"INSIDE LAS VEGAS: CHAPTER 2"
Six-thousand people move to Las Vegas every single month. EVERY MONTH! That's 200 people a day on average -- 200 more hungry mouths to feed, 200 more sets of clothes to wash, 200 more showers to take, 200 times 4 trips to the bathroom a day, and represents hundreds of more cars and pollutants in the air. With each breath you take, the air gets a little dirtier and the traffic gets a little bit worse.
When I arrived in this great city of chance, I was determined to be part of the SOLUTION, not part of the PROBLEM. I made a conscious decision to purchase and ride a bicycle wherever and whenever possible. Since I am located only about two miles from The Strip, I now peddle around town on a ten-speed bike. I get plenty of exercise, and do not contribute to Las Vegas' growing myriad of urban problems. I believe what I am doing is both socially responsible and environmentally sound. I feel better too, having lost 15 pounds in just the first month since I've been here. Riding in 100-degree heat will take the pounds off. Quick!
Sadly, I have learned the hard way that riding a bike is a personal sacrifice and even a safety risk. I've already had one bike stolen (it was chained to a sign downtown and some thief ripped it off late on night -- so I'm already on my second new bike, this time with a chain so goddamned thick it could tow an oil tanker). Another time, the Bellagio Casino sawed-off my lock and impounded my bike one day -- supposedly because wasn't parked in the "right" place (when questioned, Bellagio Security admitted to not having any bike racks on the premises -- nice move you corporate stiffs!). I've nearly been run over at least a dozen times, been spit at by a passing drunk motorist, and been heckled. I can't count how many times I've been cut off in traffic by brainless soccer moms and people in too much of a hurry, usually driving gas-guzzling SUVs and/or squawking on cell phones. Ah what the hell, **** the guy on the bicycle. Road kill.
But I'm a survivor. The bastards won't get me down. I suspect that one of these days there's a chance that there may be no daily report here at MadJacks and yours truly might be sitting in a hospital bed with a concussion. It's certainly a possibility with all the dangers in a city where a car is mandatory. But life is full of risks, and I value my independence and life's philosophy more than anything that can dissuade me from not doing what I believe is right and responsible. The world be damned -- I'm riding my bicycle!
Which brings me to my visit last week to the local office of the Nevada Department of Motor Vehicles, on East Sahara. It was time to renew my drivers license. Oh joy! Gee, maybe I can parlay that with some dental surgery. With six-thousand new drivers to process every month, the DMV office in Las Vegas looks like a cross between South American border crossing an a refugee camp. Pretty soon, they will need to set up tents.
I arrived promptly at 11:20 am. I stood in line at the information desk, and took a number. The slip said G-674. I went to the seating area which was the size of a small arena -- and saw the number up on the board was G-632. Quick math revealed I was exactly 42 spots away. 42 people didn't sound too bad. But wait! There were also other letters -- A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, and I. Man, talk about being in a bad spot. As I tried my best to settle in and accept the fact I would be here for a long while, I looked around. I so many tattoos in the first ten minutes, that I figured there just had to be an Easyriders convention in town. And, that was just on the females. The place was swarming with immigrants and pregnant trailer-trash. After hearing the 874th infant scream at the top of his lungs, I decided I'd finally had enough. I had to get out of this place.
Here's where my gambling skills came in handy. I carefully watched the sequence of numbers and figured it took about 5 minutes per person to process. Without getting into great detail here, I figured I could leave the DMV office probably 90 minutes or so and get back in time to see my number -- G-674 -- come up on the big screen. Best of all, I would avoid smelling puke and watching the real-life fruition of a Cheech and Chong movie
I went outside, took several deep breaths, and walked across the street to a Furr's Cafeteria. I haven't eaten at a cafeteria, or enjoyed the delicacy of cafeteria food in years. I'm 40 years old and hell --- I must have been the youngest person in the place by 20 years. After a half-way decent meal, I sat in my booth and read the Las Vegas Review-Journal front to back. Hell, I was so bored I even glanced at the Classifieds. After my 9th glass of iced tea, I decided it was time to get back across the street. I looked at my watch. It was 1:30, about two hours after I first entered the DMV.
Holding my number G-674 like it was a winning lottery ticket, I waddled back into the refugee camp. Up on the board, was the number:
G-651.
My nightmare was only beginning. Half an hour later, my bladder is about to bust from drinking all that iced tea at Furr's. Uh oh. That means a visit to the bathroom in this godforsaken place, which was now beginning to take on all the trappings of a trip to Bangladesh. There were close to 700 people packed inside this room (I counted them), and I quietly said a prayer as I entered the public restroom. You know it's going to be rough -- it's just a question of HOW BAD. Funny how you become religious at times of desperation. There are like three stalls in the Men's Room (packed to capacity -- with a wait). It was like having three urinals at Yankee Stadium. I mean, people were like falling all over themselves to hold it. One bright spot -- in the Men's Room, at least I didn't have to take a number.
Finally, at 4:12 pm, I reached the Promised Land, a face-to-face encounter with a bored-looking civil servants. I soon departed thereafter as Nevada's newest resident, at least for a few seconds until the next number came up.
