Every December, I get this idea that I’m gonna walk the length of the Las Vegas Strip and take pictures of each casino’s Christmas tree.
My hope is that someday, when I look back at the collection of photos, the cumulative results will reveal a powerful spectrum, spotlighting dated decorative styles and widely-varying degrees of holiday cheer.
I didn’t say it was a great idea, but I still do it, every year.
My annual hike begins at Mandalay Bay, on the southern end of the strip. My goal is to capture the general gist of every major casino’s holiday decorations situation. In total, there are about 40 casinos, between Las Vegas Boulevard (The Strip) and downtown’s Fremont Street Experience.
I don’t always get to them all in one day. Some years, it takes me two or three walks to photograph all of the trees. Eventually, I make my way the whole six miles from the start of the strip to downtown.
It’s purposely not easy to do.
Confusing, polluted sidewalks and mal-intentioned mechanical people-movers subtly shovel befuddled guests in exactly one direction, directly into the casinos.
Endless, winding walkways spin visitors into the plush, drunken-patterned carpeting of the luxury resort-disguised slot palace / retail malls.
Outside, suspiciously decommissioned escalators do the same.
“Just get ‘em in the doors… the blinking lights and free drinks’ll do the rest.”
The date of this year’s walk is December 8, 2023.
My girl told me she’d give me a lift to my journey’s trailhead, Mandalay Bay, the first stop of my yearly, winter ritual. Inconveniently, traffic came to a dead halt, just before reaching our destination. In the distance, ribbons of emergency vehicle lights stop traffic, swirling around, red, blue, and white.
“Somebody said the president’s in town.”
“I’m gonna just hop out here, so it’s easy for you to turn around.”
I hopped out and walked the last couple of hundred yards, to the corner of Giles Avenue and Las Vegas Boulevard.
I realize where I am standing.
“Oh damn.”
Up, and to my left, is the hotel guest room tower where, on October 1, 2017, from the 32nd floor, 64 year old gunman, Stephen Paddock, fired over 1,000 rounds into the Route 91 Harvest music festival below, killing 60 people and wounding over 400 more.
Paddock died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, concluding what is still America’s deadliest mass shooting.
The revelation of my location hit rather heavily.
Heartbreakingly, two days earlier, on December 6, 2023, 67 year old Anthony Polito used a firearm to kill three UNLV faculty members, just up the road from my home.
Only five days before that, on December 1, 2023, a still-at-large shooter shot five unhoused people on East Charleston Boulevard, over by 95. One dead, four wounded. This kind of thing is starting to happen all over, not just in Vegas.
Like this city hadn’t already been through enough this month, a third gun-related tragedy took place just two days after I went on this walk.
It kills me how many choose to punch down. Or that any of us ever feel the need to punch at all.
Now, there on the corner, I am able to see the cause of the blinking light commotion that my partner had correctly guessed as a motorcade. Although not caused by Dark Brandon, the lights were from a procession, nonetheless.
Mandalay Bay’s massive, front lawn jumbotron displays the portrait and remembrance of a State Trooper who, along with his partner, was killed by a hit-and-run driver, about a week earlier, on the night of November 30.
Officers have shut down Las Vegas Boulevard as the miles-long vehicular memorial slowly memorializes its way down the strip. They’re not letting anybody cross the street until it’s over.
Waiting with me, on the corner, two glamorously dripped women, peppered with designer French accessories. The taller of the two is staring skyward towards the pyramid, delicately gripping the handle of her Supreme x Rimowa rolling suitcase.
Both women appear to have knowledge of expensive and extensive moisturization regiments. It gets so dry out here. I am envious and intrigued, curious about their lotions.
I motion to my camera, communicating that I’d like to take their picture. They both pose instantly and smile. The light changes and forward we forge.
You should see the dad outfits I wear sometimes, when I’m out walking. I have too many stoned philosophies about how to dress for photography. Mainly, it’s important to figure out a way where you look both invisible and “like you belong” at the same time. I know it sounds stupid but it can help you get better flicks.
Today, as per usual, I’m following certain principles of “gray man” fashion.
Forgettable footwear brings me to the street side entrance of Mandalay Bay’s golden trifold of guest room towers, restaurants, pools, casino games, and convention space. There’s a mall in there somewhere, too. All these places have a mall. All of these places are a mall.
Down on Las Vegas Boulevard, pedestrians are greeted by two giant statues of fictional winged beasts, flanking either side of the path to the casino’s front entrance. I pass the gargantuan, mythical guardians, and I make my way to the main casino floor.
