Don Your Nicest Sweatsuit For the Funeral

When I got out of college and was driving to California to try my hand as a movie writer, I stopped overnight in Las Vegas.  I had never been there before.  I pulled off the freeway and onto the strip and stayed at the first place that had a name I recognized: The Stardust.  I paid $6 for my room, which was out back of the casino in a low-slung, two story, motel-style buildings.  I ate a $2 gambler's buffet and lost $40 playing at the $2 blackjack tables.  The next morning I left just after dawn to pursue my show business dreams.

The Stardust Hotel, a fixture on the strip almost since the strip's inception, will be blown-up this week. 

The Stardust is one of the few leftovers from the era when Vegas was glamorous and exotic, something more than a shopping mall with slots and mobile home parking available. 

``We wore long dresses and gloves for dinner, Jackie Onassis-type things,'' said Jill Rader, who danced on the Stardust stage. ``Now people slop on through, and they look a mess.''

It's been a few years since I was in Vegas, but last time I was there I spent most of my time feeling like I was walking around the Parallel Universe Galleria.  I was there for three days and didn't see a single mob guy.  Gangsters, yeah.  There were plenty of those, in from L.A. in their pimped-out rides.  But no mob guys.

Mostly, there were middle class Americans having less fun than they were pretending.  That's how Vegas has always struck me.  It's a great place to spend 48 hours.  Any more than that is pointless.

Blow the whole damned place up, I say.  But leave the golf courses.