Home To The Cretins

When the air whips and turns, when the sand sings at eye-level and the gentle spray of desert water cools your head and sets your brain straight, that's when you know you're there.

No, fuck it. We'll be wearing shorts. 50 degrees is warm, you scumbags.

This will be my 8th trip to the Heartland, and each one of them has brought a renewal in values and an examination of priorities. You can't make gold without protons, neutrons and electrons, and you can't make Vegas without change cups, whiskey and Sports.

Depending on the crowd, the old girl can be quite a mean monster. I've come home with less than nothing a few times. Hell, one time I went, blew every cent I had, then borrowed 300 bucks from my friend and lost that. I wrote him post-dated checks, he cashed them, and they bounced. They got words for that.... they start with G and end with "etto".

I'm obsessed with what I call "street level" in Vegas. I believe the town exists in certain strata, and that tourists rarely step outside their specific caste. You won't see the pretenders from Stratosphere or Sahara stomping downtown, just like you wouldn't see me and my attorney bellying up to a 50 dollar table at the Luxor. Those days have passed. I'm not pretending anymore. I don't pay for pussy, either.

You see, down here, you get the real shit. Real impulses are fulfilled. Real emotions are thrown up like $1.99 eggs from Binions. Real tears flow, and real lies are told. "Hey man, my car ran out of gas and I need ten bucks to get out of here". Sure, hell, why not? Go put it on red, pal. I'll be right the fuck next to you, betting big black. And odd. In this town, there's no other way to bet.

Ghosts walk these streets. Mutants sweep them. Rookie cops ride bicycles, underage sluts bark at patrons outside strip clubs, and mexicans drink footballs of beer. Jesus Christ. It's fucking nirvana. Crushed velvet furniture fills backroom bars that are hidden from view, and plasma screens show you how you are making money. It's a river, this town. Money flows like vodka from a backpack dispenser. Time doesn't move here, and neither do lines, unless you put down two big boys on a point total over. But not those lines... those are for upstairs. You wonder why they put "vanity" mirrors in the suites. Yeah, I'm vain alright. Vain like a fox.

There's whores out there, and there's whores in here, and we're all whores, I guess. We come from towns nobody's heard of to meet, congregate, and push things to their limits. I suppose there's a reason for all this, there's some cosmic debate that pits this place against, say, the Garden of Eden. There's good, there's bad, and we struggle to define both of them, to somehow give it language, to identify and deconstruct it. And while that happens, we're asked for change, told another sob story, ignored by a dealer with a diamond ring bigger than my fist, amused by drunks singing along to lounge entertainers, and served chinese food at 4 in the morning. Because sweet mother in heaven, we'd have it no other way. This is where it is, where it breathes. That never-ending dream, that vision of perfection and utter decay. That ideal. It's here. Look around. See that? That's your fucking life. It's American Life.

You play the games, you make the bets, and you offer yourself as a sacrifice to Money. You hold your trips, raise your Qs, and bet the Dragon hand when you've got 3 pair. If you need advice, here, I have some. Free of charge...

Put everything you have on odd.