Laughlin, Nevada is where luck goes to die.
In the last twenty years, Las Vegas, an hour to the north, has undergone multiple image makeovers, a string of attempts to reinvent itself that once included something so ill-considered as trying to become a family-friendly destination. Most recently it has settled on - and succeeded in - luring 20-somethings seeking out a hipper, sharper-edged party scene, and in doing so has managed to turn itself into the most vivid, and at the same time lame, caricature of itself imaginable. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, used to be a gloriously unspoken proposition, naturally occurring in the dark blood that gets pumped through human appetite. Then some corporate ad execs coined the phrase, forcing 'Sin City' to have to start living up, or down, to a suddenly obligatory reputation.
This would seem to have left Laughlin assigned a proxy to remain, a little bit anyway, what Vegas once was: a destination for the older, and therefore inadvertently lamer set; still flashy(ish) to be sure, but less hip, more kitsch. Second tier or washed-up celebrities seem to provide the entertainment in the casinos, and gambling (for the sake of gambling) is still the main attraction. Were he alive today, banging out his cape-suited kung fu moves, propelled across the stage by the force of his booming voice and flatulence, has-been Elvis (hands down the stamp I voted for) might have found his way to Laughlin before Vegas.
That isn't meant to disparage Laughlin, necessarily. In as much as I ever desire to find myself immersed in a casino scene, Laughlin's slower pace suits me, and probably would have when I was twenty-one and partied a lot more than I do now. I must confess, I sort of like Vegas too; its unrelenting energy is simply irresistible, addictive at any age, and there just may be no better place on Earth to people watch. But there's something to be said for the way everything moves more slowly in Laughlin, arthritically even, on certain weekday afternoons; great drama is sometimes cultivated in comic pathos, after all. What happens here will stay here, but it might leak out through cracks in the sidewalk now and then, or forget where it is and evaporate under the desert sun.
We've driven 1,800 miles in two days and have finally arrived at our destination - the airport in nearby Bullhead City, Arizona - where we meet our parents' incoming flight. Racing through Kingman, still quite a distance away, we started getting anxious. Their flight was scheduled to land at 9 a.m. and it was already 9:15. Back in Flagstaff, we'd hoisted ourselves out of bed at the crack of dawn in a determined effort to not be late, knowing time would be tight but confident it would be possible to screech in at the last minute. I don't think I've been on time for anything since a Cub Scout cake auction in 1982, so it should have come as no surprise (and didn't really) that we didn't get quite the early start we'd hoped and were now running behind, stuck watching this particular 'last minute' march past like a soldier on his way to an unwinnable war.
But just when I had begun picturing my parents sitting in a deserted airport terminal amidst a pile of luggage, my dad impatiently checking his watch and grumbling under his breath about no sense of urgency... (a cadence I have been well-acquainted with ever since that cake auction 29 years ago), my cell phone (all our cell phones) switched back one hour automatically - and just like that - like a reprieve from God - we found ourselves 45 minutes early, rather than 15 minutes late. We managed to capture that elusive 'last minute' after all (though still barely!), screeching into airport parking moments after the plane touched down, at 9:00 Pacific time.
A neat and tidy conclusion to the first leg of a road trip that has been neat and tidy so far, all things considered.
Laughlin
Laughlin, Nevada is named after its founder, Don Laughlin, who purchased the southern tip of the Silver State (the needle point that wedges itself between Arizona and California) in the early 1960s. He had run a casino in Vegas for a number of years, and saw potential for a second Vegas on the Colorado River, closer to the then-still vibrant Route 66.
I think about this gambit as we enter town via the Laughlin bridge, which spans the Colorado, linking Arizona and Nevada. It would be interesting to read a biography on Don Laughlin; what kind of reaction did he receive, I wonder, from his Vegas cronies at the time. Laughter, I'd bet, skepticism to say the least, if not outright resistance, to the notion of there being another Vegas so close to Vegas.
Nothing Laughlin couldn't handle in any case, seeing as success in establishing his resort community as a viable tourist destination barely an hour from Vegas did not take long. There were three casinos in town by the end of the 1960s, and a development boom in the '80s included a slew of new attractions and construction of the bridge we are now crossing over. Before then, boat shuttles were the only way across the river, and these still run, bringing many of the casino workforce across from the much larger Bullhead City. Today, with a census designated population of just over 7,000, Laughlin attracts some five million visitors a year.
