FRANKIE GOES TO PLANET HOLLYWOOD.

PART ONE.

A few weeks PRIOR TO DEPARTURE I was in a bar with my friend Blanche, making plans. We share a birthday and often travel to Vegas at the same time. In fact, we do this every year, and have done so since before Blanche became a highroller. On this occasion, she was filling me in on show ticket options available for our impending trip. Apparently, her host was offering Donnie and Marie tickets. Barry Manilow was mentioned, as well. My musical taste runs (quite rapidly) in other directions (to say the least), so she wasn’t sure I would be interested.

“Sounds hardcore.” I said.

“Hardcore.” she repeated.

“Brutally Vegas. We have to do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. A real man wouldn’t hesitate.”

A FEW WEEKS LATER I was flying high in the sky, test-driving an iPad belonging to an accommodating fellow traveler. (This was my first hands-on experience with an iPad and my suspicions were confirmed. It is that thing I’ve always wanted.) Eventually, I placed the device in the empty seat to my right (a luxury I always enjoy), and glanced out the window. Fat clouds drifted above a giant Shar-Pei’s back. Or, maybe it was Arizona.

Two gin and tonics and one nap later I was in Las Vegas, where my checked bag appeared on the first circuit and the Bell Trans shuttle headed directly to my hotel, completing the hat trick triggered by the aforementioned empty seat.

Blanche, who had a suite at Paris, had used her current standing to upgrade my Planet Hollywood room to Premium Fountain View. This was a great room. Judy Garland’s dress from Easter Parade hung inside a display case on the wall. A signed contract from Harvey Girls and several framed photos completed the theme. In the bathroom, a round tub overlooked a stunning panoramic view of the Bellagio fountains, as well as a half-dozen neighboring properties (all this through the glare-killing moiré of the massive Holly Madison banner that covers a portion of the building).

I was pursuing my standard ritual – unpacking and enjoying a cocktail (and postponing the inevitable first session in the casino) when Blanche called to ask if I would like to be upgraded to Seven Stars Companion status. Not really an upgrade, this does allow me to breeze past restaurant and buffet lines, and grants access to Diamond Lounges. There are a few other benefits, none of which have anything to do with me. It’s all privilege by association. And, I’ll take it. Sign me up. Blanche is a very good friend. This trip wouldn’t have happened without her. But, the magic plastic card was an unexpected bonus. I couldn’t say no.

While on the phone, I took a really good look at the Bellagio fountains. I never give them much thought, unless some tourist with a camera is impeding my progress on the sidewalk (I like to think of the Las Vegas Strip as a thoroughfare). But the sound of the water jets boomed louder than the accompanying music, and the cascading display was reaching the height of the building. It was all very impressive. Suddenly, it hit me. This is why the terrorists hate us. We can make art in the desert with borrowed water.

Seven Stars Companion card in hand, I ventured into the Planet Hollywood casino, giddy with anticipation and drunk with possibility.

I had been dreaming of 50 Lions for weeks, and my first excursion into the casino was in pursuit of that particular game. I gave up when I found Pelican Pete, which is similar, but features a more promising bonus feature. I put in $40 and, after less than thirty minutes, walked with $400. This would be the most successful session of the trip. By far. I hit a few more machines, alternating VP with slots, but my luck ran dry. I returned to the room and fell asleep watching local news and listening to the water across the street.

BREAKFAST AT PLANET DAILIES was an egg white, spinach, mushroom and turkey-sausage omelet. The accompanying potatoes and sourdough toast represented about a week’s worth of carbohydrates for me, however, and while I was thoroughly enjoying it, I realized that – in spite of the many comped food opportunities available on this trip – I couldn’t possibly eat three meals of this magnitude each day, or I would be miserable. There would have to be strategic preemptive snackage.

I wandered down the Strip to what looks like the set of Logan’s Run -- the entrance to Bally’s. I tried my hand at two games that almost always give me something back – Spin Poker and Li’l Lucy. I churned for a long time, until I started losing steadily. I returned to my room to regroup before heading across the street to ARIA.

Walking across the pedestrian bridge, I found myself staring at the unzipped slouch boots walking in front of me. The combination of those boots and a black fringe mini-shirt made this woman look as if she were late for a Hobbit rodeo. Classy! But this trip's most egregious fashion trend had to be the misplaced fedora. Fedoras were everywhere, and always on the wrong head. I suppose Justin Timberlake is responsible for the return of this particular hat. And, he can probably still get away with it. Don Draper looks good in a fedora, but Don Draper isn't real. Frank Sinatra looks good in a fedora, but Frank Sinatra is dead. You know who looks like an idiot in a fedora? Some skinny hip-hop Lothario in a soiled wifebeater with gaudy boxers blooming out of his waistband. This is a clear fashion statement. And that statement is, "Hey! The douchebag is here!"

