Las Vegas is Hell.

But everybody is happy here.

Maybe that's what Hell is like. You're sent here after you die and everybody walks around with a drink in their hand, a cigarette and a perpetual smile.

I'm staying at the Cosmopolitan Hotel on the strip, it is only 6 months old and wedged next door to the Bellagio.  It is sold out this weekend. You can't get a room here. There is a Rage going on, there is a World Poker Tour going on. I desperately want to walk to Caesars Palace which I can see from my hotel room window but it's 106 degrees out. Hell is hot, in case you haven't heard. And they don't have a shuttle to take me from here to there.

So I am imprisoned in my air-conditioned hotel like some old fashioned Rapunzel. I sit on the sophisticated sofa in the bar and sip my wine and watch everybody who has been sent to Hell walk by. Girls who all dress like prostitutes and their boys all dressed like their Johns.  They all carry a water bottle, or booze or a Red Bull. Even middle-aged women with mustaches and limping from their aching hips look happy. 

I am like a female Forest Gump all weekend.  I have questions.

"How do I work this slot machine?"

"How do I use this 21st century ATM?"

"Why are you charging me $42.78 for breakfast?"

"Why am I so cold and it's 106 outside?"

Customer service in Hell is very nice. They want my money and realize they must be very, very nice to me in order for me to redistribute it to them. And it works like a charm. I am now broke. Are you happy Las Vegas?

Thursday night I was winning on the $1 slot machine. The cocktail waitress handed me a wine and then waited with her hand on her hip.

"Oh. I'm supposed to tip you, right?" I asked. ["Life is like a box of chocolates...."] She smiled and waited. I gave her $2.00 and then she let me go back to giving the hotel more of my money. That was nice of her, wasn't it?

The Europeans, and there are a lot of them here, love Las Vegas. They smile and fall backwards knowing some nice American will catch them when they fall. This isn't the America of churches and families and well-brought up teenagers, or smoking outside only. This reminds them of home.  

When my Scottish relatives visit, they are stunned at how nice Americans are and especially the children and teenagers. 

"In England, they are all on heroin or vomiting in the gutters. They curse at you. You are all so nice here, " my aunt from Glasgow almost weeps.  

I shiver in the air conditioning and watch Dante's humanity trudge by me. All colors and nationalities, bathing suits, sundresses, hats. Gleaming earrings, bracelets, necklaces. The girls have perfect butts and high heels. The boys push out their chests and would beat them if that wasn't considered too weird.

The music is loud and unending, something you just knew Hell would be like. You can't hear anybody in Hell. The music covers the cacophony of screams, dreams, laughter and bells going off on the slot machines. You scream at each other over dinner and at the waiters. Unending thump of music, smoke, dark labyrinths that wind through bars and slot machines and Black Jack dealers that stand like statues at their tables, waiting for the next victim. Hell is a place where you bring your money and it evaporates before your eyes.

My card key stopped working. Twice hotel workers just let themselves in my room while I was in there. Everybody gets 18% gratuity whether they provide good service or not. Yes Hell is a clever design.

I'm here to tell you, as one who is allowed to leave. It's Hell here. Do your best to avoid coming.