In case you’ve never been here, the Venetian hotel is a small-scale imitation of an artist's conception of an idealized version of Venice circa the 18th century. The pure depth of fakeness leads downwards and downwards and never seems to arrive at any “real” reference point. The Umberto Eco style hyper-reality is breathtaking when enhanced by the porno-circus of thousands of pairs of fake tits and suitcase pimps that have just descended upon this fake town built in the middle of a desert.
The doormen, cab-wranglers and limo herders in the Venetian lobby are dressed in period gondolier costumes: Striped black and white shirts, belts made of red ribbons, straw hats, etc. It’s all quaint and shit, but real Venetians gondoliers were the cabbies of their day, pretty low on the social scale, and as such it’s hard to imagine them engaging in the picturesque light opera that the Venetian’s employees entertain us with in the fume-choked area in front of the Venetian. Real Venetian gondoliers probably had more in common with the immigrant families that congregate outside the hotels on the Strip. Seen them? If you’re a single man walking down the street here, you can’t walk anywhere without being assaulted by gangs of various brown people snapping prostitute handbills at you—direct, street-level marketing of hookers. In spite of the flyers’ pitches, I somehow doubt the beautiful girls pictured on the brochures will show up to the mark’s room “in only 20 minutes!” I suspect a three hour wait for a less air-brushed streetwalker—think cranked-out teeth and poor hygiene and street attitude for days. All in all, the paper come-ons promise unbelievable carnal delight, but deliver the unique frustration felt exclusively by Midwestern rubes on vacation who have no idea of how to procure a quality whore in Las Vegas.
Of course, the immigrant families aren’t welcome in the Venetian to ply their unique trade. The hotel prefers idealized version of the underclass-- real poverty might encourage guests to hand over a few bucks instead of dropping them in a slot machine. Unless they find some way to Disney-fie the suffering of the Las Vegas lower class, they’ll be kept out of sight of the relatively well-heeled middleclass clientele of the Venetian Hotel and Casino.
“The gondoliers of Venice were the keepers of secrets,” our cab-caller told me while herding me and fellow AVN Online Associate Editor Rebecca Gray into our hired ride to some strip club. “The virtues of the women of Italy were protected by the gondoliers,” he added.