This was my second visit to ARIA, and remarkably like my first, back in August. I descended upon the casino like the Angel of Death, selecting only those machines that turned twenties into C-notes. I moved effortlessly from one game to the next. Griffin’s Gate, Wild Cats, and finally, 50 Lions. The lions paid me handsomely with multiple bonus rounds (a luxury that would soon taunt me by omission) featuring guttural roaring and the spinning of translucent diamonds, jaunty circus music and the image of tumbling coins. Goddamn, I love this game.

I took the tram to Bellagio and found a Spin Poker Dream Card machine in a denomination I could manage. Or, so I thought. Initially, it was like feeding money into a paper shredder. Then I hit quad eights, recouped my losses and walked away before the price of the gimmick ate my lunch. I found an Ultimate X machine nearby that treated me right and I churned forty or fifty bucks for almost two hours. A bottle of water and two cocktails made this session quite enjoyable, until my fortune turned and the numbers wilted. Eventually, Bellagio happily accepted the majority of my ARIA winnings (all in the family) and I skulked back to the HET corridor to find some more free food.

My magic card granted me instant seating at The Spice Market Buffet, where the sushi underwhelmed, and the Middle Eastern trinity, tabouli, hummus and baba ganoush, definitely impressed. After dinner, I chased the leering monkey-man on a Lion Dance machine for more time than I care to admit. No luck. No bonus rounds. Just a leering monkey-man. Who designed this game? David Lynch?

I GREETED DAY THREE by logging on and catching up on Cul de Sac – the only comic strip I read with any regularity. This would be my final day of in-room internet service. My phone was simply faster. I could check three email accounts and Facebook while waiting for two pages to load on my ancient iBook (although I choose to blame the sluggish wireless at Planet Ho).

Out on the strip, I headed to Casino Royale to claim $20 free slot play, which I turned into $120 on my favorite Spin Poker Deluxe machine. Late afternoon found me back at Planet Hollywood, chasing elusive bonuses with help of the Lucky Penny penguins. That third trigger continued to elude me, and the antics of the animated aquatic fowl – while occasionally profitable -- began to irritate. Back in my room, I napped, in preparation for the evening’s entertainment -- Donnie and Marie. That somehow seemed appropriate.

A few hours later I met Blanche at the Flamingo Showroom – which made me very happy with its Rat Pack charm and old-school panache. Tables down front, surrounding a catwalk. Very cool. It could have been 1968, and I could have been waiting for Steve and Edie to take the stage.

We were joined at our table by a woman from Lake Charles, Louisiana, and a family from Great Britain consisting of a married couple, and their daughter, whose tender age (I’m guessing 25) belied her knowledge of the Donny Osmond catalog.

The show was loud, flashy – brutally Vegas -- and entertaining. The two Osmonds have exceptional voices and more than forty years of material and baggage to exploit. They also look about 25 years younger than their respective ages. The stage banter, often cheerfully pugnacious, felt fresh and spontaneous, even though I’m certain it is as well rehearsed as the dancing. I was amused and I was diverted, but I was certainly not as overwhelmed as the Brits with whom I shared the table. (A table they pounded incessantly during the more obvious material.)

I left fifteen minutes before the show ended because I had reservations at P.F. Chang’s and plans to meet friends from California. It only took ten minutes to walk from The Flamingo back to Planet Hollywood. That may represent my first tangible evidence that tourism is down in Vegas -- fewer people in my way.

I loitered in front of the casino entrance to P.F. Chang's (or, ANG'S, as the defective neon insisted on calling the place) until my friends arrived. At one point, I thought reservations might have been superfluous on a Wednesday night, but the place was packed -- top and bottom. Because of this, service was slow, but we didn't mind. And, the ginger salmon was perfect.

After a pleasant meal and a long chat, I briefly resumed to my losing streak before repairing to my room appallingly early. It was my third night in Vegas, and so far there had been no late night excursions. I fell asleep wondering if I was getting too old to emulate Stagger Lee... or even Billy. (Two men who gambled late.)

NEXT: Bellagio, Manilow and Firefly.