Anytime I’ve ever written or thought about Mandalay Bay, I’ve written and thought about how the place is haunted. Some pieces of dirt are cursed. That’s wherever you go.
I’m looking for Christmas trees. Best to start at the lobby.
Bingo.
Trees.
There’s a big tree, right past the check-in desk, right in front of the miles-high pool-view window.
I’m seeing a sea of flannel, all lined up for their rooms. The registration desks are busy, but the staff is gracefully handling the rush.
“Cowboys are back in town.”
Nowadays, I talk to myself, out loud, in public, all the time.
There’s cowboys everywhere.
One guy has on a shirt that reads, “Rodeo Time.”
The shirt’s right, it’s rodeo time.
Considered the “Super Bowl of Rodeo”, the National Finals Rodeo competition and Cowboy Christmas gift bazaar are concurrent, massively-attended annual events.
Each December, cowboys, agriculturists, and rodeo enthusiasts from all over descend upon Las Vegas for a week of horsing around.
The games and gatherings are big business and big fun to a large number of Americans.
If you live on a coast, you probably forget how much of this nation is farmland and how many people it takes to tend-to, and care-for, that land. Many of these people are those people.
The whole thing is sponsored by Wrangler Jeans.
Running concurrently to the rodeo events (televised daily on The Cowboy Channel), Cowboy Christmas is a countrified holiday arts and crafts market, held in the sprawling Las Vegas Convention Center. The event acts as a sort of world’s fair and cultural exchange for the farm friendly, for all things equine, and for many, many necks of red. Hundreds of vendors sell art, jewelry, leather, tractors, livestock feed, custom camper accessories, firearms, and flame throwers to thousands of visitors.
You’ve never seen so many boots and ropes.
This year’s NFR was scheduled to begin on December 7, one day after the mass shooting on the UNLV campus.
Many of the week’s events and competitions, including the opening ceremony, take place at the university’s Thomas & Mack Center, home of the Running Rebels and only steps away from where the killings occurred, one day before the scheduled start of the rodeo.
In a moving, Christ-like display of sensitivity and loving consideration, the Rodeo postponed its kick-off for one, entire business day. This year, the 65th Annual National Finals Rodeo began on Friday, December 8th, instead of Thursday, December 7, as originally advertised.
I guess, like “the show”, the rodeo must also go on.
With notable notes of coconut, the Mandalay Bay used to have my favorite, pumped-in hotel smell, but it no longer seems to linger.
People love saying that casinos pump-in oxygen but it isn’t even true.
Some of the properties are still a bit smoky at times, but it’s gotten a little better over the last few years. Mainly just because people don’t really smoke cigarettes too much anymore. Not like they used to.
Regardless, I don’t ever stay in these places for too long at a time. I move ninja-quickly with my camera, slinking (hopefully, unnoticed) in and throughout the neon temples of shopping and games.
Despite everything going to shit over the last few years, many sectors of the hospitality industry, here in Las Vegas , have continued doing their best to keep things moving along and keep everything running efficiently.
Everybody here appreciates the business.
Everybody here accepts tips.
To insure proper service…
This is one of those weeks where everything is sponsored by somebody.
Mandalay Bay is brought to you by Michelob. There’s a logo-patterned photo backdrop at the end of a pretend red carpet, up near the lobby. Cowboys line up for pics next to a co-branded bull statue. Across the room, the huge, blue tannenbaum looms over consumers.
One of the bars, towards the back of the casino floor, has been rebranded, “The Rhythm and Riff Lounge, On Tap with Michelob Ultra.”
Everything’s an attack on my sensibilities and senses. I’m still looking for Christmas trees. I already found two. I’m trying to find my way out, also purposely hard-to-accomplish. These places are meant to trap you, built to keep you lost inside and disoriented. Good luck ever finding a clock or a door.
People are taking self portraits in front of a boutique called “Paradiso”.
There’s evidence everywhere of people partying
I’m looking for the exit and for the Luxor, one casino north.
Outside, a rideshare driver unloads her passenger’s luggage while smiling. She poses for pictures in her cowboy hat and boots. She’s going right along with it all and seems to be doing well for herself, beaming, with one of those happy-go-lucky glows.
I’m letting the serpentine paths wind me wherever they’re taking me. It’s no sense fighting or thinking too hard about it. Just took me 20 minutes to take three pictures and get back out to the boulevard. Everything’s a mess and a maze. I’m telling you again, it’s all on-purpose.
