VEGAS INC Coverage
I was told — over and over again — that it was “indescribable,” “a place touched by the hand of God” and “nothing short of paradise.” These were the exact words (among others) my best friend Greg used when we were 18 years old to describe New Orleans as he tried to persuade me to visit him at Tulane University before I went off to a different school. Anyone who has met Greg knows one thing: He’s a helluva salesman.
As critical a thinker I fancied myself being, I was no match for Greg, who’s simply a force of nature. The picture he painted of New Orleans — a city I had, frankly, never shown any interest in visiting — was so profoundly laudatory, I went as far as imploring my buddy, Jay, to go with me. In an effort to save a whopping $19, Jay and I decided to take a Greyhound bus from Miami in lieu of flying. For those of you who have never attempted traveling via bus, let me set the scene: Hell. On. Earth. Jay and I scurried to the rear of the massive vehicle surrounded by what seemed to be all of Florida’s felony parole candidates. A full one-third of our fellow adventurers had trash bags instead of luggage. Trash bags. Oh, yes, this was going to be quite the journey. Twenty-eight interminable hours after departing Miami and barely surviving a bout with food poisoning as well as a serious death threat from a gentleman missing several fingers, we arrived in the Crescent City ready to be transported to Nirvana.
My first thought as Greg drove us toward campus and jabbered about his fraternity brothers and the amazing parties we would attend was this: New Orleans was disgusting. No other word fully captured what I was feeling. From the mountains of garbage on the side of the road to the general unkemptness of everyone I had encountered thus far, this city was far different from the spotless, freshly scrubbed existence I had just left in built-yesterday Miami. Everything was gray. Everyone was dirty. What the hell was Greg talking about when he said New Orleans was paradise?
Truth matters little to marketers, particularly effective ones. What Greg instinctively understood even then was that his objective was achieved (getting me to visit) by any and all means necessary. The facts will invariably work themselves out. And, of course, they did. Very soon after arriving in New Orleans, the city so completely captivated me that I, too, made it my home for the duration of my college years. So, yeah, Greg was right after all: N’awlins rocks da house.
Thinking about the sales pitch of important cities is an interesting exercise. With few exceptions, the places I’ve lived in and visited around the planet do — with varying degrees of success — reflect their advance hype. Is there any question that when someone lands in New York City that he’s now in the Big Apple or what it’s more recently dubbed, the Center of the Universe? When you’re in Paris, is it not the City of Lights? Miami is, undeniably, the Gateway to Latin America. San Francisco, America’s most beautiful city, bills itself as such. No debate here. Chicago’s Windy City status is trumped only by the more apropos tag of City of the Big Shoulders. Anyone who’s ever been to Sydney understands the Aussie pride in its Harbor City designation instantly. LA’s the City of Angels, Philly’s the City of Brotherly Love, Dallas’ the Big D. So, Las Vegas, the most scenically specific metropolis on the globe should be a relatively simple challenge for its savvy marketers, right? Not so much.
On the face of it, it’s not terribly unusual for locals to decry their hometown’s image. I lived in Manhattan for two decades and can count the times I actually went to tourist must-see destination Times Square on one hand (to say nothing of the outer boroughs). Miami was home for years and my out-of-town friends would consistently marvel at my otherworldly white skin and lack of tan (locals with careers don’t go to the beach nearly as often as one would imagine). And, yes, Las Vegans aren’t usually chillin’ with Jay-Z and Holly Madison at Marquee on Monday nights. But the single-mindedness of the adults-only playground marketing campaign the city’s salesmen have pushed so relentlessly for the better part of a decade has now crossed over into iconic status: Las Vegas is now, officially, where adults come to misbehave. Woo-hoo.
If the city’s marketing efforts were accurate and not so disingenuous, I’d be the first one cheering them on. But Las Vegas, alas, is master of the tease, the wink, the faux — the city’s only goal is to aggressively separate visitors from their money in appealing, candy-coated ways. Las Vegas is nothing short of a Disney theme park of adult vices and it (thankfully) pales in comparison to genuinely debauched cities. Have you not been on the streets of Hollywood, Montreal, Amsterdam, Atlanta, Mexico City, London, Barcelona and, yes, New Orleans after midnight? Las Vegas, by those other places’ standards of adult entertainment, seems exactly like Denver with more lights. But we can’t sell the community-first values of Denver, can we? So, there you have it. The pitch is then: Leave the kids at home and come make your own sequel to The Hangover.
No one’s going to decry any fruitful effort to get more people to Las Vegas. It would just be nice to see a glimmer of balance when selling this remarkably conservative desert town as something a little more substantial. Is that too much to ask for?
I can only imagine how Greg would try to give me the hard sell about Las Vegas now. “It’s the happiest place on Earth — I swear.” And with sincerest apologies to both Mickey and Minnie, that would finally be some truth in advertising. Woo-hoo, indeed.