Wayne Newton built an empire there. Randall Flagg made it the capitol city of evil. Sammy Davis Jr. called it “instant swinger.” What am I talking about? Shoot, boy, I’m talking about Vegas, what the hell you talking about?
When we arrived around 6 pm, it was an infernal 120 degrees F, cooling to an oven-cleaning 110 by midnight. To fully experience the true Vegas gemutlichkeit we stayed in an absolute dive. The Motel Monte Carlo in Bob Dole’s own Russel, Kansas was a respectable second, but Las Vegas’ Casablanca Motel wins the coveted Jenkie Award for Scariest Motel of Our Trip hands down. The Carpet Formerly Known as Orange Shag was itself carpeted with about a pound of cigarette butts and ashes, where they hadn’t burned through to the concrete floor, that is. The paper-thin Reel-Wud (TM) walls didn’t quite reach to the ceiling, and the tap in the bathtub didn’t actually turn off. The air conditioning didn’t work exactly, but it did emit the cooling scent of carcinogenic freon. But neither heat nor hail nor roach motels could keep us from our appointed rounds: which is to say checking out the fabled Strip.