These buildings are one-way mousetraps, glue stick neuropaths.
We pass below the gun turret window, staring diagonally across Las Vegas Blvd, thinking, once more, about what had horrifyingly happened.
I cross the street and the Rubicon, in the direction of Luxor’s problematic take on Ancient Egypt.
Fulfilling the prophecies of the wise pharaohs, a giant Doritos advertisement is installed on the face of a sacred pyramid-themed Las Vegas hotel and casino, effectively turning the triangular facade into what will surely be the world’s largest depiction of a Dorito snack chip.
On-property, first thing I see is a couple; Maison Kitsune sweatshirt girlfriend and Cactus Plant Flea Market sweatpants boyfriend. They both had on million dollar kicks I probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce.
Like its neighbor, the Luxor is also haunted. There’s all sorts of stories. It’s all got to do with that Hacienda soil. Of course this place is cursed. It’s built on stolen land to begin with and now, the door handles are shaped like pyramids. Pyramids are tombs for kings and the rich. The whole thing is a mausoleum.
Besides the Christmas tree, there’s a couple of photos I want to take inside; the metalhead couple playing the Game of Thrones slot machine and the Cowboys marking up their keno cards.
I’m gonna keep it moving. I have a job to do. I’ve got to get these trees. Already found the big one here, inside the pyramid. They made it easy for everyone and put it right by the front door.
In and out of ‘Egypt” real quick.
As far as I know, you can’t check horses onto airplanes, which means that most of the cowboys get to town via their own vehicles. The valets stay busy and the parking lots are rammed with horse trailers, campers, pickup trucks, vans, families, and fans.
Whole sections of town smell of manure.
My next stop is the castle-themed Excalibur. It’s one of the older and more-shabby properties, but it has a great arcade if you wanna spend money on games that never give you any back.
On the sidewalk, in front, a promotional model in short shorts attracts the attention of two men passing in athletic wear.
Above, a giant billboard reminds us that Carrot Top’s still a headliner. I’m looking up, and so is a cowboy couple, slow-rolling, on the road in an F150. Way too many believe in ten gallon hats and bumper sticker Americana. It’s all trying to trick us into thinking good things about things we know damn well just ain’t. A lot of people watch the wrong news and don’t know any better, so they still have an optimism remaining that most, thinking adults lost long ago. That sparkle is the insanity of undue influence. It is, at least, partial delusion. Nobody seems to have a grip and our literacy rates will sadden your face.
Here comes another group of party girls.
Here comes a red, rented Porsche, rented to red-faced men, speeding towards a DUI alongside an extra-stretched Hummer limousine.
Still more party girls roll out dressed to kill. They’re walking a few steps behind me. They seem to all have just met. One of them says to another, “Michigan girls are pretty, but they still can get down.”
I completely agree.
I took some pictures of the young ladies and some cowboys.
Trying to find my way into the castle.
Next to a depressed escalator, a peeled-letter sign reads “Tram Entrance”, but I misread it as “Trauma Entrance”, so that’s where I went and entered.
A people-mover silver surfs me inside and I spot Excalibur's main Christmas tree right away. I’m not even all the way into the building.
The conveyor belt shovels a load of fleshy gawkers into the medieval-themed hotel’s guest registration area. We are greeted by performers from the resort’s male revue, "Thunder from Down Under".
The musclemen are stationed next to a gelato stand, handing out beads and taking pictures with married women. They’re flirting as the husband’s and bridesmaids take pictures. They’re trying hard to sell the remaining seats to the weekend’s shows.
A nice guy at a slot machine was happy to let me take pictures of his cool shirt. He told me it was a gift from a relative.
A chandeliered walkway carries me back outside. I head across Tropicana Avenue to New York, New York Hotel and Casino. I’m starting to see advertisements for their roller coaster, but I’ve been on my own for years.
So many Southern women’s hair is so perfect.
There’s Viking purple everywhere. Must be a game.
People love to fly here and fly their colors and bet on their team.
This place (New York, New York) has American flags out front, there’s a large Lady Liberty they often adorn with a hometown hockey jersey. After the year we’ve been having, all the flags, are back at half-mast.
So far, “New York, New York” has more Cowboys than any of the other places. The Art Deco registration desks are decked-out in wreaths and poinsettias, but I still hadn’t seen any trees until I rounded the corner towards the parking garage.
