My ambiguity on Las Vegas endured until my last night, when I tried to articulate my opinion to Mike, the aging hippy taxi driver who was conveying me to Ra. I was in for about half a dozen Budweisers and about that many vodka & Red Bulls, and I was sure that an elucidation of what Las Vegas is all about should include the word "contrived". Mike (who lived on Ashbury in San Francisco in 1966) put it thus:
"It's a plastic trip, man."
Thank you Mike, for expressing this truth so succinctly.
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Forget the multi-billion dollar casinos, the gigawatts of neon, the hookers with Blackberrys ... the sign of the Apocalypse was when NASCAR came to Las Vegas.
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