Nothing better than Ol’ Vegas
One of the highlights of growing up in old Las Vegas was heading to the Horseshoe to take a picture in front of a million dollars.
LAS VEGAS — The first time Billy Walters and I spoke on the phone, the conversation reminded me of the ones I had with my grandfather, Andy Anka.
My grandfather was one of the most respected men in Clark County, and it had nothing to do with the fact his son happened to be a legendary songwriter and entertainer who performed on The Strip. That might have been how people got to know who he was, but the respect he earned was on his own laurels.
It was how Las Vegas was back in the day.
Loyalty. Your word. Your character. How you treated people.
Those attributes, unfortunately, have somewhat been lost and replaced with a me-first attitude that tosses the thought of loyalty and kindness and respect out the window.
During that call, Mr. Walters - which I still call my dear friend of 21 years, out of respect - was trying to instill some things. He was simply being a mentor, if you will.
"Always remain loyal Willie," he said, in that Kentucky drawl that is inviting to any conversation. "Always dress nice. Look presentable, as if you belong where you're going."
Loyalty and dressing sharp?
No problem!
Mr. Walters and I share many things in common - mostly our love for sports betting and winning money from sports books - but also a love for how Las Vegas used to be. The same love my grandfather had for this town, and the respect and loyalty he showed to everyone, and demanded from them, too.
I'll never forget one afternoon standing in the entry of my uncle's restaurant and nightclub - Paul Anka's Jubilation, which his father, my grandfather, managed and operated - a young man who worked there approached him and began the conversation with, "Andy, I'm..."
(Andrew E. Anka in 1986)
My grandfather stopped him mid-introduction, with that little pudgy index finger waving in front of his face.
"First of all, it's Mr. Anka young man," he told the kitchen worker, before transitioning back into a smile and warm conversation. "What can I do for you?"
Mr. Anka.
Mr. Walters.
Respect.
Old Las Vegas.
THE LOVE
My grandfather and Mr. Walters are two of the most dedicated and loyal men who have been in my life since moving here from New York City in 1972. They weren't the only ones, but two of the more prominent, as I saw the growth and boom of my city over five decades.
I briefly lived a not-so-pleasant life in Florida and Minnesota during the start of my teen-age years, having to endure being the new kid in three different schools, and taking a "Kick Me" sign off the back of plenty of shirts. So whenever I had the opportunity to return to Las Vegas and stay with my grandfather for a weekend, a week, a month, a Summer - I was all in.
There was no better place to be than Las Vegas back in the day.
"We were classier," said Don Logan, president of the Las Vegas Aviators baseball club, and another gentleman whose been there for me the past few decades. "That's part of the Rat Pack (days). You look at your uncle (Paul Anka) and (Frank) Sinatra and all those guys. This is a very, very special place for a lot of reasons. People cared how they looked, how they acted. We had the best dining; we had the best shows - we still do. Everything that they started, we still have."
It's true, as the town's vibe was much warmer and inviting for anyone that was here. Locals were more than welcome at the hotel pools, eating at the coffee shops was the norm, riding your bike from one end of town to the other - which meant from Paradise Road to Eastern Avenue - was a daily thing. Going to dinner shows meant being able to break out your best clothes.
I do what I can to look my best on press row, and I genuinely appreciate the compliments I get. But I didn't start wearing designer suits because we're now a town with NHL and NFL teams. I've been dressing my best since my age was a single digit.
"You go to dinner and a show at Caesars Palace, you wore a suit, you wore a tie," Mr. Walters told me over the phone when discussing this month's Old Vegas series at WGRamirez.com. "If you wore a sports coat with just an open shirt, you kind of felt like you weren't totally dressed. You had a maître’d, it was a completely different environment. You knew (everyone). It was just a completely different feel."
One of my writing mentors, longtime respected columnist John L. Smith compared his love for Las Vegas to how the late great Jimmy Breslin, a journalist he admired, summarized the Big Apple.
"He loved New York so much," Smith said, "that he could tell you why you're supposed to love it."
I love old Las Vegas so much I can tell you why, and also why you're supposed to respect the foundation for this God-forsaken town and its current corporate structure that's made things cold and heartless in some areas.
I remember the summers spent at the pool and coffee shop and candy store and arcade at the Sahara. I remember eating those big ass burgers at the old Jolly Trolley on Sahara and Las Vegas Boulevard, or after eating the ones at McDonald's on Maryland Parkway burning the backs of my legs on that metal slide. I remember going to Runnin' Rebels games at the Convention Center Rotunda, or wearing Pop Warner jerseys to UNLV football games at the Silver Bowl. Or the times my grandfather took me and my cousins to ride horses at the Big Valley riding stables on Pecos Road, or visiting Wayne Newton's Casa De Shenandoah one block down from there. I remember when driving out to Old Nevada and Bonnie Springs was considered a road trip. We lived directly across the street from the Marie Calendars and Tony Roma’s on East Sahara, yes, the one from the movie Casino where Frank Rosenthal narrowly escaped from a car bomb.
"I miss a lot of it," said Logan, who visited often from his hometown of Tonopah, before moving to Las Vegas in 1984. "Vegas is it for me. I celebrate, I think about Jubilation nightclub, I think about the Runnin' Rebels. When UNLV got beat by North Carolina and Phil Ford (in the 1977 Final Four) I was so pissed off."
Them were the days.
And we did the things.
LOST VEGAS
Once I moved back to Las Vegas in 1985, things were slightly changing, but not necessarily on The Strip. More so in the growth on the outskirts of town.
