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Moonrise Over Vegas Thomas Van Stein |
Excerpted from Surreal Bounce (2009), privately printed in a limited edition of 150 copies.
Remember the days when despondent people ended their
lives by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge?
Now, according to the American Association of Suicidology, suicides are
cashing their final chips in Las Vegas, the new do-yourself-in capital of the United States.
The artist and I trek to Vegas with this
mission: Find out why people are
choosing a desert oasis known as sin city as their last stop of
choice.
I don’t gamble and I’m wholly
indifferent to casinos, so this is not about rationalizing a gambling
addiction, nor a way to visit Vegas as a tax write-off.
When
your plane lands at McCarran International Airport, you think you can reach out
and touch a view of the Southern Strip:
a black pyramid, a sphinx, a Manhattan skyline, throw in the
Eiffel Tower to evoke a sense of misplacement.
“It
just looks like it’s near,” says
our cab driver, flipping his meter. “An
optical illusion. That’s what Vegas is
mostly about. I should know, been here
forty years, the concrete business, helped build the place. It’s all
a mirage.”
He
drops me at Mandalay Bay Resort, named for its concrete compound of swimming
pools and beach mirage with simulated waves. Judging by the hordes that queue for an hour each morning to claim a
lounge, you’d
think this is Waikiki Beach. It’s a cool zone
for kids. If they were allowed in. But Vegas has done away with the animal exhibits and medieval jousting it once featured for attracting whole families.
My
room on the 28th floor features floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking The Strip.
But the windows don’t open, so you cannot free-fall into the view but must continue breathing air vented from the building’s bowels (a slow asphyxiation).
There is nothing about this room that suggests you should feel at home. This is no accident; it was designed that way.
This is because the resort owners want you out of your room, in th casino downstairs, giving your money to them.
But the windows don’t open, so you cannot free-fall into the view but must continue breathing air vented from the building’s bowels (a slow asphyxiation).
There is nothing about this room that suggests you should feel at home. This is no accident; it was designed that way.
This is because the resort owners want you out of your room, in th casino downstairs, giving your money to them.
Indeed. The
Mandalay’s hub
is a sprawling casino whose slot machines and gaming tables are positioned so
that you cannot avoid them, whatever your pleasure, whichever your
direction.
Trekking a quarter-mile through the casino from Point A (the elevator) to Point B (a bar), I become disoriented, and end up back at Point A.
Trekking a quarter-mile through the casino from Point A (the elevator) to Point B (a bar), I become disoriented, and end up back at Point A.
Can
misplacement, optical illusion, simulation and disorientation, individually or
in any combination, lead
to suicidal thoughts?
I
need a cocktail, quick, to sort this through.
At the outer-reaches of Mandalay, the décor of Rumjungle includes a wall of tortoise shells. Alas, they are not relics of an endangered species, but just another simulated mirage.
At the outer-reaches of Mandalay, the décor of Rumjungle includes a wall of tortoise shells. Alas, they are not relics of an endangered species, but just another simulated mirage.
The
artist is waiting at the bar. He’d flown in the
day before.
“Sorry,”
I say, “I got lost.”
“Happened
to me twice yesterday. What I’ve discovered so
far is everyone here is lost.”
Early
Vegas operators baited visitors by offering cheap food and accommodation to
pack them into casinos.
Now almost every high-class restaurant in the United States has staked a presence in the USA’s Number One tourist trap, along with high-class prices to match.
Plus an attitude that says, There are more people than restaurant seats in this town, bub, so book early, like, six months ago, or duke the maitre d’.
Now almost every high-class restaurant in the United States has staked a presence in the USA’s Number One tourist trap, along with high-class prices to match.
Plus an attitude that says, There are more people than restaurant seats in this town, bub, so book early, like, six months ago, or duke the maitre d’.
You’ve already
tipped the valet, the bellhop and the concierge, the latter to squeeze you into a magic show at a "brokered"
price.
The
artist is too broke to tip anyone, and that’s why he sits with an empty beer bottle at the bar,
where even the bartender ignores him.
I
order him a beer, a martini for myself.
“So what are we doing here?” he asks.
“Suicide.” I chew an olive at the end of my toothpick.
He
looks alarmed. “Both of us?”
I
nod. “It’s the eleventh leading cause of death in the United
States. What we need to find out is, why
this place?”
“Drink
up, I’ll
show you why.” He had already reconnoitered the
town in my absence. “I’m already on the
verge myself. I think you have to gamble
to keep your sanity.”
We
walk a quarter-mile through slots and gaming tables and hundreds of people
gambling their lives away, to the Mandalay’s
taxi stand, wait our turn in line.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Venice,
Paris, New York.” The artist rolls his
eyes.
“You’ll see.”
Nine
of the ten largest hotels in the world are in Las Vegas. Four of them share an intersection; 12,953
rooms on one corner; on
most days, fully occupied.
We
whip around the themed resorts.
First,
Caesar’s
Palace (ancient Rome). In Roman society,
suicide was utilized to preserve honor and prevent confiscation of your family’s property if
you’d seriously misbehaved. The slashing
of wrists in a warm bath was invented here.