That Laughlin is as vibrant as it is fifty years later would seem to be the realization of an impossible dream. Not only because Vegas is Vegas (or Reno is Reno for that matter), not only because the Nevada gaming market is flooded with mini-casinos (at every bar or convenience store, and countless other public places, you're likely to find at least one row of slot machines), but because every state surrounding Nevada with the exception of Utah has Indian gaming, a nationwide phenomenon of the last quarter century that has doubtless put a dent in Nevada's armored command of the industry (and just might have necessitated Vegas' image makeovers). For people who really like gambling, who do enjoy finding themselves immersed in a casino scene, the choice in tough economic times to stick around home and hit an Indian casino in lieu of spending the time and money to come to Nevada must be a no-brainer.
Creeping Jankiness
We are arriving in Laughlin on the heels of the holiday season, and to be fair, this might have a lot to do with its current 'arthritis'. It is on account of the January lull that we have managed to book rooms at the Tropicana Express on South Casino Drive for under $15/night.
$15 per night! The last time I got a hotel room for $15 I was eighteen, renting a decrepit unit in an edge-of-town roach palace called the Rainbow Inn, for my friends and me to party in. All the Laughlin resort/casinos are running similarly dirt cheap room rates (we've only chosen the Tropicana because it's the most centrally located) and January specials are not unusual in any industry, but I'd wager there's more to '$15 a night' than just January doldrums. It would seem to suggest that even places like Laughlin are not out of reach of recession. Logically I know this is true, obvious even. But it's easy to assume, or to want to, that glittering tourist traps are in some way impervious to economic downturn simply because they glitter.
The Tropicana in Laughlin is a middle of the road hotel/casino - looking the part while looking its age. It opened in 1988 and you can tell; it doesn't look like it's ever been remodeled. Like many of the buildings along South Casino Drive, its two hotel towers light up nicely at night (the Laughlin skyline overall is fairly exciting to view at night from the Arizona side of the river). But outside of the view (the river to the east, mountains to the west; but only if you're reserved on a high enough floor), there's absolutely nothing special about the rooms, even the 'suite' that I splurged on for an extra $5 is not unlike a clean, comfortable unit I'd find at any Super 8 Motel on any retail strip in any town or city in America.
What do I expect for $15 a night, right? Fair enough, but little signs of creeping jankiness are everywhere, from water stains in the sink to busted knobs on the television. The carpeting in public areas is nothing less than the quintessential casino motif - a God-awful assemblage of kaleidoscope patterns marinated in dirty gold and barbecue red - but it's visibly tread-worn in places. Most damning, many of the promotional posters hanging about are for events that have already happened. Not too far in the past, to be sure, but distant enough to be depressing.
There's always something unsettling about events that took place in October, in January.
(Yikes...)
Glittering tourist traps should be impervious to that too...(although, really, every spot on Earth should...)
Like the casino where we are staying, Laughlin itself sports a certain creeping jankiness. South Casino Drive more or less IS Laughlin to visitors. Hidden from it, residential Laughlin (Laughlin Township) is a tired-looking aggregation of unassuming single family homes that appear to have little connection to the casinos. South Casino Drive is where the action is - so to speak, and such as it is.
It's nice enough, all things considered, but seems unfinished to me. There are barren stetches along South Casino Drive, whole blocks of empty, weed-strewn lots, where I get the sense something was there once (as opposed to something coming soon), spots where the presence of the desert wasteland surrounding the community - and its naturally on-going effort to creep back and reclaim its space - is more apparent.
One thing Laughlin does have going for it is its proximity to the Colorado River, but for someone like me, this just provides a fatal distraction; draws my attention completely away from what I'm supposed to care about here, the excitement I'm supposed to find - want to find - in the casinos.
Blah...I'd rather sit on a balcony or stand on Laughlin's (very nice) river walk and watch the Colorado River ramble than gamble. Or better yet, do what the river is doing, keep moving, keep moving, pass Laughlin right on by.
I'd rather drive around the desert all day. Maybe check out a ghost town.
And hey, Vegas is only an hour or so north...
The problem for me is that whether it's Vegas, Laughlin, Reno, or the Indian rez down the road from where I live, gambling has a way of making any place a depressing place
Luck Be a Lady, Tonight
In more than one of the numerous Indian casinos I've been surrounded by most of my life, I've been known to throw down a twenty or two. I mostly play slots, or keno (the game with the worst odds). I've never found my way to a table game, partly because I don't know the games or their attendant etiquette well enough to not look ignorant, and partly because I simply don't enjoy gambling. The chance of winning something makes it worth the time occasionally, just occasionally....kind of like the lottery. I'll buy a lotto ticket now and then...usually when there's a huge jackpot, but sometimes just whenever I'm 'feeling lucky'. Sometimes.
