S.T. Coleridge, Kubla Khan

Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory

With all apologies to Ms. Sherwood, scrounging up a few Greyhound tickets, sleeping in some dingy, urine-spattered Freeway View motel replete with hypodermic syringes and smashed 40 oz. bottles trampled underfoot, and fretting about fraudulent IDs, is no way to do Vegas. (And isn’t curious how Las Vegas stands as the sole American metropolis that is perennially described as having been experienced in a manner akin to sexual penetration? Some semeiotics professor should write a dissertation about Vegas and the discourse of describing cities via erotic metaphors.)

No, the only way to "do" Vegas, the only way to truly consummate all of those decadent and depraved insinuations implied by the phrase "doing Vegas", is to count yourself on intimate terms with Jeff Raskin ’03. Hell, Jeff’s family takes the Vegas ambience of luxury and gracious living, and refines it to such an exquisite degree, that you really don’t need to sojourn anywhere near the Strip when you’re hanging at the elegant Raskin abode, situated in the northeastern Vegas suburbs.

Of course, I could go into some sort of quasi-Robin Leach "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" ecstasies in describing Raskin’s pad. But if I did, invariably, the element of my readership which is base, greedy, and acquisitive would make Raskin’s life a living hell, clamoring and petitioning him incessantly for trips out to his pad. So all I can say is, if you haven’t experienced the palatial Raskin complex like the dauntless, plucky, and intrepid band of Gridhens which set out for it over the fall break have, then you’re a suckah!

But I digress, and also take back my senselessly taunting and infantile gibes from the previous paragraph.

In reality, I should be (exceedingly) humble and grateful that a benevolent, magnanimous soul like Jeff Raskin would take pity on an obscure, mocked spewer of insipidness such as myself, and allow me to experience true hedonism for one fleeting weekend. What is true hedonism? Well, again, if I told you, you (the fictitious collective readership) wouldn’t justify my faith in your ability to exhibit some self-restraint, after having been enlightened as to the veritable Shangri-La which exists in the Vegas foothills.

All of the ephemeral, elusive allusions which civilizations have made to depict a heavenly terrestrial plane fall short, when it comes to describing chateau Raskin. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and yes, gentle readership, an El Dorado, a Cibola, a Xanadu, an Atlantis, an Elysian fields does exist out there in the parched Vegas valley. You can touch it, taste it, and feel it. It is wholly tangible, organic, and concrete, and, as many Pomona-Pitzer football players will heartily attest, Raskin’s pad can slake the epicurean, regal fantasies of even the most jaded and blunted personalities.

The best pop-culture analogy I can draw, the one that would exemplify the most appropriate and appreciative attitude one could take towards Raskin’s pad, is one that liberally borrows from Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory. I mean, man, you can’t just go into the Raskin’s place acting like some latter-day Augustus Gloop, Veruca Salt, Violet Beauregard, or Mike Teevee! It just wouldn’t be proper! You’ve got to assume the best Charlie frame of mind possible. If you take paradise at face value, and allow your heretofore subverted childlike-qualities of awe, enchantment, and wonder to play freely, then you will be rewarded at the end with a ride in the Great Glass Elevator, and a lifetime supply of Wonka bars. If you flounce into the Raskin manor like one of the four little monsters from Willy Wonka, then rest assured, you will receive your just desserts in the end. (Although, truth be told, I never was able to find any human-sized pneumatic tubes, pumping chocolate, in which inconsiderate guests might become trapped.)

Naturally, the Pomona-Pitzer football players behaved like the good Charlie during our short inhabitation of the Raskin castle. Not a priceless work of art was slashed, not a chandelier was smashed, not an opulent manuscript was defaced.

It is alleged that some truly vile and odious creature might have stopped up one of the toilets during their stay, but the evidence so far remains inconclusive. Proper rules of etiquette and social protocol involving eating, sleeping, bodily hygiene, and polite discourse were, as a rule, followed to the utmost ability of the guests invited.

There were nasty and scurrilous rumors pertaining to certain miscreants passing out utterly disrobed, in the living room, in full view of everyone assembled, along with some tawdry gossip involving someone who was violently ill in the bathroom.

But this should only be regarded as idle chatter, emanating from the jealous masses who were barred entrance to the resplendent Raskin edifice. But the essential message remains undiluted. The next time you’re invited over to Raskin’s house, and he asks to take of your shoes at the entrance, do as you’re told.

No doubt, your selfless action will not go unrewarded.