It was a Sunday, I think, circa 1995. Late night.

I’d just returned home from a 72-hour burn in Las Vegas, that shiny city in the middle of a massive desert where people go to surf the American dream. The real, hollow American dream, where you can eat in a palace, then visit fake New York, Paris, and Venice in the same night on foot. Was it Jim Morrison who said he’d get his kicks before the whole shithouse went up in flames? Yeah, that’s it. Let it roll, baby, roll!

This Vegas jaunt had been especially ruinous. If you’ve been there, you know what I’m talking about. You step off a plane, abandon all pretense of personal responsibility, and spend a whole goddamn weekend flooring it even when you know you’re running on fumes.

My only clear-cut memory was being in a... Read More