A Note From The Road - Vegas to Albuquerque

There's a woman and her two brats in front of me in the queue at the gates to get the hell out of Hell. The daughter is fairly undisturbed, despite the fact that she is toddler age, but I can already tell that the son is going to make my next twelve hours on the bus my penance for not giving in to the various temptations of Sin City. He will not stop moving around. My patience is wearing thinner than usual, as not only am I still trying to gather my ramshackle shreds of sanity together after my experiences of Vegas, but there's a tell-tale catch in my throat and I know something is festering in my chest cavity. It's not a good situation from the outset.

And wouldn't you know it, it gets worse.

I'm somewhere in the backdeserts of Nowhere, Arizona en route to Flagstaff. The bastard spawn is sitting directly in front of me. The girl, quiet though she was at the beginning, has been screaming at random intervals throughout the trip and the boy is giving his long-suffering mother grief by hassling the yelling girl. That catch has developed into a full blown sore throat, I'm red hot from fever and white hot with rage. Worse still, we've picked up a drunk. He's been hollering from the back of the bus since Henderson, NV and the bus driver's protests do nothing, because he doesn't speak a work of English and the driver isn't fluent in imbecile. We get held up as he gets kicked off the bus. That's my favourite part of Greyhound's policy - you cause trouble, you get packed off at the next stop and left there to sober up and wait for the next form of transport to shoot through and rescue you. The stop the drunk is stranded at won't see a bus for the next TEN HOURS and there's nothing around except for tumbleweed and skin cancer.

At the next stop, a guy gets on the bus and he has NO FOREHEAD. A huge chunk is missing from the top of his head. It's concave. His nose is grizzled, his hair is barely hanging onto his tightly-skinned skull and oh my god, if this was a film I'd be dead in an hour's time after he hijacks the bus and drives it off a cliff. And he's one of the more attractive patrons.

Some many hours later, I've managed to get a good two hours worth of rest and I'm gradually feeling worse as the minutes progress. The kid in front of me keeps looking back in my direction and every so often he shoots me a cheeky look, but there's also a note of concern in his eyes. As the sunlight fades and we near Albuquerque, his mother and sister fast asleep nearby, he works his tiny hand through the gap so that it reaches beyond the head rest and over into my side where my hand is resting against the window and the little fucker grabs hold. He looks about as tired as I feel, and we sit holding hands on and off for the rest of the bus ride. To this day it remains one of the most heart-warming and innocent gestures I've ever received from another human being.

Damn kids.

As we step off the bus a storm erupts around us, the stifling heat from the day erased by the downpour. The air instantly felt fresher. I waved goodbye to my little buddy and mouthed a thank you. I don't think he understood.

Las Vegas - July 30th - August 4th: The Inferno

Isn't Vegas photogenic!?! Mm. Good. Now that I've said something kind and loving and Christian, let's get down to the nasty stuff.

Attention: Potential Terrorists (if you're reading this) - stop attacking London, Glasgow & Tanzania and go for Las Vegas instead. You'll be doing myself, God and Darwin a favour by wiping out a huge chunk of stupid from the gene pool.

Attention: CIA/ASIO/etc agents (if you're reading this) - I don't condone terrorism nor am I plotting anything, I'm simply a humble would-be despot, waiting for her little revolution to begin. There will be no need for any water boarding here, thanks.

Looking back over a year on from my time in Vegas and having read the entire Divine Comedy since then, I can't help but compare myself to Dante. The both of us have been to Hell and back. This is the story of how I suffered through the circles of Hell in The City of Sin (irrelevant circles have been omitted for the sake of my fingers and your sanity).

THE FIRST CIRCLE: LIMBO

From the outset I have to say that Vegas, despite it being a godforsaken dust bowl that only a bunch of morons and Mormons would call home (that was something of a tautology wasn't it...) , has a few not-horrible elements to it. Take that photo up there for example. That's a shot of the water show outside the Bellagio hotel where they've a rigged series of fountains to go off in time with music (the word music is here used in its loosest possible definition, seeing as one of the 'tunes' used in the fountain show was 'God Bless The U.S.A). The Bellagio Cafe is also the only place in Vegas where you can get a decent meal without needing to tart yourself up in your best D&G or suffer the horrors of the fried chicken buffets. It's also home to this stunning ceiling artwork in the lobby. The other not-horrible casino is The Mirage/Treasure Island, purely because they've managed to cover the stench of cigarette smoke by filling the entire place with the scent of coconut oil and frangipani. That being said, I still wouldn't want to be shipwrecked there, especially seeing as this is supposed to be paradise, but there are worse places you could be stuck in, such as...


