I was waiting for an Uber on the Vegas Strip last night, looking up wide-eyed at some of the crazy crowded exuberant neon skyline. From the casinos of Caesar’s Palace to The Mirage to Treasure Island. Next , perfectly framed in the top of a palm tree against a purple sky, was the shining golden name “Trump”, set on top of his shining golden tower.
Only a couple of days ago, I’d seen that name set in a pink and gold star on LA’s Hollywood Walk of Fame. Yes, he is everywhere, from sidewalk to skyline to screen. Donald Trump is already a mythical creature. And the myth he’s projecting is of a Yankee King Midas. He wants voters here to believe that everything he touches turns to gold – they can get some of that too – if only they hand him the keys to the White House.
It’s going to be hard for Hillary Clinton to battle myth and promise and glitter with sober recitals of her experience and her ‘sales pitch’ of dedication to a life of hard work and tough choices.
They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I don’t know. For many millions of American conservatives dazzled by Trump (or truly repulsed by Clinton), this could be more than a guilty vacation romance. They’re looking at a longer term gamble – heading to the Chapel of Love.