A rite of winter each year at Preview Las Vegas is Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority head Rossi Ralenkotter’s unveiling of the new Las Vegas television marketing campaign, or what you and I would call “commercials.” Ralenkotter cued the marching band again on January 31, displaying on the Cox Pavilion’s massive LED screens three new ads whose new catchphrase is “Your Vegas is showing.” These new commercials cast a light on the city’s high-end dining and shopping opportunities. The new 30-second spots are now airing across the country and in Las Vegas’ “tier 1” outside-the-U.S. tourism markets (including England). The commercials complement rather than supplant the immortal “What happens here, stays here” campaign.
The “Vegas showing” premise is that tourists can assume any identity and create a new Vegas-ized image during a trip to the Strip. At the end, an announcer who might be John Tesh intones, “Your Vegas is showing.” So the guy who spends 28 seconds pretending to be a fashion staple, who wears these glaring white wing tips throughout his visit to Vegas, is told, “Hey, Fashionistador … your Vegas is showing.” And displayed on the LVCVA-sponsored “Your Vegas is showing” website (www.yourvegasisshowing.com) are badges and descriptions for each alter ego. There’s “Backstage-Inator,” the lanyard-bearing glad-hander who makes it behind the scenes to all the major shows and concerts; “Massageoholic,” the person so fond of spa treatments that he/she becomes addicted to steamed rocks and scented body oil; and “Faux Sommelier,” the person who bluffs his way through a wine order with such trite observations as, “Fine cheese is like fine wine.” Eighteen badges are listed on the site, and visitors to the site are invited to customize their own badge by hitting a few links to different designs and can create their own name and description. So we offer our own “Your Vegas is showing” badge titles:
Brazen Jaywalker: In your hometown, you follow the laws of the road and common sense when strolling the city streets. But not in Vegas. Grab a diluted Stoli-and-cranberry at Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall & Saloon with one hand and your spouse with the other, and stride onto Flamingo Road, gazing not at the traffic but at the fish-netted tush of the Jubilee dancer glowing from the marquee at Bally’s. The traffic will stop for you. It does, usually.
Bouncer Wrangler: The muscle-bound guy stuffed into the Armani suit with the ear bud stuck in his head. Who is he? Does he own this club? He acts like it. Why else have we been standing here staring at the Tao sign for 45 minutes while prettier and tinier people (women in shimmering skirts, in most cases) sashay past? It is up to you, Bouncer Wrangler, to step over the velvet rope, snap your fingers and get this guy’s attention. Ask, “Hey, Ferrigno, what’s going on? Who’s in charge here? It can’t be you! You’re not Robert Tao, are you? I want to talk to who is in charge here!” Become indignant, squeaky-wheel your way into the club and (most important) impress your friends!
Buffet Scout: Similar to how a platoon marching toward a possible firefight requires an advance man to survey what’s ahead, Buffet Scout runs a reconnaissance mission around the buffet tables, glancing under the sneeze guards to map out which dishes, in order, will fill this meal. Of course, your plan of attack will be to home in on the meats, the prime ribs, sausage and hams. Take the advice of such buffet veterans as Las Vegan Jimmy Kimmel, who has taught us that salads in all of their forms have no place at a buffet. Load up on the cheesecake and pecan pie, because they are going to lose money on this dining experience.
Cabby Interviewer: “How long have you lived here? Like it? Ever pick up any celebrities? Is it true the mob owns a bunch of casinos here? What’s the population, anyway? You guys really get paid to take people to strip clubs? Do you gamble? Where do you guys get your water? Can you really drink from an open container while driving? Have you ever met Oscar Goodman? Where are the brothels? What’s the best show in town? How far a walk is it from Circus Circus to MGM Grand? Where are the loose machines, exactly? Are we at the Flamingo yet?”
Random Narcoleptic: Fifteen minutes ago he was betting the halftime line on the 49ers-Seahawks game. Now he’s slumbering peacefully in his desk-like chair at the Mandalay Bay sports book, head tilted slightly forward, the fingers on his left hand still pinching a Marlboro. And midway through Jerry Seinfeld’s show at the Colosseum, as Seinfeld is asking about how the handicapped parking works at the Special Olympics, his head drops back and the rest of the show is lost. That’s okay. More than food, drink or entertainment, Random Narcoleptic requires sleep, and the suite he booked is about a four-mile walk from here. And he needs rest. Now.
Uncle Vegas: Somewhere tucked in the throng of tourists tilting their heads skyward to view the dancing images on the Fremont Street Experience, the spectators eagerly awaiting the Sirens of TI pirate-ship battle or the visitors lining the Strip enjoying the water ballet at the Bellagio is a Yoda-like figure we call “Uncle Vegas.” Uncle Vegas is all-knowing about this city. Or so it seems. Uncle Vegas confidently, if inaccurately, rattles off insider knowledge. “The water they use in this show is the same water used for Evian water!” Or, “This Fremont Street Experience is named after Frank Fremont, who is the great-great-grandfather of Frank Sinatra!” Or, “This pirate show is not actually staged, and the winning team gets $5,000 a person!” It might sound suspect under normal circumstances, but not in Vegas, where we believe anything.
John Katsilometes is the Weekly’s writer at large.
Illustration by Robert Ullman