Justice Sunday

That's right. If these crazy mothers have their way, that's where we're all headed -- up the friggin' smokestack. Anyone who doesn't think the United States should be ruled by an iron-fisted totalitarian regime of plutocratic theocratic Fascists better stock up on flame-retardant suits. According to this article in the Rolling Stone the Christian Right is turning in their pulpits for Panzers.

God save us, indeed.

Viva Las Neon Hell Part Three: [Grand]Son of Las Neon Hell

Note: There will be no links in this post. I have not the time. Take some initiative yourselves and look up whatever you're curious about, dammit. Do I have to do everything for you people? I'm a MAN not a MACHINE!*

Gaaah!

I have literally hours and hours of work to do. I woke up early [7:45 a.m.!] to do it. It is now 10:14 a.m. and I have, as yet, done none of it. Instead I am writing on my blog. I have fully succumbed, finally and really.

So. To finish off the "Viva Las Neon Hell" trilogy. Right. We were to the Kerouac exhibit.

Yes, so we awoke somewhere in the vicinity of noon and dragged our boozy, degraded, broken selves from bed. We oozed into the car. We slithered through the blazing midday sun. It was hellacious.

Traffic was a god-awful nightmare -- miles upon miles of grinding, honking, glinting, screaming, dusty, gritty, smoking, sweaty motorists, just inching their way somewhere, anywhere. They were looking for the action, wherever it was. They didn't care. We felt like tiny white corpuscles, slowly squeezing our way through thick, clotted avenues of diseased blood. Our heads hurt.

Our driver -- who I'll call "Max" -- was wheezing and fuming with rage. His face was a deep burgundy behind aviator sunglasses. The customary Parliament Light cigarette was clenched fiercely between his teeth. It was jerking up and down as he ground his jaw back and forth. His head jerked from side to side -- blood-shot eyes scanning for an opening. Stop and go. Stop and go. Inch forward. Honk. Curse. Inch forward. Stop and go.

We had called nearly three different libraries in the Greater Las Vegas Area -- none knew anything about the exhibit. "Kerouac? Who's that?"

This shouldn't have surprised us -- Las Vegas is not known as a haven for this country's literati. All the same -- Kerouac? I can understand your run-of-the-mill average Joe-Schmo Budweiser drinker not knowing who Kerouac was. But a library? Jesus H.

Disappointed and barely moving on our quest to see The Scroll, Max was reaching some kind of breaking point. He was becoming erratic; something that isn't safe in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Suddenly his cell phone rang.

Max: "What?!"
Caller: [Inaudible].
M: "I'm in fu-king LAS VEGAS, that's where!"
C: [Inaudible]... "Las Vegas?"
M: "Trying to see this motherf-cking Kerouac manuscript and all these sons of b-tchs are in my motherf-cking WAY, God-amnit!"
C: [Inaudible].
M: "WHAT HAPPENED? LAS VEGAS HAPPENED."
[At this point, Ben sticks his head out the window and begins screaming wildly at the cars flanking us].
M: "This city should be BOMBED and toothbrush-combed by archaeologists to figure out what the f-ck went wrong with American society!"
C: [Inaudible].
M: [Much more calm] "Yeah, yeah. I'll call you later."

We were all shocked in the car. Max, however, seemed more settled after his outburst.

Miraculously, as we sat at one of the thousands of interminable stoplights that infest that town, Max asked a man idling next to us, "Where's the f-cking Kerouac!" "The Rainbow Library. Six blocks down, take the next exit," he responded.

Hallelujah.

Max, fired by our triumph, flashed a nicotine-stained grinned and roared off, dodging cars and motorcycles.

We screeched to a halt in the Rainbow's parking lot -- next door to a Kentucky Fried Chicken, Wal-Mart and a Big Lots -- and ran into the building.

It was cool and quiet. Dimly lit. It smelled good. We had found sanctuary.

Suddenly the frenetic pace we'd been laboring under for more than 40 some hours slowed to that of a collection of devout monks. We bowed and slowly shuffled toward The Exhibit.

It was closed for lunch.

Fighting back a primal shriek of rage, Max tensely asked the head librarian if there was any way we could get access to The Scroll. He looked at us with some skepticism. By this time we were a sweating, shivering mass. Bleary-eyed and greasy. Max's head had taken on a spastic movement -- fueled by wells of hate, he jerked around like an angry ostrich.

"Uh... where are you guys from?" he asked with trepidation, glancing at the security guard.

"Ah'm frum Al'uh-BAMA," our other compatriot (who I'll call "'Bama" for obvious reasons) immediately piped up, pride evident in a slight quaver of the voice.

"Idaho... uh... IDAHO. That's... uh... wherewe'refrom. Yeah. Idaho. Over 2,000 miles to see this. Straightthroughthenight. We drove. Yesterday. Kerouac," Max stuttered and spat, eyes twitching and darting around the room.

"Me too," I said.

"Well, okay," the librarian was obviously a conservative man. Beaten down by years of silence and disrespect. Vegas is a tough town anyway, even tougher on librarians. "I guess I can let you in."

With that, we were admitted to a private viewing of The Scroll.

