VEAL IN VEGAS

We sat across from each other on the Frisco to Vegas shuttle, interleaving our legs to maintain circulation. Two facing rows, one foot space, buddy plan, bag of peanuts, and a stop in Burbank for twenty-five minutes.

My friend, David Feldman, and I are comedians headed to the taping of an HBO comedy show. Sitting behind me is Warren, another comedian buddy, off to L.A. for an MTV taping.

Feldo tries to figure out Robin Williams' percentage of the Aladdin fortune, while the Warren and I riff over the top of the seat – a free show for the Thursday afternoon tail section. Like it or not, we just can't shut up and zone out.

I start brash, standing with an "air-mike" in my hand. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is yo(big yawn)ur Captain... excuse me folks...Jeez, maybe a little cof (yawn) fee would help me figure out how to start these jet(yawn) thingies."

The laughter starts. My partner cracks, "Hey, any you guys seen ALIVE!? ", getting a blast of shock cackles and setting the hook for a plane crash, cannibal gag. I turn toward the sweet spot of the coach audience, kneel on my seat and thrust up three fingers to continue his film reference, "Look fella's, we've been here for five days!" Big yuks all around.

Say, who are these guys?

Across the aisle from me sits Robert Hayes, comedic actor from the AIRPLANE spoof movie. He grits his teeth, anticipating my next tie-in gag line, and begs me, "Please don't..."

No sweat. I'm sure he's been sliced and diced on every flight since that film. I smile big and leave him to his magazine. Resticat in Pace.

L.A. seems to start at the bottom of San Jose and the descent begins. An ex-Giants baseball player to my left says, "You're a very funny guy - you should be on T.V.!" I nod a "thanks," thinking about the collapse of the comedy club circuit due to the voracious appetite and seduction of the tube. Mutate or die!

Burbank. Tourists off, gamblers on. Twenty-five minutes of Baseball history from my seatmate until the plane is packed and we head for the desert. That's a laugh. This is all desert.

I've worked Las Vegas at fifty-sixty times. Sometimes as a stand-up comic, others as Master of Ceremonies, or Caesar himself, keynote speaker, V.I.P greeter, walk-around talent, shill. I've done just about everything but hold a regular job there.

But I am always amazed as we approach McCarron Airport how impossibly illogical a place Las Vegas really is.

New buildings and changes since my last gig: a new huge MGM Grand, looking more like a NASA assembly hangar than a resort, a monstrous Pyramid casino/hotel, promising by its foundation geometry to dwarf Giza, the deserted Dunes, whose owner attracted a film company who paid a fortune to destroy that most recognizable landmark.

The furrowed cabby brings us up to date as he drives us to the Tropicana: restless money, new owners, shifting geography. Twenty-two years of running to and from the Strip and he says he still doesn't know why he never got his big break. Right, and I don’t know why I’m fat.

Feldo and I walk past the new MGM Grand, down toward Glitter Gulch. On every corner half a dozen sun-baked handbill men and women, movin' the paper; free lunch, free cash, free sex, cards, pamphlets, magazines, "Naked dancers in your room! Eat `til you bust! Handfuls of nickels! Girls - alone or together - available in minutes!"

By my presence here I acknowledge the currency of sex business along side the slots and bars and wedding chapels - a tacit agreement to tolerate their values, play by their rules, spin the wheel and take my losses like a pro. All for a shot at the jackpot, the faux entitlement of being a well-watered, honored guest until the cash runs out.

Dozens of magazine vending machines line the long stretches of sidewalk displaying every imaginable sexual proposition. Pamphlets, flyers and tabloids stacked inside and on top of row upon row of magazine dispensers.

Each sun scorched metal box bristles with fanned rows of "outcall sex" business cards jammed in its cracks and seams; shocking pink tickets presenting infinite shattered mirror reproductions of cloned leering women and preposterous calligraphy cadenzas, designed to incite and assure, coded pledges of out-and-out gratification, profane propositions that own legality by reason of multiple lexiconic interpretations.

The very gutters are littered with discarded opportunities, smashed, dirty and torn; their tanned breasts and buttocks clashing with sand, dust and refuse.

I look up at the plywood construction site wall around the "Grand" and see illustrations of Dorothy and Toto and the Tin Man waving me in. Familiar cartoon characters, thrilling rides and spooky attractions beckon. A Forty Acre Action Theme Park / Movie Studio!

Gee, my kids would love to... MY KIDS? Wait a minute, I never thought about bringing my kids to Vegas.

I've seen kids here: dragging their wool behind listless Mom and Dad, waiting in the coffee shop while a whole years' allowance in quarters goes up in smoke down a slot, or locked in a hotel room at night to watch Terminator, while downstairs, the Big Stage features booze, breasts and buns.

But, something has to change here if Fred or Wilma or Barney or My Little Pony is coming to play. Somehow, Vegas has to re-adjust to the baby boom and sweep up the streets. At least clean out the pigpen.

I say to Feldo, "I'm sure the locals have a slang word to describe a cynic like me." "They do," he huffs, "`Broke'." Suddenly, I feel sick.

"Look," he says, "It's always been `milk the cow' here. You go home, graze, get a belly full and, once, maybe twice a year, come on back for a milking. You don't have to enjoy it, you just need it."

I looked at a herd of overweight, tired, unhappy people and saw that he was right. Yeah, there were some who weren't beaten down like the rest of the drove, but for the most part, their migration along the strip was a joyless plod through gates and ramps and aisles.

Anyway, our comedy taping that night was a room full of happy people celebrating a break in their routine. Ninety minutes of tribal relaxation and communion. Well, I'm a comic, so maybe I'm a trifle poetic about the business.

When I woke, early the next morning, the sun was just rising over the mountains. But when I stepped out onto the balcony to breathe, I thought I heard the sounds of cows shuffling in the dairy and cattle in the abattoir, their hooves stumbling through gates and aisles and ramps far below.

That's when I heard the Phantom Vegas Rancher drawl, "Y'all come back now soon, and next time bring your calves!"

Martin Higgins