The Vegas Diaries by Holly Madison is less juicy than her prior book, Down the Rabbit Hole. The book read as a recap of pearls, when her prior book read like a diamond, showing off the inside a bit more. The Vegas Diaries felt like the diary you might keep if your parents found it, while the real one was never out of your sight. You know the one where you put every little detail about how you really felt, while the decoy one says “I like Mike, Mike was nice.”
I was able to meet Ms. Madison for all of 10 seconds. You can’t tell a lot from a person in that time frame, and while she was nice, it was all so robotic, the smile, the head tilt. It’s funny, the fans go through the line, get their 10 seconds and then it’s over, done, they are still there signing, but your time is up. She was pregnant, so I’m sure that was the last place she wanted to be. Yet, it took the whole “you are a celebrity” and the flushed it right down the fancy toilet. Nice or not, robotic comes off as robotic.
If what we read is truth then I like to think that the importance of her reinvention is true. She carefully glosses up her life choices as poor. Any person should be able to relate. Hell, I can relate to making poor choices in my twenties. The stigma stays with you whether you made a stupid marriage decision or became Hugh Hefner’s number one girlfriend. The most important part of Holly’s entire story is her ability to intertwine Las Vegas and its constant need to reinvent itself with her need to remove herself as Hef’s GF. Yet, Vegas is still Vegas, an all niter-drunken-gambling-slutty collage of hotels, reinvented or not.
3 out of 5 stars – I want the real diary next time, not the decoy.