The next time I stay in Vegas, whether en route to the spa or because S.B. has decided to switch careers and become a world champion hold 'em player (it could happen), I am so not staying at the Tropicana.
Yes, it's cheaper than a two dollar hooker. Yes, it's five minutes from the airport and a short cab ride to the Venetian. It's also older than death, with dimly lit rooms redolent of eau de unwashed bod and perpetually soggy carpets. Which would explain the mold and mildew on the window sills despite the Mojave heat.
Which would also explain why, for instance, the average Tropicana guest resembles the middle aged couple I encountered while hustling to my room Thursday afternoon. Dressed in matching over-sized NASCAR tee shirts and brightly colored turquoise flip flops, she was tottering on unsteady legs towards the sports book room while her husband shadow-boxed her from behind, mocking her ungainly gait with a steady flow of farting soundings and phlegm-coated gawfaws. Niiiiiiiice.
So, no. No more Tropicana for moi.
No, this is where I'd rather stay:
Just look at it. In a town where the architecture is as overblown as an entire troop of starlet boob jobs, the Wynn is a marvel of understated design cool. Its vibe is both modern and retro, '60's Brat Pack meets 00's Hollywood on a bender. In Givenchy and heels. It would never dare to scream and shout, but instead beckons with a throaty, come hither whisper, Jane Russell entering from stage left to douse with her hothouse brunette elan Marilyn Monroe’s exhausting champagne bubble charm.
If it is possible to be in love with a building then I'm in über lust with the Wynn.
My pocketbook, alas, remains firmly entrenched in Tropicana territory.
If, however, you would like to prevent me from having to endure soggy carpet and farting patrons next year, please feel free to send positive vibes and cold hard cash to:
The Fund to Send Moi to the Wynn
Cash, check, charge, and PayPal accepted. We have one year, party people. Let's make it happen.