LOL
Good stuff Nolan
Scott-Atlanta
Six-thousand people move to Las Vegas every single month. EVERY MONTH! That's 200 people a day on average -- 200 more hungry mouths to feed, 200 more sets of clothes to wash, 200 more showers to take, 200 times 4 trips to the bathroom a day, and represents hundreds of more cars and pollutants in the air. With each breath you take, the air gets a little dirtier and the traffic gets a little bit worse.
When I arrived in this great city of chance, I was determined to be part of the SOLUTION, not part of the PROBLEM. I made a conscious decision to purchase and ride a bicycle wherever and whenever possible. Since I am located only about two miles from The Strip, I now peddle around town on a ten-speed bike. I get plenty of exercise, and do not contribute to Las Vegas' growing myriad of urban problems. I believe what I am doing is both socially responsible and environmentally sound. I feel better too, having lost 15 pounds in just the first month since I've been here. Riding in 100-degree heat will take the pounds off. Quick!
Sadly, I have learned the hard way that riding a bike is a personal sacrifice and even a safety risk. I've already had one bike stolen (it was chained to a sign downtown and some thief ripped it off late on night -- so I'm already on my second new bike, this time with a chain so goddamned thick it could tow an oil tanker). Another time, the Bellagio Casino sawed-off my lock and impounded my bike one day -- supposedly because wasn't parked in the "right" place (when questioned, Bellagio Security admitted to not having any bike racks on the premises -- nice move you corporate stiffs!). I've nearly been run over at least a dozen times, been spit at by a passing drunk motorist, and been heckled. I can't count how many times I've been cut off in traffic by brainless soccer moms and people in too much of a hurry, usually driving gas-guzzling SUVs and/or squawking on cell phones. Ah what the hell, **** the guy on the bicycle. Road kill.
But I'm a survivor. The bastards won't get me down. I suspect that one of these days there's a chance that there may be no daily report here at MadJacks and yours truly might be sitting in a hospital bed with a concussion. It's certainly a possibility with all the dangers in a city where a car is mandatory. But life is full of risks, and I value my independence and life's philosophy more than anything that can dissuade me from not doing what I believe is right and responsible. The world be damned -- I'm riding my bicycle!
Which brings me to my visit last week to the local office of the Nevada Department of Motor Vehicles, on East Sahara. It was time to renew my drivers license. Oh joy! Gee, maybe I can parlay that with some dental surgery. With six-thousand new drivers to process every month, the DMV office in Las Vegas looks like a cross between South American border crossing an a refugee camp. Pretty soon, they will need to set up tents.
I arrived promptly at 11:20 am. I stood in line at the information desk, and took a number. The slip said G-674. I went to the seating area which was the size of a small arena -- and saw the number up on the board was G-632. Quick math revealed I was exactly 42 spots away. 42 people didn't sound too bad. But wait! There were also other letters -- A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, and I. Man, talk about being in a bad spot. As I tried my best to settle in and accept the fact I would be here for a long while, I looked around. I so many tattoos in the first ten minutes, that I figured there just had to be an Easyriders convention in town. And, that was just on the females. The place was swarming with immigrants and pregnant trailer-trash. After hearing the 874th infant scream at the top of his lungs, I decided I'd finally had enough. I had to get out of this place.
Here's where my gambling skills came in handy. I carefully watched the sequence of numbers and figured it took about 5 minutes per person to process. Without getting into great detail here, I figured I could leave the DMV office probably 90 minutes or so and get back in time to see my number -- G-674 -- come up on the big screen. Best of all, I would avoid smelling puke and watching the real-life fruition of a Cheech and Chong movie
I went outside, took several deep breaths, and walked across the street to a Furr's Cafeteria. I haven't eaten at a cafeteria, or enjoyed the delicacy of cafeteria food in years. I'm 40 years old and hell --- I must have been the youngest person in the place by 20 years. After a half-way decent meal, I sat in my booth and read the Las Vegas Review-Journal front to back. Hell, I was so bored I even glanced at the Classifieds. After my 9th glass of iced tea, I decided it was time to get back across the street. I looked at my watch. It was 1:30, about two hours after I first entered the DMV.
Holding my number G-674 like it was a winning lottery ticket, I waddled back into the refugee camp. Up on the board, was the number:
G-651.
My nightmare was only beginning. Half an hour later, my bladder is about to bust from drinking all that iced tea at Furr's. Uh oh. That means a visit to the bathroom in this godforsaken place, which was now beginning to take on all the trappings of a trip to Bangladesh. There were close to 700 people packed inside this room (I counted them), and I quietly said a prayer as I entered the public restroom. You know it's going to be rough -- it's just a question of HOW BAD. Funny how you become religious at times of desperation. There are like three stalls in the Men's Room (packed to capacity -- with a wait). It was like having three urinals at Yankee Stadium. I mean, people were like falling all over themselves to hold it. One bright spot -- in the Men's Room, at least I didn't have to take a number.
Finally, at 4:12 pm, I reached the Promised Land, a face-to-face encounter with a bored-looking civil servants. I soon departed thereafter as Nevada's newest resident, at least for a few seconds until the next number came up.
LOL
Good stuff Nolan
Scott-Atlanta
