July

[Sweder]

Parallel paradox, opposite ends of a kaleidoscopic spectrum. The deranged decadence of the Hard Rock Hotel, Zeppelin and Aerosmith pumped into all areas 24/7, monster heart-attack breakfasts, huge rooms, wild parties, yada yada yada . . . Then there’s the drive, ironically down Paradise Road, to McCarran International airport. On route the discarded human flotsam, the unwanted placenta of the re-born American Dream, stumble like the undead pushing wobbly shopping trolleys crammed with their modest, visquine-wrapped possessions, faces pinched and sun-dried, glazed eyes half closed, world-weary, dragging their broken spirits behind them like a monstrous invisible anchor.

We’re living in an age that a couple of short decades ago was writ large only in science fiction. Paul Verhoeven’s excellent Starship Troopers is a classic. The youth of a nation are conscripted into a dynamic, sexy army to travel across the stars and wipe out the insectoids threatening human existence. The film is full of tongue-in-cheek parody, from the uber-macho testosterone-fuelled mania of the drill instructors to the fabulous piss-taking TV ads calling for recruits to 'join the army that wins'. I watched a repeat over breakfast this morning, only it wasn’t Starship Troopers but a real-life ad recruiting for the US Army. It shocked me to the core. It’s as if the body bags from Iraq and Afghanistan weren’t landing with all the regularity of scheduled flights.
‘There’s strong . . . and then there’s army strong.’
Brilliant. At least the Starship Troopers clip showed the 'reality' of battle.
There’s bullshit . . . and then there’s army bullshit.

All this played out as I bought the ticket and took the ride, slurping down a Bloody Mary before wading into a sea of eggs over easy, strips of sugar-coated bacon, a mountain of fresh hash browns and a couple of storeys of wheat toast dripping butter like molten fat. I struggle horribly with myself here. Part of me loves the excess. Get in the elevator in this hotel and you get great classic rock piped in; the place is draped in slogans and quotes from great songs, priceless rock n roll memorabilia decks the halls and fights for floor space with the soul-sucking slot machines. Gorgeous scantily clad women, artificial breasts bulging out of un-zipped shiny black leather corsets dash hither and thither, trays laden with drinks, food and gambling chips; it’s my heaven and it’s my hell. Ultimately I can’t wait to get out of here, to grab my morals and my passion for real life and flee the endless whirling, 24/7 full-on eye-popping madness.

Make no mistake, this is hell.
But as Bon Scott used to scream, and for 24 hours only, hell ain’t a bad place to be.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_5UZfwX0ss&NR=1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6h4dVFOi3...re=related