The Nation celebrates capitalism in spite of itself

Marc Cooper’s essay in The Nation on Las Vegas takes the requisite number of poshots at the American variety of capitalism. That said, it’s impossible for Cooper to hide his sneaking admiration for the place. Some highlights:

This city is often described as one of dreams and fantasy, of tinselish make-believe. But this is getting it backward. Vegas is instead the American market ethic stripped bare, a mini-world totally free of the pretenses and protocols of modern consumer capitalism. As one local gambling researcher says gleefully: “What other city in America puts up giant roadside billboards promoting 97 percent guaranteed payback on slot play? In other words, you give us a buck and we’ll give you back 97 cents. That’s why I love my hometown.” Even that stomach-churning instant when the last chip is swept away can be charged with an existential frisson. Maybe that’s why they say that the difference between praying here and praying anywhere else is that here you really mean it. All the previous hours of over-the-table chitchat, of know-it-all exchanges between the ice-cool dealer and the cynical writer from the big city, the kibitzing with the T-shirted rubes and the open-shirted sharpies to my right and left, the false promises of the coins clanging into the trays behind me, the little stories I tell myself while my stack of chips shrinks and swells and then shrivels some more–all of this comes to an abrupt, crashing halt when the last chip goes back in the dealer’s tray. “No seats for the onlookers, sir.” And the other players at the table–the dealer who a moment ago was my buddy, the solicitous pit boss, the guy from Iowa in short khakis and topsiders peering over my shoulder–no longer give a fuck whether I live or die. And while winning is always better, it’s even in moments of loss like this that I feel a certain perverse thrill. It’s one of the few totally honest interludes you can have in modern America. All the pretense, all the sentimentality, the euphemisms, hypocrisies, come-ons, loss leaders, warranties and guarantees, all the fairy tales are out the window. You’re out of money? OK, good–now get lost. In a city where the only currency is currency, there is a table-level democracy of luck. Las Vegas is perhaps the most color-blind, class-free place in America. As long as your cash or credit line holds out, no one gives a damn about your race, gender, national origin, sexual orientation, address, family lineage, voter registration or even your criminal arrest record. As long as you have chips on the table, Vegas deftly casts you as the star in an around-the-clock extravaganza. For all of America’s manifold unfulfilled promises of upward mobility, Vegas is the only place guaranteed to come through–even if it’s for a fleeting weekend. You may never, in fact, surpass the Joneses, but with the two-night, three-day special at the Sahara, buffet and show included, free valet parking and maybe a comped breakfast at the coffee shop, you can certainly live like them for seventy-two hours–while never having to as much as change out of your flip-flops, tank top or NASCAR cap.

UPDATE: Megan McArdle points out that New York can rival Vegas in the area of conspicuous consumption.