Nevada: The Nuclear Test Site State

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

The Bomb was invented in New Mexico, but Nevada soon became prime real estate for underground and atmospheric testing. I dunno if that was such a good choice. If I was going to test a device that can level cities and vaporize all life for miles around, I’d want to do it somewhere you could tell.

On the highway from Arizona to Las Vegas we experienced the weirdest weather of our trip. The temperature was well north of 110 F (40 C) at the Grand Canyon in mid-afternoon. As we crossed into Nevada, things started to cool off–then black thunderclouds appeared out of nowhere and we were pelted with rain and actual hailstones like the wrath of God. That cleared in just a few minutes, and by the time we rolled into Vegas it was crazy hot again. I know it’s a cliche to say of Las Vegas, “people actually live there?” but seriously: people actually live there?

Oh yeah: And along this highway between Arizona and Las Vegas were occasional signs declaring the desolate wasteland a “National Recreation Area,” which inspired much hilarity. “Pick you up in seven or eight hours, kids,” says Dad, pushing his kids out of the station wagon onto the sun-baked dunes of ashen sand. “Daddy’s off to Caesars Palace. Enjoy the ‘Recreation Area!’”

Hoover? I Don’t Even Know Her

Also: Coming into Nevada, we drove across the Hoover Dam, admiring that great 1930s and 40s architecture that seems like it should be from Stalin’s Russia. (Or the new Hamilton bus terminal, built in 1995, go figure.) Walking around the dam, you feel like you’re in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis or at least Madonna’s “Express Yourself” video. So Derek and I vogued while Pete crawled on all fours and drank from a saucer of milk.

Viva Las Vegas

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

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 ™ 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.

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Pint o’ Mango Banana Smoothie, Guv’nor?

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

Given the demise of Jenkin’s air conditioner, and the fact that it was a vinyl-melting 115 F by mid-morning, we decided to skip Death Valley. Instead we drove one hundred miles farther south and crossed the Mojave Desert at high noon!

Our last watering hole before the great crossing–of course we’d picked a minor sub-highway that went over a hundred miles without any sign of human settlement–was Lake Havasu City, a surreal little vacation spot where some loony jackass had put London Bridge–the genuine article, bought and carried over brick by brick. The bridge had become the centerpiece for an entire Merrie Olde England tourist town, with double decker buses and red telephone booths and miserable looking Buckingham Palace-type guards liquefying under those tall fur hats. [2006 Edit: Matt Grasso, I’m looking to you to provide some appropriate image or line of dialogue from the “Little England” episodes of Arrested Development.]

We had chip buddies and bangers and mash at the local pub, and did our best to imagine we really were in England–wonderful damp, cool, rainy England. But even inside the pub, free from the blistering heat and gnarled cactii, there were still a few subtle clues that we might be closer to California than the sceptered isles. Do most real London pubs sell tropical fruit smoothies with your choice of bee pollen, beta proteins, liao drug, or other trendy smartdrink additives? (Well, maybe in the West End.)

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