But that's as far as it goes. I simply do not hold gambling of any kind - with machines, cards or ping pong balls - in high esteem, nor derive any particular pleasure from doing it. It is way, way down the list of things I like to do that they tell me I'm not supposed to. I feel great when (and if) I win, certainly...but really, how often does that happen? 1 or 2 out of every 50 pulls on a slot machine results in a significant win. Most of the time, I win my bet back. Rah rah. As my dad has always said (occasionally to make himself feel better): walk past anyone sitting at a slot machine with 2500 credits banked on it, and you have to wonder before anything else how much they spent to get there.
The odds are always with the house; otherwise casinos would not bother to be in business - operative word being business. They're in the business of making money. I don't begrudge them this, but I'm a sore loser, petty and sometimes crazy competitive (the one who might send the Monopoly board onto the floor with an angry sideways swipe of my hands if, nearing bankruptcy, I get stuck paying someone a houses/hotel rent...or any rent...). When I lose more than twenty dollars, even in what I know to be the almost entirely futile endeavor of gambling, I get pissed off, resentfully refuse to drop another dime. I start cussing and bitching and glowering, like an old man who is as frightened as he is offended by what the world has turned into.
I guess that's a good thing. Ensures I'll never get swept up in it, never start chasing wins, never wind up ambling through a casino playing penny slots (because I can't afford anything else) and telling myself I'm having a fun night out.
Hey, it happens. A real-life version of that very scenario played out for a friend of my dad's years ago. This gentleman did not set foot in a casino until he was 55 years old. By the time he turned sixty, he'd lost his house, his car and eventually his family to a virulent gambling addiction he didn't know he was capable of. In his final years, he was seen ambling fecklessly around the casino bumming nickles from people he knew.
That is a true story, neither invented nor exaggerated. I emphasize this fact because it's one thing to hear of such cases, be told such a story second-hand. It's quite another to know someone who has gone through it, to watch - as we did - the disintegration of someone's life.
And for what? At least with other vice, you get the desired results every time. If you drink, you'll get drunk. Do drugs, you'll get high. Smoke cigarettes...sex...whatever it is, you feel the rush right away. I guess if you're addicted to gambling you get that rush every time you place a bet - win or lose.
I've just never, ever felt that. To me, gambling is mostly boring, occasionally frustrating. And who needs more of that in their life?
A second true gambling horror story involves a trip I took down the Jersey shore with my parents when I was twelve. Our destination was Atlantic City (another gambling mecca affected by the proliferation of Indian gaming, but not quite as able to capitalize on its cachet the way Vegas has), but we stopped somewhere along the way, some seaside town with a boardwalk. I seem to recall my older brother going on about Bruce Springsteen, so it may well have been Asbury Park. But in any case, on this boardwalk was some kind of arcade with gaming devices, and I remember walking into this dingy, wood plank building, and my dad striking up a conversation with an elderly man who'd been sitting in the arcade all day, and started talking about all the prizes he'd won, how 'luck' was with him that day.
Prizes. Not money, just prizes.
Many of the details of this encounter are admittedly sketchy. But it did happen, and there was something sad and grim about that old gent mucking around some otherwise deserted 'arcade' on a cloudy weekday afternoon in a seaside Jersey town already given wholly to the urban wasteland Springsteen made a name for himself singing about. Fifty feet away, the Atlantic Ocean doggedly worked over the shoreline; wave after wave approaching from the blue-gray horizon, past which Europe hid just out of view. That's what this man should have been preoccupied with. But he had sequestered himself in the arcade, spoke of 'winning prizes' (I'd like to think a stuffed animal, or a goldfish, at least; but for all I know, nothing but game tokens to play more games) as though it warranted the anticipatory and proud smile on his face.
I remember that look on his face.
Even my dad weighed in on the situation. My dad himself is a gambler, a fan of lottery and always pleased as punch to find himself immersed in a casino scene. In fact, a Christmas gift getaway for him and my mom is the reason we are now in Laughlin. He's never let his gambling get out of hand, but he likes it a lot, draws more enjoyment from it than I can fathom.
Yet even he was disturbed by this old man's pathos.
To me, gambling is the sin you go to when there aren't any others left. When all the cigarettes have been smoked, all the beer drank, all the drugs done, and every woman on Earth has been made love to.
The weather is disappointingly cool when we arrive, even for January, and it stays that way for the entire week. The sun shines, but there is a stiff wind afoot, and temperatures struggle to reach 50 degrees. The locals claim this is unusual...daytime highs are normally in the lower to middle 60s, they say. But January asserts itself while we are here, as though refusing to let me go.
Yet, we are finally here, and there is no snow to be found, at least, which alone makes for a stellar set of circumstances. And as it's said, the worst day of vacation still beats the best day of work.
I've just got to find something to bide my time until its time to hit L.A., something that doesn't involve wasting money in the casinos, but doesn't entail sitting in my hotel room watching a Full House marathon on TVLand.