THE SECOND CIRCLE: LUST

On my first day in town, bewildered by the scorching 40+ heat in the desert outside and the masses of people inside my hotel the Sahara, I somehow stumbled into a near-empty (for no place in Vegas is completely devoid of people) alley way. A couple pulled over in a convertible next to me and the 'gentleman' driver called out "Do you swing? She wants to know!" I'd been in Vegas for two hours at this point and the fun did not stop there.

Of course I was expecting Vegas to be rife with opportunities to indulge in the sins of the flesh and I am by no means a prude, but come on Vegas. Try and have some class. Is it really necessary to replace ALL of your legit newspaper boxes with row upon row of call girl catalogues? Must there be filthy looking proles giving out burlesque show leaflets to every single guy that walks past every single casino? In regards to the porn proles, I couldn't help but admire their tact - I must have passed over 150 of them (no, that's not an exaggerated figure...if anything it's a conservative estimate) in my three evenings out on the town and I was not given a single leaflet. The married couples were similarly spared. They also advertise burlesque production on huge billboards outside each casino and around town. All this, and the jury's still out on whether you're legally allowed to see completely unclothed tits.

That's right. Prostitution is illegal in Vegas (although I get the feeling it's illegal in the same sense that pot is technically illegal in Vancouver) and if I recall my U.S law correctly, you're only allowed to see nipple tasseled bosom in strip joints (please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong). The state of Nevada may be exempt from this, but knowing Vegas and its 'tease and please without actually delivering' culture, I would not be surprised. For the record, you're allowed to see tits in Portland (heaven knows I saw a lot more than that) and they've got a more subtle way of going about it.

The Third Circle containing the Gluttons has been omitted because you already know about the buffets. Yes, there are some fat people in Vegas. No one should be surprised there.


THE FOURTH CIRCLE: AVARICE

This one should be obvious. The goal of most visitors to Hell is to amass as much cash as possible by feeding great wads of the stuff into a blinking machine's mouth. I'm not going to discuss gambling here, mostly because I'm not stupid enough to partake in the activity. Unfortunately I was stupid enough to fall for some of the other tricks and pitfalls that Vegas employs in order to rob you blind.

For starters, good luck getting cheap internet access, much less FREE internet access on the Strip. You can't even hack into someone else's Wi-Fi network. Unlike most hotels/cities the nearest cheap internet in Vegas is a good five miles out of town, in the arse end of nowhere. Secondly, don't take a cab if you're heading off the Strip. In my quest for teh internets I handed over a decent portion of my cherished green trying to get to the internet cafe out in the Styx, thus eradicating any savings I thought I'd make by not using the Sahara's internet. I walked the five miles back that night and got hopelessly lost after realising that the main road into town doesn't have a footpath for a large chunk of the drag. This is southern America, people. Nobody walks here. I almost missed my scheduled Cirque Du Soleil performance but thankfully a wandering hobo helped me find my way back into town.

Now just what in the hell is the deal with Cirque Du Soleil? I saw the Love show because I felt like I should experience at least one major Vegas event and when it comes to these kinds of shows I'll take the Beatles over a stock standard wank circus, a vaguely gothic take on life in an Ewok village, and tits, tits and more tits. It's a decent enough diversion for one evening - there were a couple of cute little effects and tricks. That being said, the ticket price is ridiculous, the soundtrack doesn't include Across The Universe (my mind boggles at the exclusion of the most lyrically stunning track the Fab Four ever produced) and GOOD LORD ABSOLUTELY NOTHING MAKES A LICK OF SENSE. Why is there a drag queen tottering around the stage dressed as the bastard child of Elizabeth I and the talking wardrobe from Beauty and the Beast?!
I cannae understand it.

In conclusion: next time I think I'll opt for the titties titties titties.

