Finding love in Vegas
I thought my luck would have turned by now.
The loss was trifling compared to my dad’s considering he was down several hundred bucks more than he had won the day before. I could almost hear Heidi Klum in the back of my head reminding me that in Vegas, “One day you’re in, the next you’re out” — at least until the next lucky hand of cards or dice thrown. But then the frown stapled across my dad’s face as he slumped over the craps table (surveyed from a distance, of course, since hovering would make you an accessory to bad luck) echoed a sentiment I’d reaped from trips past: unless you’re Britney “Gimme more margaritas” Spears or some Porsche-driving douche bag who’s got enough cash to blow on ultra-VIP bottle service at your typically monosyllabic club (try Tao, Pure or Tryst) made famous by your typically non-law-abiding starlet (try Paris, LiLo, or, er, Britney), you’ve got to keep the velour of Vegas from masking your eyes.
Fear, Loathing and LOVIN’
Sin doesn’t come cheap in this city and the GFP (Gross Family Happiness) of our Vegas trips was usually determined by how much gaming moolah my dad had made. When he’s up, we’re up — which, the night before, granted us a molto bene dinner at Batali-backed ristorante B&B (one that Tony Soprano would undoubtedly give his thumbs-up to) and enough good karma to catch a flashier rendition of The Phantom of the Opera at gondola-abundant hotel The Venetian. But more than wanting my dad to win just so the guilt of heating-up the ol’ credit card in retail la-la land was lifted, it was about putting one over a place that tries to put one over you with every inch of glitzy real estate that catches your eye. Especially when, this time last year, we’d been duped by a couple of restaurants and Cirque shows that had their fair share of gesticulation-heavy reviews, making me wonder whether the four-hour drive with more than half of my 10-strong family packed into a CRV — heated arguments over the GPS (a sometimes treacherous navigation device) and all — was worth it.
Loss or not, the lights of the Vegas strip beckoned and we needed to make the most out of the night. So I left my unfortunate preoccupation to the grannies with coin-filled cups and my siblings and I pried the padre de familia away from the craps table so we could grab a bite like any normal family should. Still, the god of Vegas losses loomed over us as we sipped our wine and carved our rib eyes at an overpriced steakhouse in Caesar’s Palace. But a steak isn’t as good when you’re down and the vibrancy of The Strip can mock you a bit with each ostentatious piece of architecture and the marquee promises of all-encompassing entertainment. When you’ve taken in too much ad overkill and had enough of the stench of beer breath from all the people milling around searching for their next slice of hedonism, this electric paradise that stands alone in the desert can definitely leave one feeling deserted of emotions and sanity.
Still, this was our last night in Vegas and we decided to give Cirque du Soleil another whirl. Love, the company’s acrobatic interpretation of songs by The Beatles at The Mirage Hotel, seemed like the perfect show to alleviate our spirits — the Technicolor tube entryway strewn with chameleon lights and a lengthy British flag already heralding a psychedelic journey into the ‘60s, or rather, Beatlemania taken quite literally. As we entered the coliseum, usherettes in Brit policewoman garb escorted us to our seats, where filmy sheets hung from the ceiling meeting at opposite ends of the 360-degree theater and which I’d later find out were for 3D projections of the Fab Four and other such tech-aggrandized frills and fare Cirque had up its sleeve.
As influenced by the nature of Beatles music, this would be the least austere and death defying of Cirque’s shows; almost like a let-loose break for the regular performers. Beginning with a portrayal of grim, post-World War II London depicted with fanciful physicality, what struck me even more so was the wistful vocal melding of John, Paul, George and Ringo as they sang the words “Because the world is round it turns me on” — the intro of the ballad Because, one of 26 songs plucked from the multi-track master tape recordings at Abbey Road remixed for the show — inducing a feeling akin to your aorta being gripped and tugged. What followed was an audio-visual panorama similar to what greets LSD enthusiasts: a grooving marine mammal on I Am the Walrus, an aerial ménage-a-quatre for Something, and lots and lots of brass instruments dancing across the stage as Sergeant Pepper’s Parade played with its title character marching amid the pandemonium.
It had to take a bunch of spandex-clad people flipping across the air and bouncing around in orchestrated abandon to make me feel like a teen in the ’60s lying on a shag rug and finding infinite pleasure listening to the band’s records; like the childlike awe you’d almost totally forgotten had finally been retrieved. As Cirque as Cirque can be, your imagination unravels right before your eyes and it’s hard to steady your attention on just the polychromatic clouds floating around; or the roller bladers sticking synchronized 360s off glinting half-pipes; or gigantic sheets springing from below an elevated bed to waft above the audience as the airy Strawberry Fields Forever shifts into Within You Without You. It’s magical, really. Just as magical as my father and two brothers disappearing from the theater and hitting the casino outside; my dad’s second walk-out on a Cirque show (the first one was critically-acclaimed O last year), making me realize that, well, Love wasn’t for everybody.
Leaving
Sure, Love may have allowed me to reignite my faith in Cirque du Soleil but it didn’t do much for my dad, who after the show leaned once again over a craps table and dismissed the entire acrobatic production as a “bull**** tourist trap” he could probably catch on TV. My siblings were just as enthusiastic, stating that they’d have much rather enjoyed a washed-up Toni Braxton at The Flamingo or even Martin Nievera live at the Golden Nugget, although we later discovered he has moved on to better things. I, however, chuckled to myself, relishing the fact that there was more to this town than quaffing overpriced hooch at mega-hip club LAX or waiting for a scantily-clad casino waitress to bring me my heavily milked-down White Russian by the roulette table. There was the magnificent fountain at the Bellagio that still drew my family in as it swayed to a tune by Elton John or sprayed intensely to one by Bon Jovi. There were also the overly detailed fresco ceilings at The Venetian that my brother and I once shared a couple of beers under. This trip, I’d found, wasn’t about reveling in dirty Vegas but about being with the people I rarely saw back in Manila — taking jabs at one another on lengthy car rides; the harmonizing of snores with everyone cramped in a single hotel room; sharing a marvelous breakfast of steak ‘n’ eggs as a means to celebrate my dad finally winning everything back and then some on a last-minute craps run; the stuff that’s really important amid all the razzle-dazzle of a crazy town like Las Vegas.
As we all wolfed-down our last few bites of sumptuous red meat, a tubby waitress named Linda swung by clearing up our table and asking us if we were all heading back home. “We call that going back to reality,” she added.
I don’t know about Linda but I was already living mine and was sure as hell loving it.
