Narratives Of Las Vegas

I'm fascinated by the many narratives of Las Vegas. The obscenely vast scale. The unsustainable dreams. Sleek beautiful serpents coyly eating their own tail. All these slow gray dreams crawling across the same space, fighting for too much attention. You may miss them if you blink. And I blink too much.

My breakfast so perfect. And so impossibly cheap. A three egg omlette. Add ham. And tomatoes. And spinach. Almost too light and fluffy. My fork barely finds purchase. While I eat, a gang of 20-something hipsters mix ranks with a gang of silk suited businessmen. The hipster leader in a bright pink Polo shirt. Drinking bourbon at seven thirty in the morning and speaking non-stop French. Four other hipsters at a different table, like children cast aside during Thanksgiving. The adults sitting around Pink Shirt are all in black jackets and short on hair. French for everyone. I'll never know the depth of their story.

Polish off my omlette while watching three awkwardly skinny Asian girls wandering through the lobby. Their dresses too short. Their hair too tussled. Impending hangovers obvious in their step. I'll never know what they were doing while I slept.

On the way to the office, I catch a ride with the only cabbie that knows less about Las Vegas than I do. Pilot Road, I say. Pee low, he said. Pilot, I repeated. Pie lots, he said. End up typing my request into Google Translate on my Blackberry. Technology turning my slow Southern drawl into Arabic. GPS appears to be the same in any language. And off we go.

Thai food for lunch. Ping Pong. Really. That's its name. A dive by Las Vegas standards. Lovely, by mine. Open architecture. Clean lines. Lots of natural light. And just the right amount of spice on the Thai dishes. Good service. Great food. Cheap price tag. Just my style. And speed. But this is Las Vegas and nobody can slow down for very long.