I think there is power in science fiction. I think there is a particular power in taking a simple, improbable– but not altogether impossible– premise and drawing from it a compelling story. PD James hypothesizes in The Children of Men that in 1995 the human race became infertile. She begins her story on 1. January, 2021: the last generation to be born is now adult. She shares a world where intimacy loses allure, art is abandoned, hope is lost. — And then proceeds to use that dark, unsettling setting to frame a story of risk, commitment and the joys and anguish of love.
This is another one of those books I should have read years ago but for whatever reason never did. It was only last year that I saw Gregory Peck in the film. I am sure there is a lesson in this experience about squandering life on trivial amusements. Recently I corrected this sort of oversight with Joseph Heller‘s Catch-22. I am now– during black history month– correcting another delinquency with Harper Lee. To Kill a Mockingbird has won the Pulitzer Prize and sold millions of copies. I just learned that librarians across the country voted this book the best novel of the twentieth century. Whirl loves this story; she is quite pleased I am reading it. I am, too.
In honor of John K’s new X-box 360, I’d like to share a one of my favorite memories regarding video gaming with John and company over the years. The following took place years ago and is, perhaps, my earliest memory of playing a video game with this group.
I played Myth all the way through without one, single casualty using a combination of advanced strategy, astounding patience, cunning and meticulous use of level replay over and over and over until my stats were completely perfect. As I finished the game, John decided we should link up online with Mick and try some group missions, so Sean set up our end and we all convened one fateful evening.
It seems strange to be writing about love and Las Vegas at the same time. I can reconcile the ideas of lost love with Las Vegas, or betrayed love, or love of money. I can reconcile thoughts of lust, greed and gluttony– even wrath, sloth, pride and envy. But love? That just does not seem to fit quite right.
Maybe that contradiction served as a reason for the Cirque du Soleil to stage their tribute to the Beatles in Las Vegas. In reflection, it may have been a contributing factor in my decision to see that show rather than one of the hundreds of other opportunities.
I wake up surprisingly peppy, considering I’ve only managed to sleep an hour and a half. We pack, then stroll down to the lobby to check out. As we leave, I turn around and take one last look at the Trop. As fast as things change in Vegas, it’s always hard to know if she’ll still be around next year.
Thanks for yet another good trip, Lady Trop!
Awhile later, I watch Las Vegas shrink to nothing as our plane lifts into the sky. I smile and lay my head on Sean’s shoulder.
“You know what, hon?
“What?”
“Life really is a highway.”
“Yeah. Ok,” he says, smooching my forehead. “Why don’t you try to get a little sleep, baby.”
“Yeah. Happy Brainniversary, by the way.”
Back home. The smell of the Trop moves in after having stowed away on our luggage and clothes. It stays with us a couple of days and then, finally, fades.
Sean and I elect to sleep in – it’s Sunday after all! We manage to snooze until 7 am before noise from the adjacent room and hallway forces us up. We ready for the day and then trudge down to Island Buffet for some nosh. John joins us as we finish breakfast to show off his new haircut, which looks quite fetching, we both agree. “Life is a Highway” warbles from the overhead speakers and he sings along idly.
John fills us in on the rest of the group while we sip the last of our coffee. Apparently, Melissa stayed up all night playing $1/$2 no-limit in the Trop poker room. She won a decent amount of money, but John isn’t sure how much. Brian also played very late and won a good amount, but did go to bed for a few hours. Presently, the two of them are back at it. Insane!
Liz has gone to Mandalay Bay for breakfast where she also intends to purchase a ticket for Cirque du Soliel’s 7 pm showing of “Love”. Jim got up early and is on his way to meet us. As we get up to leave, John receives a text message from Liz saying she’s on her way back.
The high-pitched squeals of children wake Sean and I barely three hours later. Blurry-eyed and disoriented, I can’t instantly place myself, but as my brain slowly comes back on-line, I realize I’m still in Vegas. I’m in Vegas and children are waking me up with squealing. I groan, roll out of bed and consider whether or not to call security. I figure they must have some sort of child lock-up facility somewhere in town – Alcatraz Kindercare, perhaps. This is one of the last remaining big kid’s playgrounds, after all. Sean shoves his pillow over his head and starts to snore again, so I let it all go and hope the shower will drown the noise sufficiently.
Somewhat refreshed after my long shower, I get ready for another day in Vegas! The thought makes me so cheery that when I come out of the bathroom and note the kids are now, for some reason, kicking the wall between our two rooms, I actually laugh while playfully pretend shooting the little rascals repeatedly with my finger gun. *BANG* kids, *bang* *BANG*!
We decide the time has come for a big breakfast and wander on down to the Island Buffet’s champagne brunch. By our second glass of champagne, John, Melissa and Brian have joined us at our table and we discuss trekking northward to Fremont Street. Sean decides he’d love to take the bus, because he’s never seen the entire strip. Melissa and Brian gamely agree to that adventure and John says he, Liz and Jim will take a cab and meet us down there. He waves goodbye and I hear him laughing as he walks away. Buses crack John up.
Our alarm blares at 6 am and Sean and I jolt upright, hearts trip-hammering. Time to try to make 7 am sign-up at the Excalibur! We take quick showers and hustle down to the Trop’s coffee shop to meet up with the gang. The non-poker obsessed, Liz and Jim, wisely decide to either sleep in and/or have a leisurely breakfast at the Island Buffet. The rest of us hurry off to the Excalibur. On the way, Brian tells me that their alarm nearly gave him a heart-attack too.
“We can’t adjust the volume. It’s stuck on deafening.”
To our collective shock, when we get to the Excalibur, the sign up sheet is already half-filled, even at this ungodly hour. Soon after we jot our names down and randomly pick our seat assignments, all 40 of the tournament spots fill and the host starts signing alternates.
After a long six month wait, the “Sean Brainiversary 2: Electric Boogaloo” Vegas trip is FINALLY here!! Although some of the Vegas regulars can’t make it this year, seven of us have booked passage on three different flights bound for Glitter Gulch, the adult entertainment capital of the world.
Sean and I arrive first, at 1:15pm, after a very comfortable United Airlines’ Ted flight, on which we were inexplicably and without charge bumped up to “economy plus” class. Very comfortable and 45 minutes early into LV. How often do you hear that?? We grab our bags and catch a cab to our favorite old jewel of the strip – the Tropicana.
We talk about art being derivative. Or at least we talk that way when we do not like it. When we like a piece of art we talk about how it was inspired by others’ works. It is not imitation. I think these two reactions are emotional gut-checks on essentially the same phenomenon facing creativity. I believe creativity is a virus– creativity can infect others, induce them to write, to paint, to sculpt, to sing. And yet we seem to approach that fact with mixed emotions. We complain that our creativity is being copied at the same time we become excited that someone has thought so much of what we have created to do something themselves.
One of my favorite expressions of this paradox is– unsurprisingly– from an artist. These lyrics are from U2’s song, “The Fly” from their 1991 album, Achtung Baby.
It’s no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest
It’s no secret ambition bites the nails of success
Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief
All kill their inspiration and sing about their grief
Beta|Erinyes 