The Cool School

by Glenn O'Brien

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why should I pay out my hard-earned dollars to watch a fucking corpse?”

  “Look,” he said “Why are we out here? To entertain ourselves, or to do the job?”

  “The job, of course,” I replied. We were driving around in circles, weaving through the parking lot of a place I thought was the Dunes, but it turned out to be the Thunderbird . . . or maybe it was the Hacienda . . .

  My attorney was scanning The Vegas Visitor, looking for hints of action. “How about “‘Nickel Nick’s Slot Arcade?’” he said. “‘Hot Slots,’ that sounds heavy . . . Twenty-nine cent hotdogs . . .”

  Suddenly people were screaming at us. We were in trouble. Two thugs wearing red-gold military overcoats were looming over the hood: “What the hell are you doing?” one screamed. “You can’t park here!”

  “Why not?” I said. It seemed like a reasonable place to park, plenty of space. I’d been looking for a parking spot for what seemed like a very long time. Too long. I was about ready to abandon the car and call a taxi . . . but then, yes, we found this space.

  Which turned out to be the sidewalk in front of the main entrance to the Desert Inn. I had run over so many curbs by this time, that I hadn’t even noticed this last one. But now we found ourselves in a position that was hard to explain . . . blocking the entrance, thugs yelling at us, bad confusion. . . .

  My attorney was out of the car in a flash, waving a five-dollar bill. “We want this car parked! I’m an old friend of Debbie’s. I used to romp with her.”

  For a moment I thought he had blown it . . . then one of the doormen reached out for the bill, saying: “OK, OK. I’ll take care of it, sir.” And he tore off a parking stub.

  “Holy shit!” I said, as we hurried through the lobby. “They almost had us there. That was quick thinking.”

  “What do you expect?” he said. “I’m your attorney . . . and you owe me five bucks. I want it now.”

  I shrugged and gave him a bill. This garish, deep-orlon carpeted lobby of the Desert Inn seemed an inappropriate place to be haggling about nickel/dime bribes for the parking lot attendant. This was Bob Hope’s turf. Frank Sinatra’s. Spiro Agnew’s. The lobby fairly reeked of high-grade formica and plastic palm trees—it was clearly a high-class refuge for Big Spenders.

  We approached the grand ballroom full of confidence, but they refused to let us in. We were too late, said a man in a wine-colored tuxedo; the house was already full—no seats left, at any price.

  “Fuck seats,” said my attorney. “We’re old friends of Debbie’s. We drove all the way from L.A. for this show, and we’re goddamn well going in.”

  The tux-man began jabbering about “fire regulations,” but my attorney refused to listen. Finally, after a lot of bad noise, he let us in for nothing—provided we would stand quietly in back and not smoke.

  We promised, but the moment we got inside we lost control. The tension had been too great. Debbie Reynolds was yukking across the stage in a silver Afro wig . . . to the tune of “Sergeant Pepper,” from the golden trumpet of Harry James.

  “Jesus creeping shit!” said my attorney. “We’ve wandered into a time capsule!”

  Heavy hands grabbed our shoulders. I jammed the hash pipe back into my pocket just in time. We were dragged across the lobby and held against the front door by goons until our car was fetched up. “OK, get lost,” said the wine-tux-man. “We’re giving you a break. If Debbie has friends like you guys, she’s in worse trouble than I thought.”

  “We’ll see about this!” my attorney shouted as we drove away. “You paranoid scum!”

  I drove around the Circus-Circus Casino and parked near the back door. “This is the place,” I said. “They’ll never fuck with us here.”

  “Where’s the ether?” said my attorney. “This mescaline isn’t working.”

  I gave him the key to the trunk while I lit up the hash pipe. He came back with the ether-bottle, un-capped it, then poured some into a kleenex and mashed it under his nose, breathing heavily. I soaked another kleenex and fouled my own nose. The smell was overwhelming, even with the top down. Soon we were staggering up the stairs towards the entrance, laughing stupidly and dragging each other along, like drunks.