THE FIFTH CIRCLE: WRATH/SLOTH

By the third morning of Vegas, I was ready to make a break for Purgatory. Unfortunately, I'd prepaid my room at the Sahara in advance so I decided to say fuck it all and barricaded myself in my room, with my pay-per-view movies and my room service and my steadily growing collection of novels as my means of survival. The night after Cirque Du Soleil, I watched Knocked Up for the first time and dear lord, I very nearly killed myself laughing when I realised what I was missing from my Vegas experience (scroll to the bottom of the interview).

I'm omitting the Sixth Circle of Heretics because I've already mentioned the huge Mormon population there and if you want some Latter Day Vitrol, go see my Utah entry.


THE SEVENTH CIRCLE: THE VIOLENT

It's hard not to be a lazy bitch in Vegas, seeing as your alternative is to walk around in the hot, sandy desert all the live long day/night. It's even harder to be a woman out on your own in a place like Vegas because this place really does take all kinds. If you are dumb enough to go off the Strip, ladies, I implore you to never go alone. On the Strip you're relatively ok simply because there are millions of people outside at all hours and most are too dumb/drunk/busy trying to pick up the dumb drunkards to bother hassling you. The second you go off the strip, however, is when the crazies begin to swoop and Las Vegas becomes frightening.

For the record, I am dumb enough.

I spotted a gigantic Vintage store out the window of my cab on my first day in Vegas, so I made a mental note to go and check it out before I left town. The Attic Vintage Store is one and a half miles away from the Sahara, so not that far to walk and it's not even that far off the Strip. I walked down Main St and was about three quarters of the way to my destination when I crossed in front of a white van at one of the blocks. It takes me three more blocks before I realise that I'm walking in front of the same white van every single time I hit a street corner and that's when the hair on the back of my neck starts to rise. That's also when the driver picks up on the fact that I've picked up on the fact that he wants to pick me up and begins motioning for me to get in the van. I'm not that dumb, so I keep walking. After another block, he starts driving down Main St at my walking speed, repeatedly motioning for me to get in the car before he starts to hit the brakes harder. That's the moment when I discover that I'm right near the Attic, so I bolt inside and spend the next half hour examining tatty old showgirl costumes and contracting rabies from the resident cat. The creepy driver is not stupid enough to follow me inside.

THE EIGHTH CIRCLE: THE FRAUDULENT

Let us go straight to Bolgia #10 which in the Inferno contains The Falsifiers. I'd like to throw a whole heap of the people who recommended Vegas to me straight into that pit. Before I left, a bunch of people inquired as to whether I was going to Vegas and when I stated that I wasn't quite sure, people were aghast. "WHAT? YOU DON'T WANT TO GO TO VEGAS? YOU HAVE TO DUDE, IT'S LIKE ONE OF THE MAIN PLACES TO SEE IN AMERICA, EVERYONE GOES THERE".

The next time I hear that come out of someone's mouth, I'll have two words for them. Fuck. Off. The most popular parts of America (I'm thinking LA, Vegas, NYC, D.C. here) are also the worst. Don't let anyone try and tell you different. The best thing to do in Vegas is leave - stay longer than a day and the city, like the ring of the Falsifiers, will make you sick. If you're really that desperate to see the place, search for the Strip on Google Maps and try and look at it during their daytime. You're in for a shock.

Contrary to what's in the rest of this blog, the worst element of Vegas isn't the gambling or the titties. It's the environment. Outside it's hot enough to boil the buttocks of a thousand ice monkeys and if the heat doesn't get you, the dust blown around from the construction sites will. Inside the casinos it is freezing. The constant blinking, buzzing and glowing from the slot machines envelopes your senses. The confusing aromas of perfume, food, boozehounds and cigarettes permeate the air. Everything is made to distract your mind from reality and a result, you end up in a state of stimuli overkill. I developed my pulsing headache on my second night, which all the Nurofen in the world could not kill off. As a novelty, I even tried one of the oxygen bars that are all over the Strip and while it dulled the ache enough for me to last another hour of wandering, my head was still bitching when I went to bed and it only got worse from there.

Despite all the false information relayed to me about Vegas, no outright acts of betrayal occured, so the Ninth Circle is not included.

