From JFK to McCarran.


written by JACOB N. STUART

Las Vegas is an orgy of insomnia. The ultimate clash of Good and Evil. The final nail in the coffin for the middle-class. Where, in any given hotel on the strip, you will be greeted by the casino owner himself and a broke bum who lost it all at his casino, asking you for your money.

As a frequent Las Vegas visitor, and a once upon a time Vegas resident, I will do my best to navigate you on your VERY first suicidal visit to Las Vegas, Nevada.


Prostitution is illegal. And no matter what your sister’s unemployed boyfriend with his nipple ring told you about his best friend’s “sick” bachelor party last year, it doesn’t change the laws. So ignore his words. Picking up a 3-dollar hooker on the street is a sure way to find yourself on Casino Center Blvd (that would be Clark County Jail). But not to worry, for 2-weeks worth of work at your local computer repair store in The Bronx, you can get your “thing” played with while taking $100 shots of cognac in-between 2 giant $10,000 boobs at some “off the strip” strip club. Strip Clubs in Las Vegas are like churches in Indiana. They’re on every corner, with busloads of sweaty “believers” aimlessly walking through their doors.


Las Vegas is NO place to get high. And I’m not just talking about that funny green plant you stand in line for in Colorado. I’m talking about your LSD, crack, Opium, funny mushrooms, and all the uppers and downers to make WW11 look like Disney Land. This town is scary enough sober, adding in some back-alley drug will have you calling the bottom of Lake Mead your “new” home. But for those of you who need your “fix,” avoid the strip. Find yourself some ancient bar north of the Stratosphere, the one that still plays Johnny Cash on the juke box, and look out for that guy who looks like a bad version on Dave Chappelle. You will be able to spot him. He has a book bag over his left shoulder, and he only comes in for one drink. He’s your man. Now me, personally, I prefer taking advantage of the “drinking on the street” law, where you can walk by six cross-dressing cops, while holding a martini in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.

johnny depp high in fear and loathing in Las Vegas


As a New Yorker, I know you love your sports. But do yourself a favor. When your dealer has that familiar and nostalgic accent that reminds you of back home, don’t just assume he’s a Yankee or Giants fan. He’s not. He’s a Mets, Jets junkie. And why wouldn’t he be? He goes against the grain, a rebel, a reject to some. Why do you think he’s slumped-over, flipping cards in some cramped hotel floor in Vegas? And just because he has an East Coast accent doesn’t mean he grew up two blocks from your aunt’s place in Long Island. He could be from anywhere between Boston to Baltimore. So don’t make a fool out yourself. Focus on the cards. Because until they make those $100 chips out of gold, consider yourself negative $100 as soon as you hand over your cash.


When Pete Rose bet on the Cincinnati Reds, he got a fat check from the owners, a World Series ring and a slap on the wrist, banning him from baseball. When fresh blood goes into the Sportsbooks in Vegas, the consequences of losing can be much dire. Just because last night at the hotel you were flipping through the channels, and left it on “Baseball Tonight,” doesn’t make you an expert. So keep your “John Madden” analysis for your girlfriend who’s in her 3rd year of college, because she’s the only one who believes you. Vegas wins. And they always will. They have been calling games, and rigging them for that matter, before you— or ya’ momma — were even born. They say taking the “spread” is a suicide bet, but it’s also a man’s bet. There is NO money in taking the M/L. So do yourself a favor and live a little. Take the spread. Take 2 shots of Tequila, and 1 Xanax, because you’re in for a ride.


While Vegas is infested with punk kids wearing hoodies, being pulled on by dog leashes, there is still respect for those who dress to impress. Las Vegas was founded by men in three piece Italian suits, so don’t ever forget that. Hit up the suit store! Or, at least, pull out that thrift store blazer you have in the closet, you know, the one you bought when your uncle died last March. Pull out those black dress shoes. Polish them up. Find your x-girlfriends panty hose you’ve been stashing a way. Those work nicely for polishing.

 TOP 3 Casino’s:

1)    Caesar’s Palace

2)    Treasure Island

3)    Red Rock

3 LEAST favorite:

1)    Circus Circus

2)    Circus Circus

3)    Circus Circus… oh, and the Wynn…

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