Why Sinatra matters

As big as a fan as my father was of Ol’ Blue Eyes, he hated the early Sinatra—the skinny one that wore polka dot ties and made young girls swoon. The guy he admired was the reinvented Frank, the man’s man, the one who boozed and womanized and hung out with mobsters.

The evolution of Las Vegas, it seems to me, is the same—only in reverse. Vegas started out as a later day Sinatra. Men loved it—the open sexuality, the hooch, the smoky crap tables, the danger. Back then gourmet meant a 99 cent shrimp cocktail served in a sundae glass at the Golden Gate Casino and shopping meant a stop at the Bonanza Gift and Souvenir Shop, across from the Sahara, for good deals on Jim Beam.

Now you can take your honey to Charlie Palmer’s Aureole at Mandalay Bay and drop a small fortune and then let her try on a $150,000 cocktail ring at Tiffany’s. In other words, they’ve cleaned Vegas up, stuck him in a monkey suit, combed his unruly hair, and asked him to sing an aria in front of the Bellagio fountains. Women may be momentarily dazzled into thinking Vegas is charming these days, but to me it’s really just a grand illusion, for in its heart of hearts, Vegas is still Vegas—a place where a guy like me goes because it’s quarter to three and there’s nobody here but you and me.