By Nick Divito
Sin City, middle of Lent, and Easter’s fast approaching. My devilish mind got to reeling: What if I flirted with the devil, saw what would happen if I unapologetically indulged in the seven deadly sins on the Strip during one of the holiest times of the year? Soon a bigger question emerged: How can anyone hit the Strip for a full day and not flirt with the seven deadly sins—gluttony, pride, greed, envy, sloth, lust and wrath? (And who would want to?)
So, I decided, rather than try to out-sin Sin City during Lent, it’s time to acknowledge the workaday sins that keep our city afloat. I set out to indulge in a tourist day, keenly aware of the seven deadly sins that informed my every step. (Never mind that the Catholic Church just updated the list of sins this week, adding such politically correct items as polluting and causing social injustice. The old-school sins were the ones beaten into me in catechism, and are thus closest to my heart.)
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The whole experiment is couched in sloth, since I’m not working, per se, and am able to sleep in for three whole hours. I’m off to stroll lazily through the resorts like a vacationing tourist on a mini-holiday. And I get paid for it—like a conventioneer. Ah, the sweet life.
Things quickly turn to wrath when, at the start of the mission, I battle bumper-to-bumper traffic on my way to the Strip. Then again when, entering the Mirage, I nearly punch some old lady in the neck for stopping dead in front of me to admire the atmosphere. (Hey, I didn’t, OK?) I’m positively livid when the ATM informs me that there’s a $3.99 surcharge to withdraw money. Grrrr.
My pride won’t allow me to embark on this odyssey without first getting an expensive haircut. I walk into the Kim Vo Salon at the Mirage, the new, glistening emporium of all things beauty run by the hairdresser to the stars. As the Super Cuts king, I want to see what it’s like to get a fancy-pants, $65 haircut that doesn’t involve buzz-clippers. What better way to start a day full of glorious sin than a high-dollar ’do?
I slip into a brown, silky smock (so fancy!), and Raynelle, my stylist, washes and shampoos my hair for what feels like an eternity. She then begins to meticulously and artfully cut away at my hair, often switching scissors, periodically spritzing my head with a water bottle, and, after an hour of pleasant chit-chat, voila! A new man. A faux-hawk. Cute. Raynelle has an idea: Why don’t I go to the Fashion Show Mall and buy a new outfit to continue in this vain vein? I agree.
But first, a drink. (Forget that it’s only noon. Hello, gluttony!) I sidle up to the Kokomos Lounge, located in the main atrium at the Mirage, and ask the bartender for the Vegas-iest drink they have. I’m hoping for something with a palm tree in it, or an umbrella at least, but instead he looks at me, puzzled, and suggests a Mai Tai. The Mirage, a Mai Tai? Seems appropriate. And then he drops a bomb: That’ll be $9. Grrr. The man next to me, in town for some convention, raises his glass: “Welcome to Vegas.”
I throw down $10, grab my drink and take the main path toward the Fashion Show Mall, by way of Treasure Island. But look—there’s a tram that will take me from A to B, even though they’re right next door to each other, and I won’t have to walk.
Inside Treasure Island, I spot Kahunaville—Party Bar!—and approach. But I’m caught off guard when, off to my right, I spot the Oxygen Bar, where tantalizing rows of bubbling vials of well-lit pink and orange and lime and yellow liquid draw me in. It feels like I’ve stepped into a mad scientist’s laboratory. The bartender breaks it down: $20 for 20 minutes of pure oxygen, pumped through the scented vials and directly into my nose. A cocktail and a back and scalp massage are also included. A little bit sloth, a little bit gluttony, a little bit pride. Sold.
And now I’m hooked up to this oxygen tube, breathing deeply to really feel the combination of my four scented offerings through the tube: Citrus Zing. Fresh. Bliss. Uplifting. The bartender extols the benefits of oxygen—it’s good for your skin, it’s uplifting, it’s energizing, it can lower blood pressure. Maybe it’ll cure whatever ailments I will incur in this night of gluttonous sin. The bartender hands me a mixture of Monster Energy Drink and a watermelon-flavored slushy, with an individual bottle of Smirnoff vodka on the side. Yay, more booze!
It’s time for my back rub. I let out a laugh before turning to mush as the bartender, with her vibrating whatnots, moves up and down my back. Heavenly. But when she takes out the vibrating scalp massager—it looked like a sawed-off bird cage—I wince for fear that she’ll muss my new ’do, but acquiesce. I pay my $20 and check my hair in a mirror. Still bangin’.
I head to the pool to veg. But curses! There’s a man standing in front of the doors to the pool, asking to see room keys. Apparently it’s only open to hotel guests. Feeling a mixture of wrath and envy, I grab the papers that I have been writing on for this assignment, rattle them authoritatively and breeze past the gatekeeper. (Tip: If you’re trying to sneak into somewhere, rattle papers and look authoritative. Works almost every time.)
