Now They've Shot Bugsy in the Other Eye

I am currently in my third day of an extended trip to Las Vegas. I usually don't post while on a lark, and am here only because of the miracle of Wifi. This entry is only being posted to waste time on Tuesday morning because I refuse to gamble in the A.M., with all the other diehards trying to get one last bet in before they depart. It's kind of creepy.

The gambling so far has been fairly neutral, so I am not in a vituperative mood, but I have one major observation--the casino is really going cheap. Yada yada, the economy and all, but really.

I am staying at the Flamingo, the hoary old gambling mecca founded in the '40s by Ben (Bugsy) Siegel. It has been expanded and revamped over the many decades, and I have stayed here during many of its incarnations. But somehow the life--and its retro appeal--are being squeezed out of it.

My current room assignment is, for lack of a better word, laughable. Granted, it is a comp room, reserved many months ago with a friend who is attending a seminar here. So we were sent away to the bowels of the hotel, a walk from the front desk that lasted nearly as long as the drive from Los Angeles. Here are some of the good things I can say about the room:

1. The thermosat works.

That's about it. I imagine there are worse rooms in Vegas, but I have rarely seen one so poorly appointed. To wit, there is was no welcome magazine, or pad or pencil when we arrived. (There is a Bible, of course, in case Sarah Palin should ever inspect the place). There is no sign that says "Do Not Disturb." When I tried to get one from a wandering housekeeper she sighed and said she had no idea where they were any more. Another more enterprising maid stuck a hole through a cardboard and wrote on it "No disturbo" for my benefit.

The light bulb on my desk is out. The pillows (only two small ones were provided) are the unpleasant feather variety that always has feather ends sticking out through the pillow case to puncture little holes in my cheeks. The bathtub drain plug is sitting in the soap dish. The sink drain plug doesn't work either. And the bathroom door squeaks so loudly that all the oil in the Gulf of Mexico couldn't remedy it. A coffee maker? Hah. The walls are as thin as crepe paper. The first night I listened to a lively argument next door and could hear every fucking word. And I mean that almost literally, for every other word was "fucking!"

The ice machine in the hallway doesn't work either. And did I mention the dead body in the hallway outside my door? Well, he wasn't really dead. Just a dead drunk snoozing at 9 P.M., whom we had to nudge to be sure that he was alive. Honestly, you'd think this area was reserved for prisoners who had been temporarily furloughed because of state budget cuts, and sent up here.

Okay, it's comped, so I get what I pay for. But why the petty cutbacks to the point of lunacy? The poor Harrah's company, which owns the Flamingo and all the properties on this part of the Strip, has to have made these spartan decisions to save a few cents on its bottom line. Is this penny-wise and pound foolish? Depends. Would I ever come back to stay at this hotel? Certainly not for a paying room. I might go to another Harrah's property, though, that is more accommodating, in which case Harrah's does not suffer. Except for its reputation.

To be fair to the hotel, its main casino and public areas displayed much better upkeep; the marble floors were always shiny, even if the elevators were scuffed up and in semi-disrepair. And the garden area, with the avian wildlife, was charming. The restaurants, though, were quite mediocre, and a small hamburger cafe called "The Burger Joint" served up the worst burger this side of the White Castle.

Addendum, after the trip: For all their penury the Flamingo did not profit from me. On an up-and-down gambling visit, all the big wins I got were at the Flamingo. But I still won't stay there again.