Gawk Like an Egyptian

In the recent George Clooney vehicle, “Up in the Air”, his character, Ryan Bingham, says of the Luxor Hotel: “That place? It’s a shithole. Nobody stays there.”

Well, I beg to differ. I’ve been gracing the place with my presence for the past five nights. And while it might be a shithole, it’s an incredible, ancient wonder-themed shithole, and one of the strangest places I’ve ever dossed in.

I’d finally quit the Strat and was all set to quit Vegas too, until I spotted the Luxor’s “sphynx-tastic” $40 blowout sale. OK, so it was actually $40 plus taxes, resort fees, and separate taxes on top of the fees, but it’s still not a bad price to stay at a genuine mock up of Pharaoh’s tomb where the likes of Paris and Lindsay have been known to get trashed.

For those unfamiliar with the place, it’s a huge dark pyramid on the Vegas Strip, which lights up at night. It’s guarded by a massive stone Sphinx that’s larger than the one in Giza, and its elevators slant up the sides of the building. My crappy phone pics don’t do it justice, so here’s a couple I nicked from the web.

Like the Strat, the Luxor can afford to charge its guests a temptingly low rate because it’s so adept at fleecing them once they’ve checked in. Indeed, it could probably afford to pay its guests to stay here, and still come out on top. As an example, a plain bagel cost $15 via room service. An acceptable price for King Tut, perhaps, but a little pricey for an average non-Pharoahic guest.

Although it advertises itself as a 24-hour resort, the Luxor’s pools, gym and spa all close before dusk. In fact, there’s nothing much to do after 8.00 pm except drink and gamble. The exits are nigh-on impossible to locate without the help of Howard Carter and a full exploration team, and you can’t get anywhere – even the lobby – without straying into the labyrinth of slots. The “early bird” $6.99 full breakfast, served between 4am and 6am, provides an incentive to gamble until four, especially for those whose judgment is clouded by booze. Since the bars stay open all night there are plenty of those.

Like its counterpart in Egypt, the Luxor in Vegas is full of corpses. It’s currently housing a version of the “Bodies” exhibition, a rip off of Gunther von Hagens’s “Body Works”. The success of these modern-day freak shows – there are at least fifty now on display in major cities across the world – means that the demand for pickled corpses is on the increase.
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Fearing that a modern day Burke and Hare could be at work, I avoided the exhibition area at night. I skipped it in the daytime too, having previously visited the New York version. When you’ve seen one partially peeled corpse in the process of chucking a frisbee, you’ve seen them all, right?

When you finally get out of the hotel, Vegas is full of enticements. This one sounded like a great deal. Do you think there could be a hidden catch?

…and this just can’t be true – can it?

Finally tired of the bright lights and hollow promises, my last days in Sin City were spent in the considerably less glitzy surrounds of the Crown and Anchor, a British hangout a couple of miles off the Strip. This hotbed of Anglo-themed seediness features miserable-looking waitresses in low cut tops and short kilts serving a predominantly OAP crowd. Football, English beers and stingy portions of fish and chips are the order of the day here. Two-day-old Daily Mails can be had for a mere $3.50.

Actually it wasn’t half bad. I doubt anywhere else in city was showing Rotherham v Aldershot live.

The Crown and Anchor was my last port of call before I finally got my shit together and headed out into the Mojave desert. Earlier, a concerned Jang had called, urging me to check the oil, fluids, air pressure and god knows what else before venturing into the hundred-degree heat. But after two pints of Kronenberg and a meat pie, I decided that the best course of action was to stick on some loud music and leave my fate to the car gods.

So onwards to LA. home to George Michael’s infamous “cottaging khasi” and the Alhambra mansion where deranged record producer Phil Specter inflicted the ultimate a “wall of sound” on wannabee starlet Lana Clarkson.

“Hugh Grant Hooker” Divine Brown still calls this town home, and former residents include Charles Bukowski, Charles Manson and OJ Simpson. LA is home to a raft of pulp detectives from Marlow to Bosch, and its traffic and smog are famous across the globe. Like New Orleans, it exists as a concept in the consciousness of the world, and I’m quite excited about my visit.