I found myself watching E News Weekend this morning while waiting for a plumber to install a new garbage disposal and toilet.

 Need I even say that the appliances in question were surprisingly relevant metaphors for the breathless coverage of a host of “superstars” making headlines on E News – stars like Kendra, Kimora, Kourtney & Khloe, and Jon Gosselin.

 We all like to watch people who are dumber than we are, people whose lives are a bigger mess than our own, for that exquisite moment of superiority that only a soundbite from Snooki can bring; but on some new show called “Jerseylicious”, this frosted-poof terror declared, “I like taking advantage of the weak – that’s fun for me.” 

 Exactly how bad do we have to feel about ourselves to set the bar this low?

 My new toilet is installed. Maybe I should try watching that instead. And at least there, if I feel the need to throw up, I’m good to go.

As I’m standing on the shuttle that takes you from the ticketing terminal at the Las Vegas airport to the gates the other day, I notice that the pretty twentysomething woman next to me – accompanied by a group of young female friends – is wearing a t-shirt that reads, “I LOVE TO FART” (the “Love” being a graphic heart, of course, which really classes up the message).

This set me to wondering exactly what kind of woman would wear a shirt that boldly expresses her preference for public disgorging of bodily gases.

This is obviously a woman who does not worry where her next relationship is coming from. She is either happily married to someone with highly damaged olfactory nerves or is a hippie chick earth mother type who doesn’t shave her armpits and thinks anti-perspirants are a Fascist plot to kill us. God knows, there’s nothing wrong with either of these – some of my best friends can’t smell or tolerate corporations – but I would counsel that, if she wonders why people are throwing themselves against the doors of the an airport shuttle and screaming to get out, she may want to glance down.

For today’s twenty or thirtysomething woman, a weekend in Las Vegas seems to provide a unique opportunity to reinvent oneself via contemporary fashion. A stroll through any strip hotel offers hundreds of examples of accountants, lawyers, taxidermists and toxic waste dump personnel who have, for two days and three nights, reimagined themselves as high-priced hookers.

 Balancing precariously on four-inch CFM heels, their sparkly mini-dresses casting off all constraints of modesty and good taste, they are looking for attention, and getting it.

 Conversely, the boyfriends/husbands of most of these women have taken this getaway as an occasion for sheer, unadulterated comfort. Clad in graphic t-shirts, board shorts (or, for even more commando breezeway action, baggy knee-length workout shorts) and flip flops – at 10:00 at night – they appear to be immigrant farm workers who have wandered into the casino by mistake and are only missing a bag of oranges.

 Why these women have so little sway over their partners is a mystery to me, since my partner feels free to comment on every item of clothing I wear, but I think it bears consideration that a woman who can’t get her husband to put on long pants is doomed to a life of football widowdom and mysterious credit card charges at the Spearmint Rhino.

My partner and I were in Vegas this weekend, that bacchanalia of slurpee cocktails and Cirque du Cher. This is not an unusual occurence; he loves gambling and I love the over-the-topness, and since we get free rooms (which, given that he is not even remotely a high roller, should tell you something about the Vegas economy), we go a lot.

We typically stay at the Venetian/Palazzo, or occasionally, the Wynn/Encore. And therein lies the problem. These are glamorous hotels that feature large, suite-like rooms with five star amenities and kill yourself views. (I’m writing this blog post from the comfort of the sectional sofa in the step-down living room of our suite.) And they’re now the standards by which I measure the hotels we stay at elsewhere.

Interestingly, since hotels in other cities rudely require some sort of cash payment in exchange for their rooms (as if this would enhance anyone’s stay) and since I am not made of money, we rarely stay in 5-star hotels outside of Vegas. Which means that I find myself sighing heavily (my partner would call this by another term) when, say, our Hilton hotel room does not have a bathroom big enough to stage a Broadway musical. Or I get into a minor snit (my partner would call this by another term) when our Hampton Inn does not have restaurants by Mario Batali, Daniel Boulud and Alain Ducasse. (Of course, we rarely dine in these eateries in Vegas, either, but they’re THERE.)

I would therefore like to propose that five-star hotels in other vacation destinations consider emulating the Vegas model and begin comping our hotel stays. This would engender considerable loyalty from me and would keep the guests of lesser hotels from having to overhear my cries of anguish when faced with a room that does not have a TV in the bathroom mirror and electronic drapery closure.

I’m only thinking of others.

Last night was the closing night of Promax, the annual television marketing convention and self-congratulation extravaganza, beloved by its attendees for its potential for both creative inspiration and hookups.

It was held in LA this year, and, because I work for a television network, I was present last night for the closing party, held at the pool of the new J W Marriott hotel downtown. It was a typical Promax party in most respects – lots of randy guys whose heads are whirling around like police sirens, and lots of women trying to avoid those randy guys as everyone loads up on Grey Goose and gossips about the people they work with who are currently in the bathroom.

It’s the “lots of women” part of the equation that, at this particular party, threw me. The attendee makeup is probably 60% men, 40% women, but you’d never have known it from the “playmates” hired for the event. The pool was populated by a group of scantily-swimsuited girls who either the hotel or the Promax promoters had hired to frolic about, wet and soon to be pneumonia-stricken in the 60-degree evening chill, caressing beach balls in a way that would perhaps have been more appropriate at the Playboy Mansion. I saw one mermaid mouth to her friend, “I’m freezing my ASS off!” Ironically, the fully-heated waters of the large Jacuzzi was apparently off limits to them, since that obviously would have implied some sort of come on.

Then there were the scantily-clad females in hooker heels hired to get the party started on the dance floor. I would have just assumed they were just out-of-town attendees looking to memorialize their trip with an assignation they would regret the next morning, but a friend informed me that he had come right out and asked two of them if they were hired help.

All this set me to wondering: why were there no scantily-clad men to get the party started for the two hundred women present? This seems oddly sexist for a conference of liberal television folk. Given the rabid nature of women at a Thunder Down Under performance, I can only surmise that they, too, appreciate a little eye candy.

Obviously the double standard is alive and well. Perhaps in the future, Promax – or the Marriott – should consider throwing in some man whores. Creative women need to blow off a little steam, too.