One of Las Vegas' simple pleasures is a 99 cent shrimp cocktail at the Golden Gate , but let's face it, you could build a roof over Fremont Street - I guess somebody already has - and shoot laser beams out of Vegas Vic's rear end, and it still wouldn't prevent good ideas from going there to die.
Projects designed to revitalize downtown are a lot like Jerry Seinfeld's favorite T-shirt, Golden Boy. Most don't make it through the spin cycle.
Race Rock : Didn't make it.
Neonopolis : Didn't make it.
Fremont Street Reggae and Blues Club: Didn't make it.
Cleveland Clinic: Didn't make it.
There are 61 acres of prime real estate behind the Plaza collecting uncashed Las Vegas Club parlay tickets and Live Nude Girls handbills because, until recently when plans were announced for the Frank Gehry-designed brain institute and the performing arts center, nobody could figure out what to put on them that might make it.
Downtown arena: It doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out it won't make it. If hell freezes over or the Sacramento Kings move here, the downtown arena might make it - at least until the novelty of paying $60 for a seat in the nosebleed section wears off.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot about chuck wagon racing. It didn't make it, either. I think the trail bosses still owe Las Vegas City Hall money and nobody's heard hell or high water from Cookie .
Which bring us to Monday's announcement that the Vegas Grand Prix won't be coming back. One and done. Downtown projects are like DePaul in the NCAA Tournament when Ray Meyer was coach.
What makes the Grand Prix unique among the others is that it at least appeared to be a success.
A couple of weeks ago, I went downtown on a gorgeous Friday afternoon on which you could have thrown a dozen fried Twinkies down Fremont Street and not hit anybody. Contrast that with this past Easter weekend, when Mayor Oscar Goodman put all of his eggs in the Grand Prix's basket and gave the command to start engines in front of tens of thousands of fans, including a handful who even paid to get in.
The real problem with the Grand Prix wasn't getting high rollers in and out of the Golden Nugget or long lines for the shuttle back to the pits or limited parking or church services being interrupted by the whine of finely tuned Cosworth engines. The real problem was that nobody figured out how to make money on it.
And the reason nobody figured out how to make money on it is that it ain't NASCAR.
Although 40,000 spectators - if you count all the freeloaders on the parking garage rooftops - for an open wheel race on a religious holiday is nothing to sneeze at, Dale Earnhardt Jr. could steal all the green from the Easter baskets simply by signing his name to a few diecast cars with his car number on them.
The cars in the Champ Car World Series, which sanctioned the Vegas Grand Prix, are faster than a Nextel Cup stock car. They are technically superior in every way, so much so that monkeys could probably drive them.
Which, come to think of it, might be better for the series's long-term health than having a bunch of Europeans with all those vowels in their surnames drive them.
I've long been a fan of formula-style racing, so you'd have a hard time convincing me the Europeans - guys who know how to turn right as well as left - aren't the best drivers in the world. It's just that drivers with umlauts in their names don't move merchandise at the T-shirt trailers.
The first time I saw the Indianapolis 500 live, in 1973, only two of the 33 drivers were foreigners. More importantly, legends such as Mario Andretti and A.J. Foyt and Johnny Rutherford and Gordon Johncock and the Unsers, Al and Bobby, were going everywhere fast. And that was the year NASCAR's Bobby Allison drove in the 500, because that's the race that every American driver aspired to win.
Contrast that with this year's Vegas Grand Prix, which featured only two Americans in the starting field. You may have heard of Graham Rahal's father , Bobby, the 1986 Indianapolis 500 winner. If you say you've heard of Alex Figge, you must be related to him. Or lying.
It's a circle more vicious than the oval at Darlington. With NASCAR controlling the marquee talent (except Danica Patrick), the lucrative TV deal, the corporate sponsors and, almost as important, the imagination of the American racing fan, the Grand Prix promoters were forced to spend a boatload of money just to put its show on the road downtown with really no way to get a return on its investment.
Visa, the title sponsor, bailed before the first gentleman started his engine. Grandstand tickets went for $30 - a decent seat at most NASCAR races costs $100 or more - which sounded like a great deal for local gearheads. Until they discovered they could watch from the top of the parking garages - easily the best vantage point on the circuit, especially with a $2 beer in hand - for free.
In the short run, the Vegas Grand Prix was a great deal for fans and Will Power, the Australian driver with the fabulous name who will most likely go down as its only winner, unless another fool - er, promoter - with a big bag of cash and an even bigger dream moves the pit lane and temporary grandstands to another part of town.
Although I will miss the sound of Paul Tracy stripping his gears on Main Street, I suppose I will survive without the Champ Cars.
But I still have my fingers crossed that chuck wagon racing will make a comeback.
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