  This is the main advantage of ether: it makes you behave like the village drunkard in some early Irish novel . . . total loss of all basic motor skills: blurred vision, no balance, numb tongue—severance of all connection between the body and the brain. Which is interesting, because the brain continues to function more or less normally . . . you can actually watch yourself behaving in this terrible way, but you can’t control it.

  You approach the turnstiles leading into the Circus-Circus and you know that when you get there, you have to give the man two dollars or he won’t let you inside . . . but when you get there, everything goes wrong: you misjudge the distance to the turnstile and slam against it, bounce off and grab hold of an old woman to keep from falling, some angry Rotarian shoves you and you think: What’s happening here? What’s going on? Then you hear yourself mumbling: “Dogs fucked the Pope, no fault of mine. Watch out! . . . Why money? My name is Brinks; I was born . . . born? Get sheep over side . . . women and children to armored car . . . orders from Captain Zeep.”

  Ah, devil ether—a total body drug. The mind recoils in horror, unable to communicate with the spinal column. The hands flap crazily, unable to get money out of the pocket . . . garbled laughter and hissing from the mouth . . . always smiling.

  Ether is the perfect drug for Las Vegas. In this town they love a drunk. Fresh meat. So they put us through the turnstiles and turned us loose inside.

  THE CIRCUS-CIRCUS is what the whole hep world would be doing on Saturday night if the Nazis had won the war. This is the Sixth Reich. The ground floor is full of gambling tables, like all the other casinos . . . but the place is about four stories high, in the style of a circus tent, and all manner of strange County-Fair/Polish Carnival madness is going on up in this space. Right above the gambling tables the Forty Flying Carazito Brothers are doing a high-wire trapeze act, along with four muzzled Wolverines and the Six Nymphet Sisters from San Diego . . . so you’re down on the main floor playing blackjack, and the stakes are getting high when suddenly you chance to look up, and there, right smack above your head is a half-naked fourteen-year-old girl being chased through the air by a snarling wolverine, which is suddenly locked in a death battle with two silver-painted Polacks who come swinging down from opposite balconies and meet in mid-air on the wolverine’s neck . . . both Polacks seize the animal as they fall straight down towards the crap tables—but they bounce off the net; they separate and spring back up towards the roof in three different directions, and just as they’re about to fall again they are grabbed out of the air by three Korean Kittens and trapezed off to one of the balconies.

  This madness goes on and on, but nobody seems to notice. The gambling action runs twenty-four hours a day on the main floor, and the circus never ends. Meanwhile, on all the upstairs balconies, the customers are being hustled by every conceivable kind of bizarre shuck. All kinds of funhouse-type booths. Shoot the pasties off the nipples of a ten-foot bull-dyke and win a cotton-candy goat. Stand in front of this fantastic machine, my friend, and for just 99¢ your likeness will appear, two hundred feet tall, on a screen above downtown Las Vegas. Ninety-nine cents more for a voice message. “Say whatever you want, fella. They’ll hear you, don’t worry about that. Remember you’ll be two hundred feet tall.”

  Jesus Christ. I could see myself lying in bed in the Mint Hotel, half-asleep and staring idly out the window, when suddenly a vicious nazi drunkard appears two hundred feet tall in the midnight sky, screaming gibberish at the world: “Woodstock Über Alles!”

  We will close the drapes tonight. A thing like that could send a drug person careening around the room like a ping-pong ball. Hallucinations are bad enough. But after a while you learn to cope with things like seeing your dead grand
mother crawling up your leg with a knife in her teeth. Most acid fanciers can handle this sort of thing.

  But nobody can handle that other trip—the possibility that any freak with $1.98 can walk into the Circus-Circus and suddenly appear in the sky over downtown Las Vegas twelve times the size of God, howling anything that comes into his head. No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. Reality itself is too twisted.

  GOOD MESCALINE comes on slow. The first hour is all waiting, then about halfway through the second hour you start cursing the creep who burned you, because nothing is happening . . . and then ZANG! Fiendish intensity, strange glow and vibrations . . . a very heavy gig in a place like the Circus-Circus.

