Surf and Turf

The differences between San Francisco and Las Vegas are, if not abundantly subtle, transparently clear. Both are islands of a kind, one being surrounded by water on three sides while the other stands out like a shiny trinket amid a vast wasteland of sand. You sink or swim in one town. In the other, you begin to wither from extreme exposure the minute you arrive and end up crawling to survive for the remainder of your stay.

Vegas could only be built in the middle of a desert. Everything is truly a mirage. As my plane taxis down the runway toward the terminal, the hotel where I am staying appears right over the fence and down the street. God isn't that great. Everything is so close by. Wrong. Once in the cab, it takes an agonizingly slow ten minutes as we drive eight miles to reach my seemingly nearby destination at Mandalay Bay. Only as we approach it, do I realize the epic scale of the structure. It is 64-stories tall, which would make it the tallest building in San Francisco by a considerable height. By contrast, along the Vegas Strip it's only slightly above the local average.

The valet graciously opens my cab door greeting me as I fumble through a stack of small bills for the driver. Standing at the registration desk, a tour guide from Denver leads a group of jack Mormons through reception. At least this is my educated guess, since the men have all been attired from a Sears Roebuck catalog and each are trailed by their own individual harems not of the local pay-for-play variety. After checking into my suite, which at a luxurious 800 square feet for only $109 seems criminal, I change into a swim suit and head down to the pool area to meet two college friends I haven't seen in close to 30-years.

Referring to Mandalay Bay's outdoor water facilities as a "pool area" is like calling the Taj Mahal a building. About a thousand bronzed and tightly toned figures lie on chaises in the whitest sand I've ever beach combed around a man-made oasis with a gentle three foot swell breaking about every minute. Surrounding the lagoon are several enclosed palm fringed pool areas with naughty laughter emanating from private cabanas. Promenading through the maze of endless rows of beach goers, I feel the constant gazes of people eyeballing me, checking to see whether I am someone famous. No celebrities today. Only celebrity seekers. After I pass, their disappointed looks return to their Star magazines.

I spot my friend in the distance. He holds his cell phone against his ear and waves to me with a rakish grin. His fit physique does not jibe with my memories of a doughy college student. Mike is now a sought after film producer in Hollywood who in recent years has hit his full stride. Perhaps, he is not quite an A-list producer, but, with a beautiful former soap opera star for a wife and two young healthy children at home, he has a good life and he knows it. He reaches out confidently to shake my hand with a firm, but relaxed grip. No wonder the fucker has a beautiful golf swing.

"TJ," he tees off. "It's been far too long." Hell of a back swing I think. Damn near perfect form. Mike adjusts the USC golf cap shading his piercing blue eyes.

"Forget it," I reply skipping a beat. "It's Vegas."