Crystals: Why?

Crystals 1252Spare. That’s the word I’d use to describe Crystals, which opened yesterday. Having been in a self-imposed cone of deafness, I wasn’t exposed to any of the opening-day press. Thus, I came to Crystals last night as a blank slate — which pretty well describes Crystals itself at this point.

It’s very spacious and airy, worlds away from the claustrophobia of Forum Shops. However, its design elevates form over function, as attested to by misdirection (the “Tram to Bellagio” signage actually led us to the Monte Carlo-bound monorail), dead space and an odd traffic flow that is wont to have you going in circles.

While slightly less than half of the retail space may be leased, far less than that is open. It’s very chi-chi and exclusive and, as of last night, very thinly patronized. It’s difficult to imagine why MGM Mirage opened Crystals when it did. The much-touted “treehouse” is well shy of completion, for instance, and other unfinished construction was exposed for all to see.

At least there are one or two nice free attractions (not including the Henry Moore sculpture just outside), such as the illuminated staircase, the giant ice phalluses and the glass-enclosed cyclones of water. Very Wizard of Oz, that. Otherwise it’s mostly a ginormous, ultra-expensive version of the Scotch Tape Store from Saturday Night Live.

About the only place where you could muster a crowd was the Eva Longoria/Todd English restaurant Beso. Since media-night buffets are almost never representative of the actual menu, I’ll just say that this one was much better than usual. That goes double for the finger-food platters which offered what I suspect to be actual Beso menu items, in which case the chow will be very good chez Longoria. However, the constant thwacka-thwacka-thwacka of “house” music makes it seem like you’re having dinner in a gay bar.

The upstairs club, Eve, can be summarized in six words: fugly lighting and fucking hip-hop. It’s for a different generation, obviously, although MGM CEO Jim Murren looked ready to get his groove thing on. (Also sighted discretely were a Marley Taylor-less Chris Phillips, Las Vegas Review-Journal fashionista Xasmin Garza, plus several very relieved-looking Greenspun Media Group staffers, clearly euphoric to have been spared in the recent corporate bloodbath. They had that “near-death experience” look.)

Judging by the number of young male couples strolling about, Crystals already has a head start toward being Vegas’ #1 gay hangout. If it achieves nothing else, CityCenter bids fair to become the Strip’s Ground Zero of gayness. Friends of Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore.

mainstreetstation-picAt the other end of the Strip, literally and metaphorically, check out this enlightening — if very blurry — photo essay on Main Street Station. Something this charming and idiosyncratic couldn’t be recreated by all the consultants in Christendom. Boyd Gaming really lucked into a gem when it bought the place. (LVA members lurve its buffet.)

The Great Greenspun Massacre: In addition to exploring the nooks and crannies of Main Street Station, journalistic perpetual-motion machine Steve Friess has also been indefatigable in his coverage of Greenspun Media’s recent self-disembowelment, dubbed “Black Tuesday.” Since R-J Publisher Sherman Frederick finds it easier and more profitable to put out a mediocre newspaper than a good once, with GMG falling apart like a tarpaper shack, there’s no reason to believe that the Dogpatch Daily (journalism’s answer to the French civil service) won’t remain third rate or possibly aim for fourth-rateness. (You can do it, Sherm!)

Which is not to let Brian Greenspun off the hook, even if he’s already sealed a reputation as the man who unraveled almost everything that legendary father Hank Greenspun built. S&G has crossed paths (and sometimes swords) with many of Greenspun’s casualties and this is a very dark week for journalism in Nevada. For instance, GMG retained the  Las Vegas Weekly‘s four-person “Team Hangover” and continues to syndicate the sycophantic blather of Robin Leach, but could not find room in its budget for, in no particular order …

Sam Skolnik, whose coverage of labor and Downtown issues was excellent.
• Ace investigator Jeff German, who kept up the heat on Ted Binion‘s suspicious death, which might otherwise have been swept beneath the nearest rug. (One could name any number of other stories that German has broken or taken the lead upon, but that is probably his most famous legacy.)
Jeff Simpson, who befriended a rival journo back in ’01 and even tried to sell me on the virtues of joining him at the R-J. We’ve also chewed the fat on many of the early Vegas Gang podcasts.
Jeff Haney, wagering columnist par excellence, and a great and valuable friend to LVA readers.
Josh Bell, for many years the area’s only TV critic of significance.
Throw in Richard Abowitz, whose pink-slippage was already noted — and deplored — on the S&G Twitter feed, and you’ve got the makings of a helluva news staff. If the Dogpatch Daily aspired to excellence, it would snatch up some or all of these people forthwith (and prune some of its resident dead wood, too). But it doesn’t and it won’t, mark my words. And if have to eat them later, they’ll comprise a tasty meal.
At least GMG had the wisdom to keep (at random) Rick Velotta at his post on the tourism beat, not to mention retaining the best casino-industry reporter in the U.S., Liz Benston. Kudos also for seeing the worth of incisive political correspondent J. Patrick Coolican, theatre critic Joe Brown and Vegas One executive producer Dana Gentry. I’d also laud GMG for keeping its ties to Jon Ralston, polysyllabic purveyor of pungent punditry, but Ralston’s a franchise unto himself and I have good reason to suspect GMG needs him more than it would care to admit.
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