Sunday, Feb. 25, 2007 | 7:24 a.m.
Debauchery. Mayhem. Blood on the walls. Hell on Earth. Well, not really, but give it a week and, my, how the legend has grown. Even for Las Vegas, it was a big weekend. There was the NBA All-Star Game and the three-day street party that came with it. There was Chinese New Year and thousands of serious gamblers being courted by casinos. There were political candidates holding rallies and trying to be celebrities. More than 300,000 people came to snarl traffic and 85,000 did it just for the NBA All-Star Game. And you, you sensible citizen you, probably gave the whole thing a miss and stayed home and read an improving book. But you've heard the stories. Maybe you're curious. As a public service, the Sun presents a look back on the weeken d that was.
Friday
12:15 p.m., Sahara Avenue and Paradise Road:
Alonzo Mourning, the Miami Heat's backup Shaq, is at a McDonald's to promote the new "honey mustard snack wraps." Outside in the parking lot, he sits down with a scruffy radio DJ and Ronald McDonald. "There's a lot of glitz and glam0.our that come with the game of basketball and Vegas is the perfect city for that," he says as bums cruise by to pick up free food samples.
Saturday
11:52 a.m., Bonanza Road and Lamb Boulevard:
"Town's crazy," a guy with graying shoulder-length hair says. "Yesterday, I saw Kevin Garnett."
John Edwards is running nearly an hour late, but it isn't bothering the crowd inside the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers Local 357. The 260 or so people run the ethnic gamut from Polish to Irish and have a median age of 55.
Edwards finally shows up and blames his tardiness on Las Vegas traffic. He says he would fix it as president. He laughs, ha-ha. Because presidents don't really do that. He knows. We know.
4-ish p.m., on the Strip, Near Harrah's:
Three young guys stop in the middle of the sidewalk, completely block a huge crowd of people and cluster around their friend in a wheelchair and smoke a joint.
The wet-dog-in-a-bakery smell of pot smoke clings to everything, like cologne to a gigolo.
The crowd in the streets would later be described in news reports as "young," "urban," or maybe "hip-hop," all of which tiptoe around race, class and culture. Probably the best adjective came from a black man in his early 30s wearing a stylish sweater and a pair of relaxed-fit jeans. "Man," he said to his friend, "this is 'ghetto fabulous.' "
The people who aren't moving slowly with the tide are partaking in the great recreational activity of All-Star Weekend: hanging out. Hanging over rails, sitting on planters, standing in casino doorways and drinking store-bought booze, slapping friends' hands and hailing the passing beauties with tender cries of unprintable love.
No one's cell phone is working, but the young, urban hip-hop revelers are relaxed and joshing. The danger comes from ballistic white people barreling down the boulevard with their eyes focused on the ground six inches in front of them. But no one bothers me, even though I'm square as a brick and wearing a twerpy necktie. When I drop my sunglasses, a guy picks them up, hollers, "Hey man," and hands them to me.
Most men on the street were wearing jeans with the back pockets sagging around the knees. Zip-up hoodies in brand-logo camouflage patterns. Dangling silver necklaces flashing with gemlike substances. Basketball jerseys, of course. Flat-billed baseball caps. Multicolored sneakers. Giant sunglasses.
Women's attire started with tight blue jeans with a modest top and descended to half-cheek hot pants with midriff-bearing crop top. But overall, it wasn't a crowd on which you would have wanted to bet serious money in a game of Spot the Hooker.
6:30 p.m., Fashion Show mall:
Crowds of men mill about, aimless and dazed. Gap Men's looks like the relic of an abandoned civilization.
But Gucci and Louis Vuitton are packed. Women are buying everything in sight, even the display pieces. Baker's Shoes has to close its doors and set up a line outside. A sign says the wait is 30 minutes.
7:10 p.m., outside the Mirage:
Traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard is moving like cooling lava, oozing slowly with bursting bubbles of profanity. Frustrated, exasperated drivers gun their engines and honk their horns trying to get out of the casinos and on the road.
But it does no good. Pedestrians have realized that a crowd of 80 can cross the street when it likes.
7:45 p.m., the Venetian:
In a corner outside the entrance to Tao nightclub, seven Metro officers huddle to discuss the evening.
"If there's shots fired, we go in," an older cop says. He points at the 15 NFL-sized men in matching black suits standing in front of Tao's entrance. "Otherwise, we let them deal with it."