It was magnificent. The room was like a shrine. More dim than the main library, softly lit by recessed bulbs high in the vaulted ceiling. Muted blue-grey colors served as the back drop for several large black and white photos of Kerouac at work. In all the pictures The Scroll was visible. Finally, there, in the middle of the room sat an upraised glass case, more than 40 feet long -- like a casket. It was The Scroll. Unrolled only part way, most of its nearly 126 foot length was visible only at the end, where it turned from a sheet of delicately yellowing telex paper to a hefty roll about six inches thick.

It was beautiful. There were edits written on the page in pencil. There were words x'ed out by the typewriter. It was THE original copy. Untouched, save for by the author himself. As I've said before and since, despite the fact that Kerouac was a no-account drunk who couldn't be intimate with a woman unless he paid her for it, it is truly a thing of importance to view a work of art in its entirety. Slovenly and lazy good-for-nothing enthusiast that I am, it's good to see that some things are actually completed. I never seem to finish anything.

We wandered around in silence, snapped a few pictures (against the rules, but waived for our special Road Warrior status) and left quietly nearly a half hour later.

We smoked a few cigarettes in meditation.

"Well, I'm out of here," Max said, crushing his out.

He dropped 'Bama and me off at the Bellagio back on the Strip and barreled out of town, taking with him a pair of my pants, my drawing pad and my pens.

"I'm never coming back to this godforsaken sh-thole again!" he screamed waving at us as he roared from the casino.

'Bama and I secured lodging on the 20th floor of the hotel and proceeded to smoke and eat and wander around for the next day. While he is a Professional Gambler, and I am but a light-weight without enough money to buy food (much less risk it on games of chance) the rest of the trip is more his story than mine. Suffice to say, the 30 minutes with Kerouac more than made up for the other, more heinous aspects of our experience.

My blood is too thick for Las Vegas. I can't cotton to these people. I don't understand them and they don't understand me and if ever the twain do meet, I'm going to have to seriously re-assess my life -- or Las Vegas will have finally fallen down into that subterranean cesspool that I suspect gives it its power.

In closing -- bah!

*I guess there is one link. Go here for another version of this story. Written by "Max."

Viva Las Neon Hell Part Two: The Reckoning

So yes... The Second Installment. As I recall, we were to the part where I saw boobies and they looked much like the other boobies I've seen [both recreationally and academically].

The show was entertaining and a fine introduction to the Las Vegas night scene. Full of whiskey and good intentions, we sauntered on for some gaming. I lost $60 in ten minutes.

In a rage, we stormed from the casino. I charged with righteous fury up and down the strip -- shouting obscenities and denunciations at passersby. This town was an abomination! I screamed. "Blasphemy!" I worked up into a frothy fever pitch the likes of which even Billy Sunday would have been proud. I was the Apocalypse come to Las Vegas. Then I remembered that it wasn't even my money. I was still pissed.

In my vein-bursting anger I shouted viciously that I wanted to see someone waste money on something that made sense. Something like booze... something like broads... The solution: Strippers.

I do not normally cotton to strip clubs. Typically I'm game for anything, but strip joints have never been high on my priority list. Nonetheless, I was blind with disgust at the wanton waste of money in games of chance. One of my associates [names will not be used to protect the guilty] suggested strippers. Thus, strippers would do -- they were proof that people still wasted money on good, wholesome lust.

It was loud in the Crazy Horse Too [Don't ask me why it's "Too," I'm sure it harkens to some bawdy inside joke. I don't care]. It smelled of baby powder and cigarette smoke -- an unholy combination that reminded me of those god awful movies in the early 1990s in which the world collectively lost its mind and decided talking babies were all the rage. Women sauntered -- almost with an expression of boredom -- topless and with butt cheeks jiggling. From my vantage point [drinking a $7.00 Budweiser... in the bottle] a sea of back-lit male heads was laid out before me -- punctuated here and there by half naked women, swaying and pumping to Siquo and Nelly. It was an ungodly sight.

Once my other associate arrived fresh from gambling elsewhere we took seats in one of the floor areas -- near the stage but nearer to the bar. These areas were arranged in circles of plush chairs -- with arms perfectly padded and structured to accommodate the knees of any number of swaying and pumping girls.

I could hear nothing. My associates quickly procured private dancers [$20 a pop] but I, being a kept man, had no plans of entertaining a gyrating woman on my lap.

Suddenly, one wandered over and attempted to entice me. I was non-pulsed, but she informed me that "they" had already paid. I glared viciously at my associates -- what is one supposed to do when a nearly-nude woman virtually tells you she's going to sit on you? I acquiesced.

Her name was "Shar." She was 31 years old and African-American. She moved to Las Vegas nearly 10 years ago from her hometown of Chicago -- "The Windy City," as she informed me. She is a student at the University of Nevada Las Vegas studying criminology and has far-reaching insightful views on the state of American Law post-911. During the day she is a loan officer for the bank I use -- she gave me advice on forebearance vs. deferment.

