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THE MOMENT YOU KNOW YOU'RE DREAMING is when you first hear the words, "Strip club, gentlemen?" come out the mouth of some slick, club-boy; whose main mission is to get all the dude-bro's into the clubs by the evenings end. Everybody here on the strip, besides the domestic tourists and gaggles of site-seeing Chinese, are either: a hustler, homeless, or pretending to be homeless. It's a modern day gangsters paradise. The dude-bro club skeez tries to befriend you, saying that he too lived in Ontario and went to Fanshawe for 7-years. Now he is selling sex, to guys.
He is educated in the fine art of the oldest profession in the world. You then ponder whether or not you need a degree in anything, really. Is the economy that bad? Or, is the education system that worthless? Is he wrong, or do you really care? You're half-way to SloshedVille by now, its 10 PM; and you've been drinking since breakfast. You're a champion among the Gods. An Ale an hour keeps you in Kiefer Sutherland mode: Jack Bauer Power-Hour.
You begin to realize that every single woman sitting alone, at a bar or at the tables or slots, is suspect to prostitution. It's a tricky state-of-affairs, but that's how it is here. Everybody is working on something; everybody needs to eat, and everyone, no, everything here wants at your wallet. Everything in this city is designed to lure in and harvest. The honey-pot, the moth lamp. You're the moth. You don't have to be trapped though, you can always just play along and tease the lamp, but don't get burned.
Your suspicions are confirmed when you see a homeless woman sitting down near the entrance to the LINQ; with a piece of cardboard in hand reading, "Will strip for food". She's butt-ugly, though it's an ironic joke. However, the real hidden irony is that behind the cardboard on her lap, an iPad can be seen. You then think, well, why don't you sell it to get money for food. It's all a dream here. The homeless are an illusion, they are not really homeless. The hot trim who is flirting with the middle-aged ork at the bar in Harrah's knows he's here for a convention--helps if you keep your lanyard on like a doofus. A convention lanyard is a magnet for escorts and casino hussies. The lanyard says,"It's me, Poindexter, my wife neglects me at home for various reasons even though I make bank." The escort just thinks, Cha Ching$$.
By mid-week you become a seasoned Pro at spotting these NPC's, like you would in a video game or in the movie The Matrix. You soon acquire the right phrases like, "Were flying out tonight," in order to get them to fuck off, to blend into your surrounds and to make them believe you are not a tourist, but a local. It's no longer your first rodeo and they can sense this when you either flip them off, or completely ignore them. This is your vacation, you will not be bothered by the cretin. Vegas is one big video game and you're leveling up, son.