Greetings from Sin City

I am writing this blog from high above the Las Vegas strip, at the Paris Casino and Resort.

Las Vegas, a city that is a beacon of hope to immigrants around the world (ask any of the Ethiopian cab drivers), the fin de siecle of capitalism, a hive of scum and villany to rival Mos Eisley spaceport, an environmental disaster, a marvel of high technology, a place to win, or more likely, lose a fortune gambling, and a place to try out shooting a machine gun at The Gun Store, all at the same time.

People are either invigorated by Vegas, or, well, it saps their souls. Often both, come to think of it, so make that 'or' an 'and/or' (try saying that three times after your fourth Corona of the afternoon).

I always find inspiration for writing when I visit Las Vegas, whether it's imagining the story of the two joggers I saw wave as they passed each other (one overly-muscled and designer-draped heading away from the strip, the other overweight and shambling in a dirty tee shirt and jeans heading towards the strip), thinking about what goes on in the Club Platinum "Gentleman's Club" (Video Poker. Full Bar.), a concrete shack that sits a half block away from the towering, luxurious-looking Platinum Hotel and Spa, or after learning about the Atomic Viewing Parties Las Vegas residents threw in the '50s during nuclear tests at the Atomic Testing Museum. (And did you know that the Nevada Test Site is also home to a conventional weapons testing facility know as BEEF - for the Big Explosive Experiment Facility?)

The Russian woman at the blackjack table paying for an at-table back massage with $25 chips after 110 minutes of therapy, at $2 / minute. The couple from Canada in imminent danger of missing their plane home because they're on a hot streak. The South American couple, young and obviously in love, handing out the "Girls to Your Room" cards and flyers to unaccompanied men on the street.

Not to mention anyone who would pay $30 to put on a parka and have one drink at a bar chilled to minus five degrees Fahrenheit. They're all grist for the mill.

Time to stock up some more.

Thanks for reading,

Stephen