At first glance, Las Vegas isn't that different from Los Angeles. Outside of The Strip, most of Vegas looks like the bulk of Southern California, a dry wasteland that is a city but doesn't really look the way that cities should. Even the housing tracks are identical to those in Southern California, painted in some variation of beige and topped with a Spanish tile roof. Culturally, though, Vegas is akin to a foreign country. Having never been to Vegas before this weekend, I didn't realize how different it was until we went to breakfast Sunday morning.
"Smoking or non?" asked the hostess at the breakfast joint inside the Hard Rock Casino.
I stared at her with confusion. Wait, I have an option?
"Either is fine," my friend and I answered.
After breakfast, we caught a cab back to the Stadium. Our driver was from San Diego. After talking to cabbies all weekend, I came to the conclusion that no one in Vegas is really from Vegas. They are all California kids who escaped.
At the stadium, I took another jolt of culture shock when we passed a vendor selling beer in the parking lot and people openly drinking in areas that weren't designated bars. For being such a supposedly liberal state, Californians are apparently extremely uptight. No wonder everyone (save for yours truly) heads up to Vegas frequently.
The one thing that doesn't seem to fly in Vegas is bringing an unconcealed three foot bong into a concert. The hippie in front of us learned this lesson after arguing with the security guard, "But, I thought I could bring it in!"
We arrived on Sunday just in time to see Band of Horses, who did dedicate a song to the pot smokers in the crowd. The girl with "Legalize it!" scrawled across her belly screamed with glee. Let's be honest here, pot smoke and rock concerts go hand-in-hand, but no rock concert brings out the weed whackers like weekend festivals featuring performances from a plethora of jam bands, including Widespread Panic and Trey & Phil (for the Phish Heads out there).
While I really enjoyed Band of Horses set, my day, nay my heart, was stolen by Jamie Lidell. Watching him sample his voice to turn it into the beats and then bust out some of the best soul vocals heard outside of a mod club soundsystem was an experience. In the back, I noticed a girl no older than five standing between her parents. She was an adorable little girl with tightly-curled pigtails and dressed in dalmation print pants, a sweater and a newsboy cap and she danced on beat to all of Lidell's set.
Here's a picture of Lidell:

Afterward, I ran over to see Matt Costa, who I was set to interview later that day. Then I tried to call his publicist so that we could arrange a meeting spot. My calls weren't connecting. I sent a text message and then tried to call my my friend, from whom I was separated. Again, I couldn't connect. I tried to reboot my phone and the battery flatlined, despite being charged that morning.
I looked around for the press area, tried to find some phones to place some calls to straighten out the interviews and then sat in the press area for the bulk of the day so that I wouldn't miss anyone. I did miss a meeting with another band, who had left a message for me when the phone died to ask if they could move up the interview.
Hours later, when I was finally able to place a call and learned that the other interview wasn't going to happen, I headed back out to the field to catch Ben Folds and then Jim James. Then my friend and I caught a cab from another friendly driver. He explained the odd smell in the cab (his previous customers, also heading back from Vegoose asked if it was cool to smoke in the car and he answered in the affirmative). He then told us about how he loved the Vegoose crowd, how it was different from the usual "suit and evening gown" crowd in Vegas that never treat the cab drivers as well as the freaky kids do. (Thanks to the dead phone, I didn't get to take pictures of the standout Halloween costumes, like the Oompa Loompa and the Double Dare Blue Team.)
After returning to hotel, we caught a shuttle down to The Strip.
No words or pictures can truly capture the garishness of The Strip. In order to truly feel it, you have to go yourself and walk across that bridge connecting Ceasar's Palace to the Bellagio while trying to brush aside the drunk college boys who slur, "Hey, babes, want to party!"
We walked into the Bellagio and I wiped the drool from my mouth while subtlely fingering the items inside Chanel, Dior and Hermes as if I could actually afford to shop inside those stores. Then we headed over to Paris, on the way collecting what will be known heretoforth as hooker trading cards (though I wish I coined that line, I didn't) from teenage boys. These are the baseball card-sized flyers that advertise Wendy's starting rate and two for one specials that are guaranteed to leave customers "satisfied."
I'm not really sure what to make of the hooker trading cards. Maybe it's supposed to give a classier, or at least cleanlier, image to prostitution. However, I can't imagine it being much different as walking the streets of Hollywood. In fact, I wonder if the potential for abuse is actually greater when you are advertised as a "2 for 1" special and then farmed out to bachelor parties.
We decided to check out Paris, which was extremely disorienting with its faux morning sky ceilings and winding maze of faux cobblestone French storefronts. Whatever restaurant we found was excellent.
We left through Bally's and tried to find the cab line. Some guy in a white SUV offered to give us a ride to our hotel for $10. Yeah, like we would spend twice the amount of fare to the hotel so that we could get into a vehicle that is not a licensed cab and run the risk of being sold off to some Las Vegas brothel.
This morning, we caught the shuttle with some guys who were still drinking their Budweisers in the van. The lines at McCarran International Airport and the wait for the flight were longer than the flight itself. I waited it out in the smoking lounge with a guy from San Antonio who was out for Vegoose and referred to my Parliaments at P-Funks and a girl from Orange County who flew out Sunday to see "The Cheese" (String Cheese Incident) play as part of the Vegoose nighttime events. We exchanged our stories of Vegas madness and I learned that even if I'm not really a Vegas sort of person (I prefer dirty streets, old buildings and warehouse parties), it is fun. I might do it again.