Beauty Bar: Theory of Truth, Umbilical Slots

Las Vegas is 100 degrees, at night. It’s a heat lamp. The air is a parka. Breeze is fleece. Breathing means sweat. Sweating as in balls. Hydration is key. Beer dehydrates, especially 24oz PBR.

I lost my wallet. Unpacked the entire van looking for it. Even looked where the spare tire was. And my kick pedal case. Somehow it could have ended up there. Searched the club twice with a flashlight. Total complete loser, “Yeah, I just played, have you seen my wallet?” You know how you retrace your steps? I had it down to the exact spot where I had seen it last. Not there. They had it in the entire time in the office.

Beauty Bar is old Vegas and is part of a solid uprising of venues for touring bands. ATTENTION BANDS: Contact James at MetaMeta Productions for getting shows in Las Vegas. He will work with you, and for you, in order to make a good show happen. We played with Hawnay Troof. It’s the one man band of Vice Cooler. He’s a machine of dance moves and crowd stirring. He went down hard to the ground in a move and hurt his dick.

James the promoter is a smooth, happy motherfucker. He’s also a philosophy professor at UNLV. We know him from shows in New Haven where he taught at Yale. Now he’s in Las Vegas, teaching classes such as The Theory of Truth, and booking shows.

We went for a stroll through the casinos. There were three Elvises, two Jim Morrisons, and an exact Rod Stewart.

The theory of casino truth is that the chain smoking seventy-five year olds have grown umbilical chords right into the slots. They hook into catheters and gamble in hopes of jackpot sex. No getting up to go, for days. Just gambling. Tar and gin gimlets steady on the intake. You can hear the tar, filling lungs, like the Blob slurping its way across town. Suffocating alveoli. These elder Las Vegas lungs want to win. Stale emphysema faces stare. Lungs and livers, now just puddy. Lungs and livers whimpering at the same low, microscopic volume rose petals whimper at when their pedals are plucked.

The zombie gamblers don’t need nutrients. They just need the chance to win. Hit me. Defibrillation. Three cherries across the top – You Win. Holy Grail.