Las Vegas? Moi? I felt it was just a shade whimsical when my boss dispatched me to determine whether readers of my ilk (a spoiled, self-indulgent, orally fixated, congenitally paranoid New Yorker) want to . . . need to . . . ought to take a bite of the new, New Las Vegas. Not the bring-the-family Las Vegas but the luxury-resort (fuhgeddabout-the-gambling) Vegas that might actually tempt our fancy. Sorry, I’m too tight to gamble. Isn’t it enough I gamble my digestive equilibrium every night to protect yours? I write for sensualists and sybarites, not for masochistic dreamers.

Vegas. I love it. Love the sleaze, the glitz, the cheese. I was born for this marble-bidet-and-high-tech pampering. Born to wallow in the old-style breakfast buffets. Love both "Mystère" and "O," haunting works by Cirque du Soleil. Love the theme parks. Love the Liberace Museum and the view from my aerie up Las Vegas Boulevard with the Chrysler Building tucked behind the Eiffel Tower and volcanoes exploding every fifteen minutes. I thought dancing waters leaping orgasmically into the air every twenty minutes would be hopelessly corny. In fact, the H2O chorus line is stirring, cooling, witty, especially if you’re outside and can hear the music. And don’t let me forget entertainment. It’s a smorgasbord, too: Blue Man Group, Tommy Tune in EFX, classic Vegas showgirls, Flamingo’s afternoon topless show, the Temptations, Tina Turner. Las Vegas is loyal too. Jerry Lewis just signed a twenty-year contract with the Orleans. He intends to live longer than George Burns.

I hate Las Vegas, too. Hate the inexplicable hour wait for bags to tumble off the carousel at this small-time airport. Panicking at the creeping hotel check-in lines, I flee to the VIP check-in, hoping somehow to be recognized as a VIP even though I’m trying to be anonymous. Not that Las Vegas knows from Manhattan status. Dedicated gamblers are the VIPs here. High rollers get flown in free, are comped into posh suites our money can’t buy, and eat shark’s fin and foie gras on the house. And spare me the cabbies, so friendly, so folksy, till suddenly they turn into crocodiles. ("You call this a tip?!" "I haven’t got change, so I’ll just keep your three bucks.")

Actually, it takes me 48 hours to find my Las Vegas mind-set. Have I wandered into the bar scene of Star Wars? Wherever I go, I find myself elbowing dawdling women and too-friendly children, crushing toes with my lethally loaded Tumi to break a path through the oncoming horde. Nothing quite prepared me for how fat Americans are. Or for the wardrobes: Seventy-year-old flab in cutoffs and camisoles, hairy backs in turquoise tanks. Scary.