What Are We Gonna Do With All This Trash?: March 2011

March 16, 2011

Las Vegas, the City Where Dignity Goes to Get Date Raped

What happens in Las Vegas, stays in Las Vegas, so says an oft-quoted, asinine commercial slogan. Do you think that’s because what actually does happen there is so incredibly depressing that nobody wants to talk about it? I do.

I’ve always been ambivalent about Las Vegas. Despite my near-total love of everything related to gambling, Vegas doesn’t much do it for me. And it was actually disappointing to hear a friend announce that his bachelor party would take place in the City that Shame Built. It just seems so cliché. It seems like the place that old, boring people from Oklahoma go to “get wild.” (Of course, their idea of getting wild involves mile-long pork buffets and the tepid comedy of Paul Reiser. Zzzzzzzzz.)

Also, I’m not a big fan of strip clubs. I’ve tried to explain this dozens of times to my more douchebag-leaning friends, but I just get blank, he-must-be-gay stares. Naked ladies may be the best thing ever. That’s why there’s so much art devoted to them. If you can make a naked lady painting look as beautiful as an actual naked lady does, then you’re probably a good artist. I love looking at naked ladies as much as the next guy, but the exchange of money, or the process of turning it into a business transaction, immediately removes all sexiness from the equation. (I also suffered a severe stripper trauma when I was 18, but that’s a story for another time.)

But I’m going to the bachelor party, anyway. I want to celebrate with my friend, and I want to feel again the sweet felt of a roulette table. I want to chip shuffle at a poker table across from a pro. I want to overplay my two pair and lose hundreds of dollars in the blink of an eye. Also, there’ll be a “big box of drugs” made available. And there’s a street over which you can zip line. Mushrooms + zip line = yes, please! I would also like to freak out some of the Midwestern normals waddling around. This is gonna get Hunter S. Thompson-style weird, my friends.

At least, I hope it does. Otherwise, it's just gonna be a long weekend of neon-bright sadness and all-you-can-eat despair.

A History Of Trash

Trash, at first, was a pretty cool guy. You know, he’d come over with some beers, and you’d hang out and have a couple of laughs. Maybe Trash brought some weed with him, and you guys tried to sync up Dark Side Of The Moon with The Wizard Of Oz until you remembered you lost your VHS copy of that movie sometime in college and that you fucking hate Pink Floyd. Good times were had, nonetheless.

But then, you don’t know what changed, but Trash started to overstay his welcome. He’d just linger for hours, never taking the hint you wanted him to leave, no matter how many times you yawned obnoxiously or mentioned how early you had to get up tomorrow. Trash just didn’t get it. You were getting older. You didn’t have the time anymore to stay up until 3 a.m. to talk about the Port season of “The Wire” or how much you miss Jawbox. Eventually, you just stopped taking Trash’s phone calls and no longer replied to his group e-mails about sneaking into abandoned mental hospitals.

Last time you saw Trash, he was smoking alone outside a local dive bar, looking down at his decaying and mismatched shoes. You hoped he had been doing well. You hoped he had not been hurt by the disintegration of your friendship. And if he had, you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to tell him that even though people move on with their lives, it doesn’t mean they stop caring. You wanted him to see in your eyes a sincere appreciation for the time you shared, because all the relationships in our lives help make us who we are, and even if you weren’t the best of friends anymore, you wanted him to know that there would always be a piece of Trash in your heart.

But instead, you looked away and crossed the street. You were with your new girlfriend, and you really didn’t want to have to explain Trash to her. She’d never understand.