What happens in Vegas . . . oh, who cares?

I was in Las Vegas this week at a self-storage trade show and expo, and the scene was surreal. I’d never been to Vegas before, and I was looking forward to the kitsch of it all, sure that I’d have a photographic field day with the place. As Boo Radley and I pulled into Vegas Wednesday night, I actually said aloud, “Oh god, the excess.” I don’t think I’m a prude (I’m the same person who thinks Los Angeles is about the closest thing to heaven on Earth), but every time I stepped outside in that town, I felt like I needed to take a shower.

Though the trade show was being held at the Sands Expo Center, which is attached to the Venetian, I opted for the lower-cost Westin, about a mile away. Still a nice hotel. (I grew up staying in places like the Four Seasons, the Ritz-Carlton, and the Drake—my mom’s idea of camping was the Holiday Inn—but the past 10 or 15 years it’s been Motel 6 and the Best Western all the way.) I checked in, got my luggage, and on the way to the elevators, Boo shit on the lobby’s marble floor. Apparently, his opinion of Vegas was in line with my own.

I walked the mile to the Sands on Thursday morning, toting a luggage cart with two boxes of prints, plus my portfolio box and my computer bag. Not a smart move. When I got there, I stood around for about 45 minutes while people tried to figure out where to find the table, chair, and easels that I had been promised. As soon as they arrived, I reached into my box to pull out my first framed print and sliced open my finger on the metal of the picture frame. It’s not like I’ve never cut myself before, and I wasn’t too concerned, but as I wandered around trying to find something, anything, to wrap around my finger (paper towel, rag), the blood eventually covered my hand and started running down my arm. I finally found the bathroom, where three or four ladies gasped when I walked in looking as though I’d just botched a suicide attempt.

Band-Aid in place, I was back at my skirted table with the white plastic table cover, fielding questions from trade-show attendees about my work. Several people took photos of my photos with their cell phones, and when I stopped the first one, he said, “Oh, I was just really admiring the paneling on the side of that building there.” This was the tone of the remainder of the event, and from there on out, I didn’t question people who took photographs. To be fair, they were there to gather practical advice about building and running a self-storage facility, so anything even resembling art was as out of place at the Sands as Boo Radley was on the Strip. I talked to several people who were really interested in having me photograph their places and were enthusiastic about the project. Truly nice people. One guy from L.A. wanted to let me photograph his place in exchange for my providing him with the negatives for him to use in advertising. (Don’t worry, John Harrington. I didn’t bite.) Two guys who were obviously brothers, if not twins, read my project statement, laughed, and said, “Good luck with that.”

You can’t really take yourself too seriously in Vegas.

Thursday afternoon I spent an hour in an urgent-care place to get the tetanus shot that I was due to get anyway this year. (Better safe than sorry.) And that night, Boo and I walked down to the Bellagio and back, just to see the famous water display out front. He was amazingly good there on the Strip and only tried to herd people (i.e., bite their ankles) a few times.

Friday morning I walked through the Venetian on the way to the Sands, past the “Grand Canal” and by a group of singing “gondoliers.” If I’d chosen to stay in the Venetian, I’d have paid $259 per night (that was the reduced rate for conference attendees), or a total of $518 before taxes and fees. I stayed in Venice, Italy, for a few nights and paid less than that for a lovely little room in a pensione. What the hell is wrong with Americans? That’s all I could think—and that’s when I knew it was time I got back to California. (And they say Los Angeles is fake.)

I cut out a little early on Friday and though I wasn’t back in Santa Barbara until 9:30 p.m., I started to feel at home once I got past Pasadena and into Glendale and Burbank and Studio City. My mood picked up markedly when I saw the ocean, and I don’t think there’s any danger of my hitting Vegas again anytime soon.