Luxor. Drowning was the preferred method in ancient
Egypt.
The
Venetian (gondoliers on faux canals).
Venice is where you romance the person who eventually drives you to
despair and suicide.
After
that, Paris (fresh baguettes), a scaled-down Eiffel Tower, from which French suicides
jump.
Finally,
The Lost Village of Aladdin,
where we got lost, until discovering the only way out is (surprise, surprise) through their
casino. This place is a composite of all
countries Arabic, as if cultures in the Middle East are homogenous. Need I say… suicide bombers?
All
ceilings (except Luxor) are the same Blue Sky with Clouds, presumably painted by the
same bored Zoloft addict. Every so
often, the ceiling flashes and thunder roars to simulate an approaching
rainstorm.
Looking up at Blue Sky
with Clouds, the artist shakes his head in dismay. “See what I’m
talking about?”
I
do.
Las Vegas is a dead-end street with
a low guard rail facing the abyss.
Odd
thing is, the self-homicidal of Vegas are not sticking to theme. They shoot themselves in the head or jump from multi-story
car parks. No grand statement. No aesthetic exit ramp.
No one has even thought to jump into the Volcano that erupts every hour outside the Mirage Hotel.
No one has even thought to jump into the Volcano that erupts every hour outside the Mirage Hotel.
Within
the obligatory shopping mall of each resort hotel is a clothing boutique called
Bernini and another called Bardelli (same merchandise in
both).
You think, are these two a pair of shi-shi Milanese designers who are on the cusp of discovery by GQ magazine?
Closer inspection reveals they are just another simulation/con. What you’re really looking at is low fashion for the masses. (You can just see a middle-aged doofus back home in Toledo showing off his machine-made, unlined loafers: Got ‘em in Vegas. These babies are real Bernini’s!)
You think, are these two a pair of shi-shi Milanese designers who are on the cusp of discovery by GQ magazine?
Closer inspection reveals they are just another simulation/con. What you’re really looking at is low fashion for the masses. (You can just see a middle-aged doofus back home in Toledo showing off his machine-made, unlined loafers: Got ‘em in Vegas. These babies are real Bernini’s!)
The
kitsch, up and down this five-mile strip, is as unrelenting as the hot desert
sun. Given time, both tempt you to
either OD on something or pray to Pelagia, the patron saint of suicides.
(American Encyclopaedia: "Suicide levels are highest among the unemployed,
divorced, the childless, urbanites, and those living alone." Also: "More men than women commit suicide, a ratio of four-to-one; 73 percent
of suicides are white males, and 55 percent shoot themselves.")
Hence,
if you are a white male, live alone in a city, you’re
divorced without children, you recently lost your job... steer clear of Vegas.
And
more optical/audio illusions:
Interactive movies that fool your mind and senses into believing you’re moving
forward or backward, but never really going anywhere—except, eventually, through another
casino.
“I’ve seen enough,”
I say.
“There’s
more,” says the artist. “A lovely hotel
called The Palms.”
We
taxi there.
I enter The Palms and look around at yet another vast casino.
“What’s lovely about this?” I ask. “It doesn’t even have a theme.”
I enter The Palms and look around at yet another vast casino.
“What’s lovely about this?” I ask. “It doesn’t even have a theme.”
“Exactly.”
The
trendiest watering hole in Vegas, Ghost Bar, is on the top floor. But entry is reserved only to those who can
prove they’ve
spent at least fifteen grand on rhinoplasty, face-lifts, tummy-tucks, breast
implants or liposuction.
“You
hungry?” I say.
Onto
the Hard Rock Hotel, a snooty reflection of its (ex) owner, Hard Rock Café
co-founder Peter Morton, who forsook his burger-mongering roots to mint money
as a casino operator.
We cocoon in red
vinyl at Mr. Lucky and order from their twenty-four-hour menu.
Even the artist, who survives on Surf dogs and Fat burgers, can’t stomach this grub. The Buffalo wings and onion rings are indistinguishable from each other; lethal, ingested or tossed (the likely outcome of ingestion). Their club sandwich would likely be refused by a convention of starving hoboes.
Even the artist, who survives on Surf dogs and Fat burgers, can’t stomach this grub. The Buffalo wings and onion rings are indistinguishable from each other; lethal, ingested or tossed (the likely outcome of ingestion). Their club sandwich would likely be refused by a convention of starving hoboes.
“Your customers must smoke a lot of dope,” the artist says to our Bulgarian
waitress.
“I
not understand.”
“Only
someone with serious munchies could eat this free-radical rot. What do you serve for dessert, Mylanta
pudding?”
“We
no have.”
“Too
bad.”
She
departs.
“If
food and service was this bad everywhere,” I say, “reason enough to end it
all.”
“It
could have been worse,” says the artist.
“I
don’t see
how.”
“It
could have been an all-you-can-eat buffet, and we might have been stoned. In the middle of the night we would beg
Thanatos to rescue us.”
“Who?”
“The
Greek God of death.”