9:45 p.m., Mandalay Bay Convention Center:
The hallway and the escalators by the ballroom are roped off to keep the riffraff out of the All-Star Gala. The riffraff are crowded around the ropes and pressing themselves against the escalator wall, straining, standing on tiptoes and holding children and camera phones aloft, snapping pictures and asking what there is to see.
Nothing. The escalator and the long hallway are empty.
11 p.m., Hard Rock Hotel:
Two parties are going on, one in the Joint and another more fabulous one in Body English, where celebrity famous person Paris Hilton is going to celebrate her birthday with a few hundred of her closest paying friends. Later in the evening the party is supposed to move upstairs to rock out with a monkey and a mostly midget cover band, Tiny Kiss.
Lines to both stretch to the casino entrance and no one is getting in even though the doors were supposed to open at 10. The shiny-clothes crowd is jostling and twitchy like a school of anchovies in a tiny aquarium.
Sunday
1 p.m., Clark County Government Center:
Sen. Barack Obama, D-Famous, has a warm-up band.
This just gives the crowd more time to mill about the grassy amphitheater. Obama's people say there are 3,800 people, but all rally crowds are counted by the guy who counts the votes in Cuba.
It's the crowd you always see in commercials about America and never see in America. It's happy and multiracial; fathers play catch with their children; old people wearing their Sunday best sit under umbrellas; earnest young people hold up homemade signs.
Metro came prepared with a half dozen cop cars, an ambulance and guys patrolling the rooftops with binoculars.
People gather around the path, holding up their kids and camera phones.
When Obama finally does come through the crowd (30 minutes late), he's greeted by loud cheers.
It's time, Obama says, to care. Politics without hope is hopeless, but America is all about hope. There's the American Revolution, the Constitution, abolition, women's suffrage, the civil rights movement, hard-working immigrants, the New Deal, JFK, man walking on the moon, and now he's running for president!
When he's done, Obama dives right into the crowd. He's in there working it for 20 minutes. He's unstoppable and if he can help it, no grandma will escape unhugged.
Finally Obama's handlers deploy the long nets and sticks and get their guy almost to the door - but he breaks free! He's spotted more grandmas!
"Oh my God," a flushed middle-aged white woman says. "He just looks so nice!"
3:30 p.m., the Venetian:
For two days, the concierge has given the wrong time for the lion dances, a rich historical ceremony honoring China's cultural traditions of gambling a lot.
Now the doorman says they've all been canceled.
Maybe someone decided this was the wrong weekend to light off firecrackers.
4:30 p.m., the Bellagio:
Asian tourists take pictures of a giant animatronic pig in the Bellagio's conservatory (it's the year of the pig). It twitches its ears and sniffs the air.
It smells money.
6 p.m., New York-New York:
People offer bribes and women in short skirts in an attempt to get into the ESPN Zone sports bar to watch the NBA All-Star Game. It's doing no good.
Every bar stool in the rest of the casino is taken. Every place to stand next to a bar stool is taken. Every slot machine within eyesight of a bar stool is taken. At the sports book, it's so bad that people bet on harness racing so they can get a seat.
6:30 p.m., outside the strip mall between the MGM Grand and the Aladdin:
The glitz! The glamour! The hey, what the heck did I just step in?
Oh, good, it's only the spilled goop from one of those plastic Eiffel Towers filled with booze slurpee.
Out here on this totally unreconstructed part of the Strip guys are hawking bootleg DVDs or standing around like they'd be willing to sell you something out of the plastic bags they're clutching if only you won't upset their large friends.
On the corner, a man in a fur coat is facing the crowd and has a woman leaning back against him. She looks bored out of her mind. He's making eye contact with everyone who passes by and rubbing his hand over the thigh and crotch of her jeans.
I am not sure if this is a commercial proposition or not.
8:30 p.m., Hard Rock Hotel:
If I leave now, I can totally skip the traffic and early morning strip club shootings.
In conclusion:
Maybe we can learn from Obama's message of hope and inclusion, especially here, in this brilliant new metropolis at the beginning of the 21st century, a city that draws millions of people from all over the world and invites them to dream big.
Maybe the old boundaries don't matter. It doesn't matter if you're black or white or Asian, if you're young or old, if you're rich or poor, if you're dressed in slacks or baggy jeans, or even if you're urban or suburban.
You look like a total goober drinking out of a plastic Eiffel Tower.
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