If there’s one common notion that most Americans have about Las Vegas, it’s
that we have a vibrant economy. To be precise, many think we are the land of
milk and honey. The general assumption is that car parkers here make $80,000
a year and cocktail waitresses knock down six figures and declare far less
to our friends at the IRS. And that even a bloke with a fourth-grade
education should be able to come here and take down serious lucre and
absolve some of the debt that has accrued from previous life missteps. But
beyond that harebrained idea, there’s an ocean of confusion out there about
what really goes on in our beloved city and how we Las Vegans get from one
day to the next. Through a fair amount of traveling in the last year and a
number of interviews I’ve done with radio deejays and print folk looking for
a hot Las Vegas story, I’ve come to realize that: a) most of the images of
our city either come from the shows “Las Vegas” or “CSI” or from the
saturation of our “What Happens Here ¦” campaign; or b) the average dude in
his Barcalounger sipping a Colt 45 assumes this is the place where every
wanted man in America over the last four decades has come to hide out, from
Dick Hickox and Perry Smith of “In Cold Blood” infamy to “The Marrying Man”
Warren Jeffs. Outsiders who haven’t been paying close attention sometimes
expose their ignorance by revealing that they think Las Vegas in 2006 is
still marketing itself to families and that there are a lot of things for
kids to do here.

I feel obligated to explain to them that their information is outdated by at
least a decade and that we have in fact become one of the most
adult-oriented cities since Caligula ruled ancient Rome. A drive up and down
the Strip would convince an outsider that we are allergic not to pollen and
olive trees, but to clothing.

. . .

In Colorado recently I was introduced to a woman who, when she heard I was a
writer asked, “Have you ever interviewed Wayne Newton?” Her implicit
assumption was that bagging a Q/A with the Midnight Idol was probably the
hottest story a scribbler here could find. I calmly answered “no” and looked
for an escape route. It would have been a long night had I not pretended to
recognize an old friend across the room.

I remember in the late 1970s the esteemed travel writer Jan Morris – who
before gender surgery was a British explorer and military man named John
Morris – telling me she was intrigued by Las Vegas but detected a strong
undercurrent of evil running through the city.

Her instincts at that time were correct. Most of the large hotels were
indebted to loans from shady organizations like the Teamsters Union pension
funds, and more than a few of the motley characters who ran the joints had
rap sheets that could wallpaper your rec room. Today we are now fully
controlled by Wall Street: buttoned-down shirts, yellow ties, two showers a
day and subtle cologne.

The most frequently asked questions I heard as a writer 25 to 30 years ago
were about how I could tolerate living and writing in a city that was
totally devoid of any sense of culture or history. I don’t get those
anymore. Folks willing to pay their local cable company know through the
Travel Channel that we have imported all the cultural amenities a modern
city could hope to have, with fine art, hip chefs, Broadway plays, and a
bevy of talented plastic surgeons to make us look youthful when we go out on
the town.

These days the questions I get are more about details concerning the Las
Vegas Strip: who’s building what, whether the proliferation of high rises is
a boom or a bust, whether Macau is going to be bigger than Las Vegas, who’s
a bigger deal here between Sheldon Adelson and Steve Wynn. Stuff like that.

I can fake convincing-sounding responses with the best of them, and so
rather than just admit that I don’t know the answers to all of these
questions I tend to blather on in an attempt to pass myself off as an expert
on all things Las Vegas. (I recognize that this is a dysfunctional
personality trait, but when you get to my age you tend to forgive yourself
for deeply embedded flaws and just move forward.)

There are, however, a few things I know for certain about our city, with
absolute clarity, devoid of bias or geographical prejudice. I know that:

If you came here from someplace else, for the first couple of years Las
Vegas will not be pretty to you. It does not have the rivers or ocean
beaches or evergreen-covered rolling hills you’re used to. But the beauty of
the desert will grow on you, I promise, and the sunsets will knock your eyes
out.

The conversations you’ll hear at social gatherings are unlike any you heard
back home. At Spokane dinner parties, folks would always try to discover a
common-ground topic on which everyone could find agreement. All gathered
would then nod their heads forward for the rest of the night, saying things
like, “Isn’t that the truth?” or “I couldn’t agree with you more.” Here, you
might find yourself in the company of an acrobat, a professional poker
player, an interior designer, a sports agent, and a guy who owns an escort
service. Las Vegas provides far livelier conversation.

No city in America changes its landscape faster, or works harder at keeping
up with trends. We absolutely do not give a rat’s patootie about preserving
history. We are the total opposite of Rome and Paris and New York. In those
great cities, they venerate their old buildings. We blow ours to
smithereens, pop champagne corks in celebration, get naked and make whoopee.

Las Vegas is clearly not for everyone, but if you dig in your heels and give
it a chance you might find it to be the least boring place on the planet.
And boredom bores the hell out of me.

Jack Sheehan’s column runs every other week.