FAMILY STYLE FEAR AND LOATHING IN LV

Its more than just the 2-lane sojourn up the spleen of California; its beyond the anticipation of all of the sights sounds, and yes, the smells that make the sensory assault of the place. It is not merely a state of mind, or the fact that the whole place is like an eternal adolescent – never quite sure what it wants to be when it grows up. It is more than the oddball nexus of the washed up, the once something big (Bill Cosby playing at Stateline? STATE LINE? Et Tu, Ringo? George and John are spinning below ground) desperately seeking relevance. It is Vegas, and bringing the kids along in this post-Family-Friendly experiment phase is quite a character builder.

The LOST kids have been fascinated for years by the travel channel’s send ups of Sin City. The gaming, the glitz, the gulches that bridge the gap between all that silicone and saline (yep, they are after all, teenaged males). But they’re coming along, and their laundry list of things to see and ground to cover is daunting for the couple wanting to act 25-but-much-closer-to-fifty. The cultural shock is blunted by the presence of another family making the pilgrimage with us. Theirs is very similar – also two boys yearning for a real-life Pleasure Island – but one with no arthropodic conscience or creepy puppeteer involved. The trek starts at nearly dawn, and proceeds inconsequentially up the spine, until we reach Baker – named that no doubt because it’s the perfect year round adjective in these woods. The first interesting omen is the car in the rest-stop parking lot. Utah plates, but with an intriguingly counter-intuitive bumper sticker “No One is Born a Bigot.” Fantastic statement, and appropriate complements are extended.

The ride continues, until gleaming on the desert floor, spotted while still in the long decline of the Cal-Neva border, the sight of Buffalo Bill’s Casino and Giant Ashtray can be seen lurking across the line. Young men’s fancies now turn from scantily clad girls to thrill rides. Will the coaster be running? Are we there yet? How much further?

POST 4TH FIREWORKS

Sitting here, typing this entry while the fevered screaming strains of CNN are echoing in the background. The Cable News Network is busily screeching about the lack of significance of Christie Brinkley’s divorce case - for several minutes. This is news. NEWS?

Last evening, The oldest LOST son and I sat watching some game show called “Duel” two people answering “general knowledge” trivia questions on a timed basis for increasing amounts of money. Both contestants knew what color suit Michael Jackson wore on the cover of “Thriller,” but neither knew what war’s battle served as the inspiration for Francis Scott Key’s poem which became the National Anthem. Each was off by a century.

Switch to the local newspaper. The vocal masses in the majority party here in town are all sidling up to the President’s siren song of drill offshore as a the cure all for our petro-dependency. It doesn’t matter that oil from a single tanker rupture is still being cleaned off of shoreline and wildlife in Prince William Sound 20 years after the Exxon Valdez had its little mishap. It doesn’t matter that California is seismic ground zero in this country. It doesn’t matter that the oil recoverable offshore would not begin to even hit the global market and supply for at least 5 more years. Its as if Bush said, it, they believe it, and that settles it. Oh, and one more chance to slap “treehuggers” and “Al Gore” a couple of times. The creeping current of stupidity is nearing knee level of the populace. With enough beers, stupid reality shows and super triple double deep fried sandwiches, the permanent underclass will be cemented into place by the weight of its own inertia and indifference.