One man's ceiling is another man's floor

I wonder what’s happening in other parts of the world. You know, where folks aren’t buried under eight feet of snow, public transportation’s running at full capacity and hey, sidewalks aren’t competing against the White Mountain’s Flume Slide Trail to see which is least navigable.

Since we had a blizzard free weekend our Sunday Globe was actually delivered. Yea! Frankly, I’m amazed the driver made it through at all.

 In the travel section, Christopher Muther felt the need to defend Vegas or maybe he just needed to sell an article to pay his gambling debts.

In defense of Sin City by Christopher Muther

Tell someone you’re going to Las Vegas, and you can immediately read their thoughts before they say a word. If they grin, it means they like Vegas. If they frown, it indicates they’re jealous you’re going.
If the mouth remains still, not even a twitch, then the message is a clear: “I don’t like Las Vegas and I don’t understand why you’re going.”

That'd be me in the last group. I don't gamble and, in fact, find the whole business bizarre. For those of us without a mega excess of cabbage it's wickedly irresponsible—not unlike heroin. Great once or on rare occasion but who amongst us has the kind of will power to stop—to get while the gettin's good?

I'm not keen on seeing  Sinatra, Elvis and Michael Jackson impersonators or nostalgia acts (Air Supply and The Lettermen? no thanks). If I want to see Blue Man Group, well, they're here in Boston. If I want to see an art exhibit, I'll go to the MFA or Newbury Street. Marvel Universe Live? I'll go to a comicon. Magic shows? Eh, not my thing. Comedy—specifically Wayne Brady? Awesome BUT I'd have to see a video with closed captioning. I don't imagine his shows are 'terped.

I've a friend who goes to Vegas once a year for a long weekend. He and his wife are educated, smart and wealthy. They could go anywhere—sky's the limit! So, why Vegas? They're not averse to a bit of Blackjack and they enjoy, in an arch sort of way, the nostalgia acts and impersonators. The whole over the top, neon lit gimcrackery of the London Eye, the Eiffel Tower, the pyramid and Venetian canal repros amuses them. They've seen the real ones—the oddness, the glowing weirdness of these in the American desert makes them grin and smirk.

 They know it's nothing more than a tacky, carnival burlesque done mammoth with neon (no, more neon. Now add more) and that's precisely its appeal.

I've come to accept that, while this'll never, ever be my bag, for a lot of folks it's a good time and vaca bucks well spent. No, no, I take it back. It still mystifies me. I could see going if, and only if, someone gave me an all expenses paid trip (plus mega spending spondulix). OK, OK, not even then. If someone gave me enough for a weekend in Vegas, I'd want to take that dough down to New York—have a weekend of dining, people watching, art gallery hopping and museum haunting. OR a weekend at The Blue Lagoon outside of Reykjavik. Oh yeah, two days soaking in the hot springs, hanging in the brill lounge and sketching my fellow spa-mates, sounds like total bliss.

*shrugs*

One man's ceiling is another man's floor.

And shit.