How do I know all this? Because I talked to her -- non-stop as her bare silicone swollen breasts were enveloping my head. Surprisingly, she responded cheerfully -- as if we had been friends for years. We laughed and talked. All the while she rubbing her ass on me. It was a very odd experience -- the opposite of erotic. It was almost as if her sensual undulations were mere handshakes -- pats on the back from one friend to another. I have never been so un-aroused by a nude-ish woman and had so much fun with her.

My associates, disappointed at my inability to slap and rub my dancer ordered another [unbeknownst to me]... one that didn't speak English. I weasled it out of her that she was from Brazil. I forget her name. Her family lives there still but she hates them. She refuses to send them money and wants to move to New York where the strip clubs are "of more classiness." She asked if I was gay.

At this point I signalled violently to my associates that I would not entertain any more women between my legs. They smiled as another swaggered over.

This girl, "Bridgette," was 22 years of age -- a native of Indiana. Huntsville I think [if that's even in Indiana]. She moved to Las Vegas at 20 looking for adventure and found stripping to be a satisfactory profession. In fact, she told me, she loved to strip. She was by far the most attractive stripper I had seen and seemd possessed of a genuinely fine personality. How much of this was motivated by the fact that she was making $20 p/10 minutes I don't know. I do know that I would be all smiles if that were my wage.

She ordered shots [on one of my associates' tab] and danced on/with [?] me probably $60 worth. I enjoyed her, but still not in an erotic fashion.

At this point, my associates split for the "back room(s)." One left his coat for me to watch, the other merely disappeared. I was approached repeatedly by strippers -- asking me for dances. Since I had no money of my own, I was safe from their advances. Nonetheless, somehow or another I came to speaking with two such ladies of the Seige of Constantinople. I believe the conversation came up in reference to the Mosque/hamburger stand I mentioned earlier at the Aladdin Casino. I remarked that it reminded me of what would have happened had the tables been turned in that fateful battle and "western" Christianity had sacked the seat of Islamic authority.

They seemed interested, but that may have been because they didn't believe I had no money. I'm sure women in the Las Vegas "entertainment industry" are used to eccentric horn-dogs.

Roughtly five hours later [and after something like two phone calls to each] I was relieved. Apparently my phone calls provided some type of stimulation. I don't like to think about it.

As this tid-bit was being relayed to me I was blinded [blound?] by a piercing shaft of golden light. "Jesus Christ! Who turned on that spotlight?" I thought.

It was the sun.

It was roughly 8:00 a.m. and I was faced with the fact that we'd been in this strip club for about six hours.

The cab ride back to this generous good man's house [see Viva Las Neon Hell part one] was uneventful. Mostly I maligned my associates for leaving me with hungry strippers for upwards of three hours.


I slept hard until around 12:30 p.m.

It was then that we visited the Kerouc Exhibit.

But... more on that in Part III.

Viva Las Neon Hell

I'm a simple man. My vices: cigarettes, booze and self-righteousness. I do not gamble.

So it's interesting that I found myself in the City of Sin, the Den of Iniquity, the most "Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy," Las Vegas.

Ostensibly, I was making the 21.5 hour trek south into the Badlands to view the scroll of Jack Kerouac's On the Road. From March 31 - April 3 I made that journey. I lived and breathed and walked in Las Vegas. I saw On the Road and I was touched -- for nearly 20 minutes.

It was beautiful. One long stretch of telex paper -- nearly 126 feet long -- and typed up in a "blazing six weeks" (according to Wikipedia.com). To keep the sappiness to a minimum, as a jack-ass bastard who can't finish anything, it was inspiring to see so much "completeness" in one spot -- the whole thing was right there. His spelling and grammar mistakes were there x'ed out, whole sections were crossed and replaced, there were pencil edits in the margins. Suffice to say it was at once inspiring (to see something so historic and unique presented in its unbelievably raw and complete form) and depressing (to see something so historic and unique presented in its unbelievably raw and complete form and to know that I will never ever not in a million years ever in my life be able to do anything even remotely as cool or important. Ever).

So, it was bitter sweet.

I'll flash... backward. I guess.

Our drive was excellent. Over 20 hours into the night -- starting at 10 p.m. in Sandpoint and arriving in Vegas around 7:30 p.m. the next day. We rode US 95 south and hit the Nevada border somewhere near... uh... nowhere... at dawn.

We spent the remainder of the day at top speeds straight through the middle of the state -- alternately sleeping and smoking cigarettes. It was very beautiful in a very (in some cases) unbeautiful way.

Finally arriving in Las Vegas we quickly delved into the sordid and nasty business of LIVE NUDE GIRLS. Well, partially nude. It was called X. It was an erotic adventure. Thanks to the incredible generosity of a very good man -- friend to Ben and friend (by proxy of his younger brother) to me -- this good man is intimately involved in the promotion business. He got us to this show and showed us a very good time. (Free drinks, behind the rope, VIP section). It was exciting for a simple man such as I, but alas, "seen one set of boobies, damn near seen them all."

Amazing acrobatics and very impressive choreography I will say. Still, the experience left me a little off-kilter. There's a mosque with a burger stand in there. I'll tell you all about it in the next post, as this is the first part in a long tirade (meaning: Danielle wants to go home so I'm cutting it short for now). Look for part two in the next day (or so).

To be continued...............