lady that has more cats than you’ve ever owned cars and her house reeks of ammonia and skanky old canned tuna. Cats, in case you haven’t noticed, aren’t exactly the most energetic or entertaining of pets. Especially the bigger, older ones. Sure, kittens bounce around and chase sproingy around on strings (or in our case, lasers attached to the ends of firearms) but once they get older and bigger, they pretty much just lay around all the time.

One of the great philosophers of our times posited that “[cats] should be technically classified a liquid.” They just lay around in a pool on the ground or chair or windowsill. If they weren’t contained by a thin, impermeable skin, they’d just leak out all over the place and stain the carpet. Moreso, I mean.

So, flash forward to today and here we are back at the old MGM Grand’s older brother, the Vegas property and lo and behold, there’s the lion enclosure. And as expected with big old overfed domesticated kitties, what are they doing but…

Just fucking lying there in a puddle of fur and whiskers.

Hippos, being the most dangerous mammals on the planet and responsible for about as many human deaths as the malaria bug, are entertaining as hell at the zoo. They’re active during the day, they’re constantly moving around and doing shit. They waddle and wade, they open their huge mouths and bear their grisly, sharpened, man-spearing tusks. They wag their ears and then wave their tails around and spray piss on the gawkers. The hippo enclosure is a Gallagher show, just without all his pretension of being a heady, intellectualist comedian who just happens to bang on shit with a mallet. You will get wet.

Lions on the other hand just laze around. I could stay at home and watch a cat lie on the ground.

But yet here people come, from miles around to stand and stare and gape and gawk at the fucking lions. Pointshoot digital cameras and iPhones raised, the big cats live in a world where the only sound they hear is the electronic clicky-clack of cameraphones snapping a still.

“I just don’t see what the big deal is how could Siegfried and/or Roy been taken apart by one of those boring old things? Maybe it’s just because he’s a bit of a sissy and you know how those types are, right?”

Maybe I am jaded to the point where the King of the Jungle just doesn’t excite? No that cannot possibly be, I sat through The Ghost and the Darkness with a nonstop boner and not just because of Michael Douglas’ chiseled jawline. Lions are rad fucking animals – when left in their natural environment. When they’re placed in an enclosure and hand fed to the point where they just forget how to chase down and devour a gazelle (or slow-running beflipflopped biped) and allowed to sleep in to their heart’s content, well at that point there’s no magic. They may as well be the animatrons at the Rainforest Cafe for all the lively and lifelike they are.

But for urban dwellers for whom the furthest they’ve been away from a Starbucks is the center of the Oakland Bay Bridge, the lion enclosure is pure, raw, unadulterated jungle excitement. Pathetic. Disgusting.

These poor lions live in a world where a half inch of Lexan plastic separates them from the easiest meal they’ll ever catch. Maybe that’s why they sleep in, tortured by the fact that an entire paradise buffet exists outside this upended mason jar in which they live, but they’re unable to get to it, the grisly satisfaction of claws digging into personflesh lies tantalizingly, agonizingly out of reach.

Shitting at the Sunset Station

April 14, 2010

Nobody likes pooping in public. Being a technohobo, I find it to be an uncomfortable necessity. Thankfully, Las Vegas is full to the brim with clean, bright, well-maintained mens rooms. Based on a thread on my facebook page, I’ve decided to make a mission out of my alimentary requisite and basically take a dump in every dump in the greater Las Vegas metroplex.

Shitters will be gauged on several arbitrary metrics. Most important being a place to set your smartphone and/or concealment piece while straining to evacuate.

Today: Sunset Station.
The Sunset is one of a dozen or so smallish “locals friendly” clubs that dot the landscape. Stations is/are apparently a holding company that operates and maintains many, if not all of the off-Strip, out-of-Downtown hotel/casino properties. They all share a common players club card and maintain a similar graphic design motif.

The mens rooms in the Station casinos are about the same across the board, save for the newer, more expensive, upscale Red Rock and M resorts on the furthest peripheries of town (I’ll discuss them at a later date), basic brown stalls, American Standard urinals and Bemis toilets.

The Sunset’s mens room stalls have a clever little shelf, upon which a fella can place objects he doesn’t want to have stolen by a pair of grabby paws reaching under the next stall. Such as his carry piece.

All in all, a fella could find a worse place to poo.