I make a beeline for the outdoor bar and order an $8.50 daiquiri (grrr!). I lustfully scan the beach chairs for skin. Cute. Hot. Not so cute. Cute. The world stops as I lay there like a tortoise sunning on a rock, staring at the beautiful people who are undoubtedly staring at me, a freak in jeans and a button-down shirt, hanging out by a pool on a random Tuesday and scribbling on little bits of paper.
An hour passes before I finally make my way to the Fashion Show Mall next door. I’m already overwhelmed with envy. Store after store of things I can’t afford—look, $250 jeans!—all mocking me with their wealth and their cashmere and their silk and their leather. Abercrombie & Fitch this. Prada that. Bleh. Envy sucks. Forget a new outfit. I can’t afford it anyway.
It’s off to the Wynn across the street. Look, the Wynn Buffet! Gluttony! Wait, for $36?! Grrr. I mentally shake my fist at Steve Wynn, and silently threaten him that the food better be good, or else! Luckily for Steve, it is in fact amazing, a smorgasbord of high-end culinary treasures, a buffet unlike any other.
Blood orange salad with pomegranate seeds, fennel and pine nuts. Jack Daniel’s-spiced prime rib. Tandoori chicken and basmati rice. Alaskan crab with drawn butter. Octopus and squid ceviche. Wild mushrooms with a demi glaze and tomato confit. Mini roast beef sandwiches with alfalfa sprouts and Swiss cheese. Cheese ravioli. Bananas foster with crème anglaise. Chocolate tortes with edible gold foil on top. Crème brulee. Chocolate-covered strawberries.
All that—and more!—down the gullet. I drop my tip and waddle out of there. I zip through the shops at the Palazzo which, quite honestly, have been reduced to shiny blurs full of more things I can’t afford.
I decide it’s time to test out greed, and plop down all the cash I have left in my pocket—$15, to be exact—on the blackjack table. Money plays! One king, two kings, winner!! I consider letting it ride. Instead, I gather up my $30 in chips and leave. I may be here to get in touch with my sinful side, but I’m not stupid.
I am, however, susceptible to Vegas’ lustful side. As I walk past Harrah’s, I’m assaulted by a horde of men wearing T-shirts that say, “Girls Direct to You in 10 Minutes.” They’re handing out little cards bearing pictures of scantily clad women, flicking them repeatedly. Click-click-click, almost in unison with each other in a well-choreographed display of lust. Beyond them: adult-newspaper racks full of pictures of half-naked women. Eh, boobs are cool and all, but where’s the gay in Vegas?
I’m soon bored with my own question when I spot the sign: $1 frozen margaritas at Casino Royale! I grab three—triple-fisting! I sip and walk, eventually making my way to the Fashion Show Mall, where I grab a gigantic cylindrical container of a frozen margarita—seriously, this thing is huge!—for $18. Grrr. I consider some more window shopping at the mall, but scrap it (I’ve got no time for envy) and instead head across the street to the Bellagio.
I again begin to ponder lust for man-on-man action in this town—as in, is there any? I look across the street at the Bally’s Jubilee! sign, featuring a showgirl’s ass, then at the huge billboard outside the Flamingo of Toni Braxton and her very large crotch, almost taunting me as if to say, “Ha ha, everyone’s having sex but you, neener-neener.” I could hit Chippendales at the Rio, or Thunder From Down Under at the Excalibur, but frankly, both are too far for me to walk to in this drunken, slothful state.
I decide to head over to Caesars and check out their Qua Spa. A roomful of hot, sweaty men covered only by little white towels? Can’t go wrong there.
I somehow manage to make it past any money-takers at the spa, and stroll peacefully through the stone-lined walls being tickled with little drizzles of falling water. It’s like a cavern, soothing, calm. I feel almost as if my sins are melting away.
I peek inside and spot a man at the far end of the pool room. He’s probably naked. Paydirt! Snap back to reality when a nice man—an employee of some sort—stops me and tells me I have to pay outside, but warns me that the spa is closing soon so I might want to come back tomorrow and enjoy a whole day of pampering with half-naked men. (I’m tempted to shake my papers and look authoritative again, but I think better of it—I’ve sinned enough for one day.)
He kindly gives me an idea of what my $45 entrance fee gets me, and I’m impressed: saunas and glistening pools and steam rooms, oh my. Some other time.
Whatever. It’s almost 8 p.m.—I should go home.
I make my way through the Forum Shops, past all the fancy stores selling things I can’t afford, back to the Mirage parking garage and drive home.
While heading up Flamingo, I see the shimmering lights of the Strip grow smaller in my rear-view mirror. As I readjust it to check out my new haircut—still rockin’—I can’t help but feel like I’ve just created the greatest sin of all: I shamelessly acted like a tourist for eight hours in my own town. And I kinda liked it.
May God have mercy on my soul.
Nick Divito is a Weekly staff writer.