Vegas: Sins Of The Flesh

When I first went to Vegas as a 10 year old, I never got to see the seedy side of it, because I was the victim of an elaborate con.

Once we got to the hotel, it was as if my brother and I had died and gone to heaven. You see the Pay Per View TV, my father said, you can watch all the Disney movies you want. You see the fridge minibar, he gestured, eat all that you can eat.

The only catch was that we had to stay in the room the whole night, but heck, as far as we were concerned my dad had suddenly morphed into a Ren Ci Charity monk. After all, the young male mind is not geared towards looking past immediate gratification. We didn’t even notice my parents slip out gleefully and return past midnight looking decidedly happier.

Years on, the more I read about why Vegas is Sin City, the more bitter I got. The only lasting memories I had of Vegas, after all, were of nice hotels and Bambi running around in fields of green.

Coming back to Vegas as an adult, I was determined to wallow in as much filth as I could. After all, I was of age, was financially solvent (at the beginning at least), and no longer had to worry about outsmarting my parents. This was my chance to see if Vegas deserved its reputation.

And it does.

But it’s not because of the sheer availability of call girls. Nor the endless rows of slot machines and card tables. Nor the abundant alcoholic oases that litter this desert town. The way I see it, the one thing that makes Vegas Vegas, is the… Vibe.

The Vibe is this intoxicating, heady mood that chips away at your inhibitions, that makes all the wrong things somehow feel right. Ever been in a club before, where it’s dark and it feels like you can do anything and get away with it? Multiply it a thousand times, and you’ve got the Vibe.

And that’s the allure of Vegas. Here, whatever your desires may be, there’s a whole bunch of people alongside you, and their company dilutes your guilt and concentrates your indulgence.

Within minutes of hitting the Strip, we chanced upon vendors handing out little cards with barely-censored pictures of girls, complete with expected charges and numbers to call. It was mildly titillating to get these cards at first, but when I saw how many of these cards were abandoned on the pavement, the crassness of hit home.

Upon reflection, I guess it was the way these girls had endured the indignity of baring themselves to strangers (albeit on cards), and yet people were simply just… walking all over them.


Thankfully, the adult-themed Cirque De Soleil show we caught was quite tastefully done. Here’s a quick snapshot of the theatre that I managed to get. We were to go to a strip club too, but an unscheduled snowstorm on the way back from the Grand Canyon was our main entertainment for the day instead.


Unsurprisingly, for all the enthusiasm I had for exploring the dark underbelly of Vegas, I discovered that unless you're willing to throw yourself in fully and participate, you're just going to be a dispassioned bystander.

In a way, I can better understand why my father would have preferred me to stick with those cartoons all those years ago. And yes, the tone in this post is schizophrenic. Haha.

More to come!