We
venture back to the strip, where pirates are exchanging canon fire with the
Royal Navy outside Treasure Island. It
draws a number of tourists clad in their new Bernini or Bardelli togs.
Watching
such entertainment (the tourists, not the battle), it becomes clear that Vegas is
The Great American Temple, where believing is consuming, and the obese pray for
yet bigger all-you-can-eat buffets.
After two days, you’re
either hypnotized by the slots, or nothing means anything. In other words, the hotels are full, but the
culture is vacant and people are numb.
It is
the casino carpets that ultimately tip the scale in favor of finito bon soir. They are all similarly garish.
Could this be to conceal tracked-in desert
dust? Or cocktail spillage?
Guess again.
These disturbing, obnoxious carpets are specially designed by
psychologists to repel your eyes so that you cannot look down while you walk
without feeling dizzy and disoriented.
(Studies show that disorientation leads to suggestibility.)
Instead, you are compelled to look ahead at
the slots and gaming tables, which are adorned with flashing lights to grab
your attention and suck you in. If you
try to beat the system by looking down while you walk, you turn, well, suicidal.
And a
gift for paranoid schizophrenics who believe they are watching:
Finally, someone really is watching.
You don’t see policemen along the strip, but that’s because the strip does not need policemen. Their sophisticated eye in the sky can track you to Paris and back–and record for posterity photos of you picking your nose (though they probably miss Muhammed and Mukhtar from Aladdin casing New York, New York).
Finally, someone really is watching.
You don’t see policemen along the strip, but that’s because the strip does not need policemen. Their sophisticated eye in the sky can track you to Paris and back–and record for posterity photos of you picking your nose (though they probably miss Muhammed and Mukhtar from Aladdin casing New York, New York).
The artist is already
looking over his shoulder, hissing at invisible surveillants.
So…
you are already feeling low, and the carpets (and everything else) get to you,
along with trillions of free-radicals in your bloodstream from too much fried
food.
Here is the solution:
Here is the solution:
You
know how your whole life is supposed to flash before your eyes when you jump
off a building?
Well, if you leap into the Grand Canyon, there’s time (a full fifteen seconds) for all your past lives to flash before you, too!
Well, if you leap into the Grand Canyon, there’s time (a full fifteen seconds) for all your past lives to flash before you, too!
You
can roll into Vegas, take a final look at Paris, Venice, and New York; do
memory lane (ancient
Egypt and Rome) for
your ancestors’
sake. Then spring two C bills for an Air Vegas
flight over Hoover Dam to a tiny airstrip on the Grand Canyon’s west rim.
Wendy
the guide welcomes you and she wants you to board the return flight to
Vegas. But even if you tell her your
plan, there isn’t
much she can do about it because there is no landline telephone service on the west rim and no
cellular service either.
Danger
lurks everywhere, says Wendy.
There are rattlesnakes, scorpions and large hairy spiders in addition to the rotor blades of the helicopter that lowers you a mile down to the canyon floor.
A brutal wind shear claims a handful of sightseers every so often.
There are rattlesnakes, scorpions and large hairy spiders in addition to the rotor blades of the helicopter that lowers you a mile down to the canyon floor.
A brutal wind shear claims a handful of sightseers every so often.
“One of these
babies crashed five weeks ago,” the artist whispers, as we climb aboard. “They lose them all the time.”
(This helicopter service has since ceased.)
A
whole book has been written about people who perish at the Grand Canyon, most
by accident, not design.
At
the bottom, a flat boat cruises you along the Colorado River for twenty
minutes.
Then a helicopter ride back to the rim, where Wendy carts you to the Hualapai Nation tribe, who host a last supper: An all-you-can-eat buffet of Bar-B-Q beef, baked beans, corn and a warm tortilla.
Not only do calories no long matter, you probably want to bulk up for a final descent.
Then a helicopter ride back to the rim, where Wendy carts you to the Hualapai Nation tribe, who host a last supper: An all-you-can-eat buffet of Bar-B-Q beef, baked beans, corn and a warm tortilla.
Not only do calories no long matter, you probably want to bulk up for a final descent.
The
artist and I stand at the edge, surveying the awesome panorama, along with the drop.
“Ready?” I say.
“Forget
suicide,” says the artist, “this is murder.”
“Murder?”
“Those
Indians are trying to murder palefaces with that meal.”
“You’re worried about
cholesterol?”
“No,
flatus. One tail-shot and it’s over the
edge. Sitting Bull's revenge.”
I
step back.
But
if I were inclined to check-out, it would be here, at the majestic Grand Canyon, not a
multi-story parking lot in sleazy Vegas.
After all, this is your life you’re concluding.
Why make your last stop in a tacky town built specifically to con everyone out of their money, their mind, their life; why end it there, when, without much further effort, or expense, you can fossilize with a two billion year-old wonder of the world?
After all, this is your life you’re concluding.
Why make your last stop in a tacky town built specifically to con everyone out of their money, their mind, their life; why end it there, when, without much further effort, or expense, you can fossilize with a two billion year-old wonder of the world?
Alas,
I’m still
here.
Everyone considering suicide
should stick around, too.
We all have
plenty of time later to be dead.