In the days leading up to my flight to Las Vegas I thought incessantly of two songs — Elvis Presley’s “Viva Las Vegas” and Mojo Nixon’s “Elvis is Everywhere.” For me Vegas was the land of Elvis or, more accurately, Elvis impersonators. Imagine my disappointment when I didn’t see a single pompadoured, glittery jumpsuit-wearing, middle-aged man anywhere. Where were the Elvis wannabes? Where was the campy Vegas that I had imagined? Twelve years ago, on my first and only other trip there, I hadn’t seen any signs of him then, either. Had Mr. Presley left the city? And, if so, who or what had replaced him? Temples of consumption. That’s what has usurped the King. Immense, themed hotels filled not only with gaming tables but also with toney restaurants, high end stores, and extremely pricey shows. Anyone who has picked up a magazine or newspaper or turned on his TV in the past 10 years knows of Vegas’s amazing rebirth. And, yet, I still expected to see some hint of the old, cheesy fun. The Imperial Palace was the closest that I got to this. It was, however, more tacky than fun. I stayed there with my friend Marilee, …