Okay.
Boom.
Here we are…
Six trees, each about 8 feet tall, aiming for “tasteful”, but ending up slightly boring. All white lights, shimmery, red and gold ribbon, red, silver, and gold balls of varying size. Two on each side of the bell desk, two on each side of the business center, and two on each side of the entrance to the "MGM Resorts Noir Platinum Lounge”.
I shoot my shots and head back towards where I came from, looking for the exit back out to the strip. On my way out, I pass one more tree, a big one, maybe a 20 footer, just outside the high limit room. This one’s primarily golden. I keep it moving towards outside.
A small man is wearing a shirt advertising a “combat academy”. His wife’s shirt contains many images of U.S. flags and firearms. They do shit like this on purpose. Especially at the very worst times.
It’s a shame, the things many of us were made to believe.
I see an exit, it’s time for me to leave.
The casino door handles are brass Lady Liberty torches.
There’s a Shake Shack outside and I’m noticing that people enjoy wearing clothing from Armani Exchange.
I enter the Park MGM Hotel through Eataly.
Maybe I’ll get a cannoli later. First, I have to find the Christmas here.
I head straight towards the lobby.
First song I hear playing that day is Neil Diamond’s “Forever in Blue Jeans”.
So good.
That’s a thing people always leave as a comment on social media. It’ll be a picture of a rare concert poster or some great jazz album and someone’s always like, “So good”.
I like the Park MGM . It’s a bit hard to get in and out of, but they do a good job. This is the most tasteful hotel in Las Vegas if you’re into that sort of thing. It is, by far, the “coolest” hotel on the strip. The clubs, the restaurants, music programming, design, decor, everything is pretty decent at this place.
Today, I’m looking for Christmas trees.
Money talks, it very famously does not walk.
I am walking through the deep emerald green casino, trodding along the faded jade carpet.
The place is alive, big-time. There’s action at the craps tables and the slots are popping.
First tree spotted, just outside the high limit slot room.
They always put trees just outside the high limit rooms. Guess they figure you deserve a tree to look at, if you’re dropping a few hundred grand per hand or per spin.
I’m assuming there’s more Christmas in the lobby. There’s always Christmas at check-in and usually by the bell desks or escalators.
I’m on my way to check it out.
Just passed another woman in a t-shirt with guns on the sleeve. On the front, it reads, “We The People”.
There’s a giant tree in the lobby, next to the escalators, as expected. Right on the way to the self-parking garage. Two more trees on each side of the VIP check-in and a giant wreath to the left of the bell desk. Smaller wreaths line the exterior wall to Primrose, the hotel’s above-average brunch spot.
In direct competition with the jam-packed starbucks, just down the hall, Primrose had set up a small coffee cart in the lobby. People line up to purchase drinks and treats.
The lobby is busy. Spirits seem up.
Everything feels on-edge to me.
Maybe related, you’ve never seen so many boot cut jeans.
The scene at the craps table is wicked and mean, there’s nerds and Cowboys, and gambling slot queens.
I still haven’t been to Roy Choi’s restaurant, Best Friend, but I want to check it out sometime soon.
The sign outside asks, “Is your heart where it needs to be?”
I stop and sit and wonder.
All good, for me. Everything’s in order on my side of the street.
There’s a lot of designer among the Cowboys, especially their wives.
It’s Vikings and Cowboys, everywhere you look. Two, notoriously violent factions and lifestyles. Both, built on the concepts of “taking” and “fight”.
This morning, my friend, on Twitter, says the rodeo is animal cruelty.
I thought to myself, “It’s gotta be, right?”
Horses must be like, “Dude, get the fuck off me.”
I leave the Park MGM through Mario Batali’s Eataly food hall. I think about getting the rice balls but they were so lame, last time I had them.
I consider a cannoli, but in the end, I decide to keep it moving. There’s mad more trees to find and to shoot .
Back outside, I see a man wearing a leather jacket and I’m pretty sure he’s never had the courage to put it on before.
My jeans are cut comfortably.
Just saw a confirmed Joker enthusiast / anarcho-capitalist. He was flaunting all of the insignia and scowl. Hope he’s unarmed and having a good day.
Vegas has sculpture in the nooks and crannies. You just have to keep your eyes open and remember that anything is possible here and that nothing makes sense.
There’s a Claes Oldenburg / Coosje van Bruggen sculpture, just outside of the Waldorf Astoria. Used to be a Madarin Oriental.