When I left in 1982, Flamingo barely crept past Interstate 15 and if you drove past Las Vegas Boulevard it was because you were getting on the freeway. When I moved back, Spring Valley was built and Rainbow Boulevard - all four lanes of it - was just starting to be developed.
When I graduated from Clark High School in 1986, cruising back and forth in front of Circus Circus and Slots A Fun and McDonald's was a big deal. You did so with the likes of the LA Dream Team or Run DMC blaring from your stereo with hopes of catching some girls' eyes so you could pull into Mickey D's and spit game.
These were the days when there were no nightclubs in hotels, and places like Tramps, Premier, Botany's and eventually Shark Club were places to be. I was 17 years old walking past a line that wrapped around Tramps on Flamingo Road and Arville Street, with friends who were 21 or older asking me to get them into the club. Where the Palms sits now, and all those fast food joints, plus the Rio - that was desert.
We never missed the Sunday night dance contest at Tramps, and Monday night talent contest at Shark - both hosted by Frank Anobile, better known to all of us as DJ Frankie. It was a treat if you happened to be in the club and DJ R.O.B. Hathcock jumped in for a set and flashed his bag of tricks on the wheels of steel. Today's Las Vegas dee jays, with their cute little computers, have no clue the homage they should pay to Frankie and R.O.B. for the path they laid.
Frankie’s Magic Mix show brought live mixes to the airwaves, as he teamed with several of the top jocks - like Robert Holiday, Hypo Scott, R.O.B., and Dino Esposito, who went on to become a successful musical artist with hits like "Summergirls" and "I Like It"- to bring a nightclub feel to the radio.
DJ R.O.B. Hathcock (left) and DJ Frankie Anobile (right) were two of the most instrumental and influential dee jays in the Entertainment Capital of the World, long before nightclubs infiltrated hotels and casinos.
And with one big thud, Steve Wynn blindsided the town with the Mirage, opening the door for resorts and a remodeling of Las Vegas Boulevard.
What was good for Las Vegas' growing population, and the economy, and the politicians whose pockets were lined, was also the deterioration of the town we once knew and loved.
"It's not just a connected story or an old Vegas kind of cliché story," Smith explains. "It's a place that's about a boomtown, and boomtowns are hard to live in. There's a hustle right in front of you, and it's not personal, but that's what goes on. You ride the wave. And Las Vegas is like that. That era especially."
Said Anobile: "The oxygen is the same, the temperature might be similar, but it's a totally different world. Back then you could absolutely feel the energy of the neon. I felt the excitement and the energy ... and you felt a part of everything. Now, you feel alienated from it, it's a cold feel instead of a warm feel. It's not personable at all.
"I still love it for the excitement reason, but I don't feel a part of it and that's the gigantic difference."
Legendary casino host Steve Cyr remembers when the casino hosts held the cards and ran the show. Now there isn't a need, necessarily, when casino nightclubs are selling $50 bottles of liquor for $5,000 and nightclub hosts and scantily clad girls with sparklers in their hands are making more than the casino hosts.
"We used to have all the power, now the club host has as much power," Cyr said. "All the restaurants used to lose money, now they all make money. It's hard to compare someone pouring the milk of your choice, someone else hitting it with liquid nitrogen and within a minute you have ice cream. Everything is a presentation."
Sparklers and all.
THE REINVENTION
The end of the movie Casino is surreal for those of us who still revel in the memories of being able to see the Frontier Hotel while standing at a certain part of the Caesars Palace fountains.
I appreciate Robert DeNiro's lines as we watch actual footage of legendary hotels implode at the end of the Las Vegas-based mob flick.
"The town will never be the same. The big corporations took it all over. ... In the old days, dealers knew your name, what you drank, what you played. ... The corporations tore down practically every one of the old casinos."
Shit, they tore down old Las Vegas, and the warmth that accompanied it. They tore away my childhood, and clubbin' days, and the many dance and lip sync and talent contests we entered, and so many of the places I DJ'd. They shredded the places we could go regardless of not being 21, like Churchill Downs to play parlay cards, or Mr. Deli just past the Hacienda so we could buy beer and wine coolers for our girls.
"Nobody thought it would be different," Smith said. "I don't think a lot of people, clearly if they were being honest, would say, 'I always imagined there would be no mob there, there would be no Vegas rules anymore, and things would be square.' It's a story of reinvention and optimism."
It's a story about entitled 23, 24 and 25-year-olds who have no respect for the foundation that was built for them decades ago, and a story about how they're going to pilfer others for money. They don't have the respect we did, and still do.
I know one person in their 20s who calls me Mr. Willie, and he is affiliated with street politics, if you know what I mean. Thing is, his pedigree comes from the same circle and era I come from, so he understands. Anyone else from my son's circle affectionately calls me Pops, which is fine.
The rest, it’s Willie. Eh.
But I don't ever remember being called Mr. Ramirez. It's simply a lost form of respect. But not by us old schoolers.
"Usually I'm a good judge of character and I knew with you for some reason that you were trustworthy," Anobile said as we reminisced about our friendship that dates back to 1986. "You had a good work ethic, the things we talked about, your family, your uncle, I just had a good feeling about you. You were looking out for what my needs were instead of yours. You did everything right, and we've been friends for nearly 40 years."
I cherish those I still call friends, the ones who can share those memories.
Now, it's a different world. Just because we can visit the Neon Museum doesn't mean those old marquees bring us back to the days they shone as bright as that era.
"The characters and personalities and I would say the energy - it's gone," Mr. Walters said. "It just doesn't exist anymore. And to me that's the saddest part of it."
I agree Mr. Walters, I agree.
