The number of original Roger Thomas interiors commercially available in Las Vegas currently sits at just 23. Now retired from decades of creating Steve Wynn’s most extraordinary spaces, Thomas’s rooms are an increasingly endangered accommodation requiring travel to Macau or Boston to readily stay in one. In Vegas, eighteen of them are locked down for Wynn’s most premium players and the other five are for people obsessed enough to justify paying several thousands per night. I fall among the latter.
I was one of Crockfords’s very first guests checking in less than two weeks after Resorts World opened. Hiccups were to be expected. Hard hats weren’t. Technical glitches are the norm the first weeks of operation. But ladders in guest room hallways? At times, I felt like a welcomed guest, at others, a nuisance in the way of construction of an entirely unfinished hotel.
At almost $400 per night midweek, I would’ve been less forgiving, but a week prior, I touched base with a host and sent her my MLife win/loss statements. She comped both nights plus round trip transportation. It made everything you’re about to read a little easier to digest…
Outside of Vegas, I try to get the most bang for my buck. California casino? Where I go is based on the deals I find rummaging through my inbox. Reno, Laughlin? If the whole thing’s not comped, forget it. Even during my one trip to Macau, the value proposition was at the top of my list.
But in Vegas, something special overcomes me. The moment I pull up to Mirage, or Bellagio, or Wynn, I don’t give a flying fuck about my wallet, bank account, or assets; for the next couple days, I’m living a goddamn fantasy. No other place in the world inspires careless frivolity and financial irresponsibility the way Vegas does.
This review is dedicated to the memory of my friend, Alan Reed, an even bigger Vegas fan than I. The Mirage was his favorite property and I would learn at his memorial that he spent his final night in his favorite city in one of these suites.
In the late 90s, my family and I would take a two-car caravan to Las Vegas once or twice per year. We’d almost exclusively stay crammed between a couple rooms at Luxor and Dad would occasionally splurge upgrading one to a Pyramid Corner suite. At 590 square feet, teenaged me felt like a king luxuriating under the slanted windows in a hot tub that—perhaps thankfully—always smelled overwhelmingly of bleach. At home, early stages of the internet meant that I could peruse tiny gifs of fancy suites before a landline call interrupted my hotel fantasies loading at dial-up speeds.Read More