Entering the Aria, I am instantly hit with a potent, autumnal scent; caramel, cranberry, pumpkin vibes.
They want you breathing and pumped.
They want to keep you playing your game.
They want you to play and to stay.
I’m looking for the Aria’s trees.
The patisserie is packed with people, there’s a line out the door.
The air in this place is thicker and warm.
I’m walking around, giving my reports to the machine.
I’m looking at people, playing their machines.
Can’t find a tree, but I spy a shiny, artful dildo, decorated with colorful, blinking LED numbers. A real life Steely Dan. It’s a sculpture called Hoto, by Tatsuo Miyajima. Not sure if this is supposed to be their tree, but it sure as hell looks like one, to me.
A few feet away, a white lady laughs hysterically and rubs the belly of a large Buddha statue. Her friend, also laughing, takes pictures with a mobile phone.
“Selfie Buddha in a casino lobby” is right up there with “Let’s turn the mock, sacred ancient pyramid into a casino, then into a Dorito.”
Everybody’s so lost. We’re so, very far down the line.
Everybody’s still a viking and a cowboy.
Look at the size of this guy’s buckle.
Why is this guy walking with a southwestern-themed blanket?
Again, I’m trying to find an exit. Looking for a way, back to the boulevard.
I can’t find my way to The Cosmopolitan.
I can’t find my way to the mall.
There’s a mall in every direction, so you always must keep moving forward. You’ll be back, on-track in no time. I can already see a Gucci store in the distance.
Two trees spotted in the Cosmopolitan lobby.
Maybe this isn’t the Cosmo.
The painting behind the front desk resembles several Brice Mardens I've seen, but the carpet looks a little Hilton-ish.
I have no idea where I am.
Whatever this place is, they didn’t skimp on the Christmas trees.
The trees are somewhat forgettable, but I get my shots and continue through a commercially covered corridor. Spa advertisements encircle us with the following message; visionary, rejuvenate, escape, influence, lavish, energy.
I would love to escape influence.
I don’t know which way I’m walking. I think I’m on my way back to a mall.
You can get to the Bellagio or Cosmo from the same chocolate terrazzo tunnel.
We pass a buffet called “The Wicked Spoon”.
Cowboys are putting their daughters in buckles and boots. I avoid them and a steampunk telescope.
Self-proclaimed Persians in Balmain alert me to the location of the escalator. This one has no trees. There’s a load-bearing column, covered in disco ball glimmer. Slots in the distance, I think I’m finally back on my path.
I’m looking for the door that goes back to the strip.
More Punisher and FAFO shirts, all covered in bespangled banners.
There’s all sorts of stuff going on in the shadows.
I’m going to get the trees at Caesars, then leave.
It was time to go home. I could finish my mission tomorrow, or later in the week. Or maybe even not at all. I’m not a big Christmas person anymore anyways. I do however enjoy getting my annual pictures of trees. Something about learning to harness light.
Caesars has plenty of trees and wreaths and festivities. The property’s statues are festooned with golden merriment.
Caesars does a great job with Christmas. They have to.
This is Las Vegas, Caesars Palace is practically The Vatican.
I got enough trees for the day. I found the exit and my way back into the light.
Someone’s playing a good 2Pac song, outside from their car.
A man jogs past and I am reminded of a show I had watched, just the night before. John Updike is depicted being asked, “What makes a man want to jog?”
Sometimes I too wonder.
Along the sidewalk, near the corner of Flamingo Road, in front of The Cromwell and Drai’s, scattered performers run routines, doing songs and tricks for cash.
Sometimes, security comes out and shoos them all away, but today, one lady’s got a good crowd going.
She belts out a powerful rendition of a certain Dolly Parton / Whitney Houston song.
She does so loudly and with great skill.
Precision science, music’s magic brings together every kind of person and gets them singing, in unison, about love. On top of everything else that was awesome about this, the singer’s boombox backing track featured a well-rounded saxophone solo. The whole scene made me smile.
I hear that some are turning on Dolly these days, as well. Can you imagine? All for being just, decent, and kind.
In one of these strange, rare moments that mostly only happen in cities, that sidewalk singer had her crowd, the cowpeople, the country bumpkins, the Lurleen Lumpkins, and city slickers, all singing along to the same pretty song.
How great to see something like that in 2023, even if it was only for a quick minute on a Sin City sidewalk.
Maybe they were all just glad it wasn't Christmas music.