The Mob, Vegas, and Tea

A long-time fascination of mine is the road between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. It is a strange, long desert drive that usually entails lots of caffeine and singing in the car.

I just spent a long holiday weekend in Las Vegas, and kept a running list of the objects I saw along the road that leads to what was once home for me.

When you leave in the very early morning from L.A., the first thing you notice is a slog of traffic that eventually lets up--like the desert itself, the road gets more barren the further you go.

It rained in L.A. last week, so this time we drove into the desert that smelled of rain. A unique, earthy scent. And as you look far beyond the highway, you can see streaks of sunlight coming down on far away purple mountains. Actually, I couldn't tell if it was sunlight or rain.

We stopped at a very chic gas station, as gas stations go. 18 varieties of coffee and clean bathrooms. It smelled like rain at this gas station, instead of gas.

Plow further into the desert and the misfit-type of stuff starts to emerge. You don't even have to go looking for it; strange things just appear on the side of the road, giving you more to think about.

On rickety, white plywood signs, each of the ten commandments was painted in big, black block letters. Pitched like forks, every thirty feet--reminding you to honor your mom.

A bigger sign appeared, reading, "WE LOVE TRUCKERS".
Gotta love the desert marketing campaigns.

As we drove further this time, again that same old thought crossed my mind: Why isn't there a bullet train between these two, fair cities?

Telephone poles and electric lines stretch out, connecting who knows what to who.

All the familiar Joshua Trees pop out.

A black crow pecks at the ground all by himself.

And that old, abandoned water park is still sitting there, in the middle of the Mojave. "Water Park & Resort" it is called. Resort? Bad business deal?

A hollow shack that looks like a tee-pee has graffiti all over its right side. I wonder if it is some lucky kid's fort that he plays and pretends inside of.

And at some point on the drive--nothing, nothing. Nothing.
Cue the music and more thinking.

Rain clouds, cottonwood bushes, shiny big rigs carrying goods that no one will buy this year.

I look to the right, and in the next lane there is an old man, leaning over the steering wheel of a gray Cadillac, as if he can't see at all. The strangest thing: there is a hands-free earpiece glowing in his left ear, and I can see it blinking a very blue light. It's as if he is digitally programmed.

In twenty-five minutes we will arrive in Baker, my favorite random desert stop-over. Aliens and Greek food! Love it.

"Pit stop"...I keep seeing those words throughout this desert ride. What is a "pit" "stop" anyway?

Ron Paul Revolution signs are still standing on low hills. I wonder if they know that the election is over?

A Winnebago passes us with ease. Who has a Winnebago anymore?

We loop through the mountains, and busted tires litter the road.

A white cylinder tank labeled "ROCKET FUEL" sits on the east side of the freeway.

When it rains in the desert, the colors are so different--the whole time it seems like we are riding through someone's water-colored painting, all milkweed and periwinkle brush strokes.

Here we are passing Baker, and the parade of billboards begins: Showgirls and magicians and all-you-can-eat buffets. And every adult dream that ever has been.

Another sign that Nevada is near:
"REAL FULL AUTOS" and a picture of an M-16. "Try one! at the GUN STORE!"

I see the pottery sale that is always there with large orange planters and clay swans, and I know we are close. The freeway starts to clear even more, and I begin to see stucco-covered homes, Spanish-tile roofs.

The Strip in the distance, and the faces of Penn & Teller and Studio 54 and Rita Rudner and Barry Manilow crooning on a billboard. And I know that I am home.