  “I hate to say this,” said my attorney as we sat down at the Merry-Go-Round Bar on the second balcony, “But this place is getting to me. I think I’m getting the Fear.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “We came out here to find the American Dream, and now that we’re right in the vortex you want to quit.” I grabbed his bicep and squeezed. “You must realize,” I said, “that we’ve found the main nerve.”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s what gives me the Fear.”

  The ether was wearing off, the acid was long gone, but the mescaline was running strong. We were sitting at a small round gold formica table, moving in orbit around the bartender.

  “Look over there,” I said. “Two women fucking a polar bear.”

  “Please,” he said. “Don’t tell me those things. Not now.” He signaled the waitress for two more Wild Turkeys. “This is my last drink,” he said. “How much money can you lend me?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Why?”

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “Go?”

  “Yes. Leave the country. Tonight.”

  “Calm down,” I said. “You’ll be straight in a few hours.”

  “No,” he said. “This is serious.”

  “George Metesky was serious,” I said. “And you see what they did to him.”

  “Don’t fuck around!” he shouted. “One more hour in this town and I’ll kill somebody!”

  I could see he was on the edge. That fearful intensity that comes at the peak of a mescaline seizure. “OK,” I said. “I’ll lend you some money. Let’s go outside and see how much we have left.”

  “Can we make it?” he said.

  “Well . . . that depends on how many people we fuck with between here and the door. You want to leave quietly?”

  “I want to leave fast,” he said.

  “OK. Let’s pay this bill and get up very slowly. We’re both out of our heads. This is going to be a long walk.” I shouted at the waitress for a bill. She came over, looking bored, and my attorney stood up.

  “Do they pay you to screw that bear?” he asked her.

  “What?”

  “He’s just kidding,” I said, stepping between them. “Come on, Doc—let’s go downstairs and gamble.” I got him as far as the edge of the bar, the rim of the merry-go-round, but he refused to get off until it stopped turning.

  “It won’t stop,” I said. “It’s not ever going to stop.” I stepped off and turned around to wait for him, but he wouldn’t move . . . and before I could reach out and pull him off, he was carried away. “Don’t move,” I shouted. “You’ll come around!” His eyes were staring blindly ahead, squinting with fear and confusion. But he didn’t move a muscle until he’d made the whole circle.

  I waited until he was almost in front of me, then I reached out to grab him—but he jumped back and went around the circle again. This made me very nervous. I felt on the verge of a freakout. The bartender seemed to be watching us.

  Carson City, I thought. Twenty years.

  I STEPPED on the merry-go-round and hurried around the bar, approaching my attorney on his blind side—and when we came to the right spot I pushed him off. He staggered into the aisle and uttered a hellish scream as he lost his balance and went down, thrashing into the crowd . . . rolling like a log, then up again in a flash, fists clenched, looking for somebody to hit.

  I approached him with my hands in the air, trying to smile. “You fell,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  By this time people were watching us. But the fool wouldn’t move, and I knew what would happen if I grabbed him. “OK,” I said. “You stay here and go to jail. I’m leaving.” I started walking fast towards the stairs, ignoring him.

  This moved him.

  “Did you see that?” he said as he caught up with me. “Some sonofabitch kicked me in the back!”

  “Probably the bartender,” I said. “He wanted to stomp you for what you said to the waitress.”

  “Good god! Let’s get out of here. Where’s the elevator?”

  “Don’t go near that elevator,” I said. “That’s just what they want us to do . . . trap us in a steel box and take us down to the basement.” I looked over my shoulder, but nobody was following.

  “Don’t run,” I said. “They’d like an excuse to shoot us.” He nodded, seeming to understand. We walked fast along the big indoor midway—shooting galleries, tattoo parlors, money-changers and cotton-candy booths—then out through a bank of glass doors and across the grass downhill to a parking lot where the Red Shark waited.

