September 10, 2005

town drunks are not permitted

The drive from Ventura to Vegas through L.A. sucks. It is boring, fast, and gets progressively hotter. I took some moving pictures just so that I would have something to show for my troubles.

In the Los Angeles area I pass through Hollywood on 101 hoping at least to see something of the place, but the highway is sunken. Travelling south shows very little. I see the scenic Vivid productions building and the Capitol Records building. I don’t even get to see the Hollywood sign in the hills, well, only microscopically in my rear view. Whoo.

Then on to a 70 mph series of twelve lane freeways passing below crazy looping interchanges five concrete bands high. It is mildly impressive.

On to Barstow, a small desert town I blow by. Things are getting hot, and by the time I reach Baker and stop at the Denny’s for food it has gone from 17 degrees on the coast to 40 degrees on the border of the Mojave Desert. There are interesting hills and rock formations and many cacti. Clearly this is the deathly arid country.

Just on the Nevada/California border there are two huge casinos complete with themed rides. Your quickest escape from L.A. to gambling I suppose. From there it is a mad dash to Vegas and the strip. I am chagrined to admit that it is impressive – disgusting, and extremely impressive. Anything you could want is here and I’m sure that literally anything is available for a price. After a bit of fumbling about the strip I meet up with my Vegas contact. I will be crashing his couch for the next few evenings.

First on the list: get smashed. We go out for tasty $2.75 burgers and hop from one to another local beer hole. They are dark, depressing, and full of beer. Just as they should be. One in particular has a great selection of import beverages that we consume with alacrity. Next it’s on to the strip.

First stop is the Luxor (I think?) for parking. Then we tram about to various places. It is a mostly garish, sometimes tasteful display of light and pomp. Everything is for sale and everything will be bought by someone. Everything is themed and the mishmash of “cultures” is fascinating. It can only be experienced here. What to do now? The first and most pressing task is to throw some money at the slots. We lose. But the beer is free, so the way I see it there is no losing.

After all, in Vegas, everyone’s a winner.

Having won enough beer we move on to the gelato shop. I ask for a taste of the coconut cream and the waitress recoils from my voice. Clearly I have drunk breath. A quick check lets me know that everyone can smell it because I can smell it myself. We are the town drunks now carrying plastic cup take-out microbrew around an upscale Vegas casino/hotel/mall. There are families everywhere and it is no later than eight in the evening. But no one cares, as this is the norm here in crazy town. The scrunch-nosed girl offers me a taste of chocolate. Whatever, I like chocolate. I order a strawberry cup after much deliberation, which is at least partially manufactured to annoy the recently theme-married couple behind me. Are they drunk? There is no telling over the stink of my own ketones. There is liquid chocolate pouring down an elaborate ten-foot tall glass fountain behind me. I want to bathe in it. Would that be enough to be thrown out? I suspect not, so long as I have a major credit card in my possession. I am still staring at the chocolate when it is suggested that we move on.

Next on the agenda is a trip up the pyramid. Town drunks are not permitted up the pyramid without a valid room key. We have no such key, and so we follow a well meaning Mexican family into the “inclinator”.

“Which floor is yours?” The kid asks.

“The top floor.” I say.

“This elevator doesn’t go to the top floor, I think you want the one on the other side.”

I push the button for the fifteenth floor. When the elevator starts we are unprepared for the angled departure and stagger nearly to our knees.

“Not so good for drinking I don’t think.” Says the little bastard.

The fifteenth floor is, I estimate, about two thirds the way up the pyramid. The corridors are organised such that you are walking basically on air supported (presumably) by some cantilever system. I have unanticipated vertigo. The handrail is maybe four feet tall. It is impossibly dangerous I think. Why in the name of god don’t they have some manner of screen here? Why is no one thinking for the drunk people? If I fall, I’ll sue.

We make one round and descend the inclinator with better readiness. Onward again past a Japanese restaurant with an aquarium full of neon jelly fish, past a giant slot machine, past an expensive wine shop with surrealist wine goblets at $450 a pop, past another gelato shop, past fortune tellers, past men in tuxedos, past go-go girls dancing in perfect synchronicity on bar tables, past wizened old ladies passing out tickets for escorts to teenagers, past police officers, past elaborate fountains, past tigers in glass cages, and anything else you could possibly imagine.

I am bushed, but we press on. We alternate bathroom breaks, and while one uses the automatic soap-squirting device, the other plays slots. There is an unspoken rule that the blackjack will not begin until tomorrow.

Finally, on the verge of passing out, we head to an off-strip sake house for appetizers and exotic drinks. And ramen. Nearly dead tired now, unhealthily pickled and over-stimulated, we return to the flat for sleep. I guess I have now officially blitzed Vegas, but tomorrow is another day.