Las Vegas used to mean something.

It wasn’t just another city with casinos. It was the destination. A fantasyland where every resort had a personality, a story, a soul. The Flamingo’s lush gardens. The Mirage’s erupting volcano. Caesars Palace with its fountains and Cleopatra’s Barge. These weren’t gimmicks. They were promises. They told you: “You’re somewhere different now.”

That old Vegas was the work of gamblers and visionaries: Steve Wynn. Kirk Kerkorian. Bill Bennett. Jay Sarno. These were builders, dreamers — risk-takers who didn’t just want to make money, they wanted to make magic. Their fingerprints were on everything, from the carpet patterns to the cocktail recipes.

But that Vegas? It’s slipping away.

What we have now is a city traded in for shareholder value. A Strip where y

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