  “You drive,” he said. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

  Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, 1971

  Richard Meltzer

  (b. 1945)

  Another graduate of the rock and roll press, Richard Meltzer got his start at Bostons Crawdaddy! and worked his way through Rolling Stone (where he was found too funny), Creem, and The Village Voice. His first book, The Aesthetics of Rock, was a fantastic mash-up of academic convention and utterly bebop free-association with some Dada flavoring and 220 footnotes. Equally brilliant was Meltzer’s sequel Gulcher, taking Ezra Pound’s Kulchur one step further along the ledge. The excerpt here shows Meltzer’s unique form of poetic meditation on any given subject. He has written more than a dozen books, as well as lyrics for Blue Öyster Cult and his own groups, such as VOM and Smegma.

  Luckies vs. Camels: Who Will Win?

  IT’S EASY with a pack of Camels, it’s easy to tell which side is the front and which is the back. The front is the side with the camel’s back on it—commonly called the hump and he’s got only one, hence he’s a dromedary—and the camel’s left side and the camel’s left side of his face and portions of all four legs and his tail. And three trees and two pyramids. And the back is the side with the buildings in town where people live (they don’t live in pyramids, only dead pharaohs live there if you can call it a life).

  But on the pack of Lucky Strikes both sides are identical. They both say “It’s toasted” plus the Lucky Strike in a circle. Actually it’s inside of four concentric circles and maybe more but there still is one way to tell which is the front. The front is the side that’s facing you when the thing on top with the Indian and the letter A and “20 cigarettes” all in blue is facing you too. When the left side of the Indian’s head is facing your direction and his nose is above his mouth. Otherwise it’s upside down and it’s the back of the pack, not the front.

  Both packs have the surgeon general’s warning about health on the same side and both of them have only one word beginning with a lower case piece of type and that’s the word to. The rule is: “The only words in a title supposed to be small are articles, prepositions and conjunctions.” Well to is a preposition—even Lenny Bruce knows that—and you know what? The word that (capitalized on the packs) is—as used—a conjunction rather than a relative pronoun so they’re doing it all wrong and it’s even worse than Winston tastes good like a cigarette should. Worse cause it’s got the support of the prestigious surgeon general’s office behind it.

  But all that’s quickly forgotten when it comes time for the showdown. People have always been saying that the difference between a good cigarette and a great cigarette is in the know-how. Well they may know how but you’ve
gotta know how too. And you’ve gotta know how to. To light the cigarette right. And the right way is the same way as for a cigar. First if it was a cigar you’d remove the cigar band by ripping it while it’s still on the cigar instead of slipping it off with a pull and a tug so you don’t tear the tobacco leaf. Well a seegar is not a cigareet and vice versa so you don’t have to worry about no bands, just the lighting part. And in the lighting part you take the cig (whether it’s an ar or an arette) and hold it twixt the fingers horizontal with a tangent drawn to the surface of the earth below your feet. In the other hand is the match which has been lit for proper use. Hold the flame so that it’s below the end of the cig you want lit but hold it low and slowly approach the cig. Don’t ever let the actual flame come in contact with the cig or something bad’s gonna happen to the taste of the smoke. It’ll taste chemical cause chemicals are what goes into the making of the match. Just let the heat of the match light the cig, not the flame itself. One or more attempts may be necessary before you get it down pat but you’ll notice the difference already and that’s what know-how is.

  Now the most important part of the smoke is when it’s leaving your respiratory system out through the nose. It’s crucial cause exit is the last part of the smoke you’ll remember if your memory is good and if it isn’t good you shouldn’t be smoking. It’s that tingle of warmth on the inner surface of the nostrils that does it. Like when it’s in your lungs and in your mouth it’s just another something in your lungs or mouth. You don’t really experience the heat, same goes for the throat too. But you feel the heat to optimum watchamacallit only in the nose along the linings. And if the heat isn’t important there’s no reason to set the Lucky or Camel as the case may be on fire at all, you could just as easily keep it in the ice box with the cold ham.

  And the facts are that in the battle of the nose Camels are stronger to the nose, Luckies are weaker. But while Camels may be stronger, Luckies happen to be weaker. One’s less weak and the other’s less strong and one’s more strong and the other’s more weak and both are either Camels or Luckies.