As the sun was setting on my last day in Hell I boarded my Greyhound bus to the heart of New Mexico . We may have been travelling through the darkness, but I felt that I was finally making my way back to the Light.

Discography:

Surprisingly, not that many songs remind me of Vegas but special mention goes to Luscious Jackson's Sexy Hypnotist (yes, I did hum it constantly as I wandered around) and Tom Jones' It's Not Unusual because it always reminds me of that scene in Fear and Loathing.

A Note From The Road: San Francisco To Vegas

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, then it is walled with posters for bad conventions. All along Interstate 15 the view out the window is nothing but visual pollution (Lance Burton, one of these days I will hunt you down and take a scythe to your testicles...I had to see reproductions of your bastard, ugly mug no less than seventeen times down that endless stretch of desert and by the end I was praying that I would be given the opportunity to make you and your boyband-chic bangs magically disappear) and bat country. No, I did not get to pull over to the side of the road and utter that line from Fear & Loathing. Yes, I thought about running to the front of the bus and ordering the driver to hit the brakes, but the bus was packed and I figured such an act would be considered poor form.

This is not where our story begins.

Our story begins, as always, in a Greyhound station...and in this case it's L.A. I've been in Los Angeles for approximately forty five minutes and thirty seven seconds waiting to change buses and I'm already desperate to leave, mostly because it's getting hotter every minute and uglier every second. We were given a small tour of the city before we reached the main depot, even briefly pulling into North Hollywood and the only remotely interesting sight out the window was the sign for Mullholland Drive. Yes, I squealed. Inwardly. As for the rest of the place? If you're unfamiliar with the sights and smells of Los Angeles, well, think of everything negative you've ever heard about it. It's all true. Think of everything positive you've ever heard about it. Right. I'm going to assume they were talking about Disneyland which, for the record, is in Anaheim. Not L.A.

Twenty two minutes and sixty three seconds later, the line for the Vegas bus gets moving and we're off into the desert. I have found the secret to scoring your own seat on a Greyhound bus. If the bus is packed to the rafters, you have no chance whatesoever, suck it up and spray some perfume so you don't have to choke on the aroma of stale rum wafting over from the drunk next to you. If there's only one seat left and you want to be the lucky bastard who gets to sleep horizontal, nay, the bastard who gets to sleep period, then here's what you do:

1. Gather up all your hand luggage (you will need at least two items) and pile it on the empty seat next to you.
2. Assume the position: scowl on face, arms crossed over your chest, knees up near your hand luggage on the seat next to you.
3. As soon as passengers start boarding, cough up a lung. As loudly as possible. Hack up some phlegm if you wish. Your chances are doubled if you mutter to yourself afterwards.

It never fails. I should know - I've taken over fifteen Greyhound trips and I've only had to suffer the company of strangers four times. I got lucky on the LA - Vegas bus, the people you get on this route are all the American weekenders with dreams of cash windfalls that are the size of their triple-stacked, cheese-laden Louisiana fried chicken buffet platters. Unlike everyone else on the bus, I didn't have to spend the next few hours with my cheeks pressed against the window and someone else's cheeks spilling over onto my thigh.

We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the boredom began to take hold. You know you're in trouble when this is the sight that greets you out the window. I loathe to think of what the road is like beyond Vegas if the next place of note is Salt Lake City, christ. We scored a lunch break in the delightful dustbowl that is Barstow. The blast of air that floated upwards as we all exited the bus was furnace hot and through the haze and face-melting I could spot little more than a Starbucks, a Macca's and...well...I think you're starting to get the picture. I'm considering my options for instant heart failure when a stray black kitten pops up from behind a rock under the bus station, spys me, freaks and crosses my path in order to get away. I'm not usually one for superstition, dear readers, but you can and should look upon that event as foreshadowing.

The only other real town on the desert road is Baker and all I've got to say about Baker is that I witnessed the towering structure that is World's Largest Thermometer as we flew past and I now feel that my life is complete. Sleep overcame me, and I woke up just in time to see a giant pyramid. And a castle, which looks inflatable and would probably be a lot more entertaining if that were true. And a rollercoaster circling the landmarks of New York City. There is only one place in the universe pathetic enough to contain all three of these complexes. I had arrived.