Like many other transplants to Las Vegas, I'm sure, my wife and I swore when we moved here four years ago that we would not be gamblers. We took a scouting trip a few months earlier, and our only wager was a quarter I dropped in a Fremont Street bandit to justify the use of a toilet. The many other attractions of the contemporary city, from Cirque shows to fine dining, sealed the deal for us.
Ah, but ... As freshly solicitous friends arrived for visits, of course we took them to casinos, and of course we nestled our butts among those banks of spinning BAR's and 7's. I can't remember precisely when this happened, but at some point we found ourselves slipping bills into slot machines without that gracious-host excuse. We're well aware that we're paying for a peculiar kind of entertainment, and so far, the fun hasn't stopped. I don't think either of us has developed a "problem" —but who ever does, right?
Still, looking back I have to wonder how we fell for the city's life-sustaining scam. My wife points to the Skinneresque principle of shrewdly meted rewards, those whoops and bleats accompanying 5- or 10-credit "wins" that keep you punching the "spin" button down to zero. But I think it has something to do with ambience, too. I find myself oddly calmed by the clatter and clangor. It amounts to the satisfaction of focusing on your private contest amid the din of many others doing the same. And "gaming experts," of course, point to the lighting, the layout and, lest we forget, the liquids.
All of which adds up to a potent diversionary force, like that sonorous voice in the gleaming Emerald City. Pay no attention, indeed.
Much has been made in recent years about Las Vegas' paradigmatic identity, the way its illusions and temptations nakedly analogize the shrouded pathologies of the nation at large. This is a spot-on observation, to be sure. But the city also exposes another key weakness of the American character, our general tendency to prefer emblems over ideas. The occasional, noisy alignment of numbers trumps the unseen bank balance every time.
My favorite example is the undying crusade to constitutionalize the prohibition of flag-burning. It has become necessary for any opponent of this measure to open with the standard affirmation, and I will, too: My reverence for the flag runs deeply. I shiver hearing a solid rendition of the National Anthem at a ball game. I've been known to dodge traffic to rescue the wind-tattered scraps of flags that have fallen unnoticed from patriot vehicles. But the heart of American nationalism is freedom, and the idea of soiling the Constitution by limiting liberty seems the ultimate disgrace to that symbol. And it dishonors the men and women who died for the nation to argue that they perished for its symbol.
When the furor arose last year about the words "under God" in the Pledge of Allegiance, I wondered why no one questions the absurdity of what is essentially a loyalty oath in a country whose bedrock principle is freedom. Note, too, the pledge is to the flag and that "the republic for which it stands" is something of an afterthought.
Need I belabor the motif-mongering of American elections, of "Reporting for Duty" vs. "Mission Accomplished?" You can parse the results any number of ways, but clearly a substantial bloc of voters embraced the impersonation of a genial fellow with iron resolve while ignoring a catalog of errors that imperil the nation. That's hardly heartening. Democrats play the game, too, but in recent years Republican political strategy has been about "branding," getting people to "identify" with an attractive persona, as they might don a Von Dutch T-shirt.
Branding has all but eliminated actual substance in retail commodities. On an outlet-mall excursion last week, I noticed bags of Jack Daniels coffee at a kitchen store. That's only a few strides away from absurd, especially in Harley Davidson footwear. Just be sure to surrender the keys to your Skechers crotch-rocket after downing a couple of Starbucks martinis.
And what better beverage to savor along with entertainment that purports to be "reality" while burlesquing it? To the pan-network gallery of various "makeover" shows—whose point is to justify our passion for appearances—Fox this fall adds My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss. This romp touts the thrill of watching 12 "Ivy League hotshots ... humiliate and embarrass themselves," which has got to be the ultimate vindication for every slacker bully who ever picked on the class brain. The underlying, inconvenient and actual "reality" is that bright people, whether college-educated or not, have been responsible for the great bulk of the nation's achievements in all fields, while people who revel in their debasement are responsible chiefly for the success—cross-branded of course—of the beer and snack-food industries.
It might be argued that these traits can be traced to the historically American penchant for the visible and the tangible, which we value over abstractions. You can't see liberty or touch safety, after all. Nor can you physically sense honor or accomplishment. The sad irony, however, is that symbols are mere simulations of what we hold in our heads and in our hearts. We drain both of those vessels when we tend exclusively to the whirling images and squawking noises of life's great gambling hall.
Chuck Twardy is a really smart guy who has written for several daily newspapers and for magazines such as Metropolis.