The Guts

It's coming. The war looms on the horizon and the best lack all convictions. Mere anarchy is about to be loosed upon this little world.

We cannot hold it. We can give way to it, we can fight it, but the guts will be scattered. No, more accurately, they will be killed. They will all die, all these scumbag degenerates. This rotting pile of human waste will be cleaned away, swept to other areas, where it will continue to fester. You can't fight them, but you can move them, easily. They are going to be here forever... in one form or another. You push them from The Club, they'll land at The Shoe. You push them from the Shoe, watch out Silver Saloon. They're coming your way.

And at the end of it all, when this downtown goes through its "renovation", the Powers will have sapped the lifeforce from this place. They will have taken what was once beautiful, strange and magnificent, and turned it into a cruise with neon. Not many people will notice. Kids will walk the streets, gladly holding their father's hand as they sing a song about the funny bear who greeted them at the Big Wheel. Mom will put the mascara back into her purse and retrieve a pamphlet informing her and her kind of the next Big Belly Busting ComedyZone show at the building with the cascading lights.

And somewhere, Moses will die.

But fuck all that, let's get into this thing. The mentality of this place is becoming suffocating. The thoughts and conversations of the damned have penetrated my thoughts, and no doubt, the battle lines have been drawn all around us. We're at a serious disconnect here. The negativity is running high... we cannot even hold dialogue anymore. The broke scum just go deeper, they hide in their caverns of insufficient self-worth. "Right on brother! My name's Jack from California. I'm trying to quit smoking.... would you mind if I had one of your cigarettes?" Jesus Christ, of course not. With a statement like that, I'd be a fool not to.

The Message is one of those guys who is just flat out going to end up getting the shit kicked out of him in front of some pawn shop one night. The guy doing the kicking might pull a knife or he might not - it's irrelevant. The point is that eventually, the bill comes due on all the gab. And also, like Ice Cube said, eventually he's going to need to cut that jerry juice and get a ball-head. Because the locks keep dripping, and when you talk like he does, you put a sign on yourself. Bet all you want, cheer however you please, but when you call people out, you get a name. And a name to us is just a way of identifying you. To others, those who slam fists down onto tables because they want to go to jail, your name is your certificate. Cube would call it the Death Certificate.

They're not all like that though. Most are caricatures of lost life, of ambitions broken and remade into more modest goals. Dollar hotdogs at Fremont, ham and eggs in the basement, 4 finger omelets in the Great Moments room. They stay low, under the radar. When the Club closed, they were the great silent majority. They're here now, but they are nameless. They occupy their space, occasionally asking for smokes or berating a waitress, but they are the ultimate in expendable. With all due respect, they are the reason places like this close. They bet their 2 dollar shows, they fill the air with stench and foul language, and they eventually try to steal someone's wallet on Fremont. Just hope it's not yours.

Sitting directly in front of me is one of the smallest asian men I have ever seen. He talks about things very quietly, but occasionally, he watches a missed basket and screams out "Fixed!" Apparently, the entire NBA is fixed, with everyone in on the take. It's funny in a way, because he maintains a smile throughout the whole thing, but he also represents something here. He represents that paranoia, that internal gas that comes with being a Gambler. We all feel it... Kobe makes it more real than others. But there is a palpable sense that We Don't Know What's Really Going On. And it hurts. Blackjack dealers can hide cards, and Pai-Gow is just plain stilted towards the house, but in sports, we feel free. We don't want to think that the man behind the curtain makes all the calls, that he determines who wins and who eats nachos from the Plaza snack bar. But it's always there. Rather than hide from it, Fixed has decided to embrace it. If they're going to fix the game, god damn it, he's going to call them on it. Doesn't make him a winner, but it does make him a person, which is more important than just about anything here.

You can see it everywhere you go. It never ceases, only grows stronger. The battle between the Clean and the Real. There is a middle ground. It's called Dep, Dizz, B'n P, and Chief. We are here to observe it all. We are here to understand it, to celebrate it, and to offer a bridge from one side to the other. We're just as comfortable listening to Talk About It talk about it as we are seeing the big superfans #99 Wisconsin dyed-in-the wool homers sit quietly and root their Badgers to certain victory against the scumbags from N'Western. I mean, what's the goddamned point anyway? It's all nothing... it's all some grand game that's going to continue to churn and froth maniacs and cast-offs into the night sky like so much fairy dust, so why worry?

Am I worried about getting my wallet stolen by someone who just dumped a hog on the Bears? Yeah, as much as usual. Am I a bit uneasy about a late-night trek to the Fitz for gamblin and eatin? Sure, you never know what the shadows hold. But the biggest thing that worries me is the re-allocation. These things, they are on foreign turf. Softball wanders into the Nugget with his protege, and everyone stands at attention. What is going on here? What's a scumbag in windpants doing in a nice place like this? Hell, these guys sitting behind me bought land in the 50s for 5 grand an acre, now they're selling it for 150,000. I guess they are right to be smoking cigars right now. But Softball is never right. It's his kind that make the Barrick machine stronger.

You can't rip the guts out of this place, it's true. But you can rip this whole place out, and you can replace it with a brand of fun that is better described in an US Weekly than "Young Roomates" flyers in newspaper dispensers. The game is on now, and we have no way of fighting it. They're killing my Vegas, destroying it one supersized lunch at a time. Yes, that's right.... cater to them. Make them comfortable. Give them the comedy shows and the slot tournaments. More food, that will do it. The sex, ah, there's the rub. How to get rid of it? Put it everywhere, incorporate it, but don't let the horses stray too far from their television. I Dream of Jeannie machines in every corner. Hit them up for the Player's Club, get the info, lower the rates, kill the sportsbooks. Shed the scum, keep the Money.

And so it goes. A little bit more is chipped away from the fading Golden Dome. And these bastards don't even put it on their helmets. I suppose it's inevitable, this progress.

But that doesn't mean I have to wear pants yet.