Las Vegas, NV, 20th floor of a green hotel, listening to Al Stewart's "Year of the Cat" .
My first Vegas visit, hopefully my last, (though according to JD from le Tigre who I interviewed last week, Las Vegas has a huge feminist community.) --- not to pre-emptively hate. Whenever I see people gambling, all I can think is that they are going to lose everything, meanwhile their kids are sitting at home, eating Doritos for dinner and waiting for mommy to stop slurping 7&7's and hitting the blackjack table and come home and put them to bed. It's my midwestern Lutheran-by-proxy prudism that I soaked up in Minneapolis public school --- all sin and vice will get you is dead. Looking at the vertigous carpeting in casino, which we had to pass through, briefly, past middle aged people with ancient-eyes like two rats in sacks, the people in the elevator that smelled like Conor Oberst recommending "Do not leave yr room -- you'll lose it all!"... well, I got panicky.
In fact, we did not leave the room. Sat on the windowsill, ate room service and watched the fireworks go up all over the city. Explosions in the sky amidst the epic stretch of blinking big neon. It was redundant. The fireworks were still smaller than the Hilton sign. Vegas cannot be out-done.