A German TV crew is interested in exposing Vegas “scams” that target tourists: shell games (which I have posted about previously), timeshare promotions, VIP club passes, long-hauling by cabbies, etc. If you know of any other Vegas scams that should be explored or you have any contacts for the aforementioned scams, please let me know. Thanks!

We know about the obscene amount of money DJs make and the lavish lifestyles of the club owners and operators. What about workers in the Vegas nightlife industry who are struggling and just getting by: aspiring DJs, low-level promoters, bar backs, dancers, etc.? We want to share their stories. If you know anyone who may fit this description, please email me (thesewersofparis@yahoo.com). Thanks!

As some of you may recall, about four years ago I applied to MFA creative-writing programs. I ended up enrolling at UNLV. Recently, I graduated and the overall experience—teaching, traveling, workshopping my novel, etc.—proved extremely worthwhile. Thanks to everyone who helped me achieve this longtime goal!

The obvious question, and one I have been asked often, is: “What now?” Well, I’d like to land a fulltime job writing/editing or teaching. Of course, quality gigs in those fields are scarce, so I’m planning to teach at CSN and UNLV in the fall and to write. (I’m already scheduled to teach a creative-writing class at CSN; more on this later.)

If there are any updates or changes to this plan, you all will be the first to know. Thanks again for your support! 

Tim is a smart guy and a good writer. Any support you offer this book should be well worth it. 

If you read my story “My Week at the Blue Angel,” you may recall Steve and his dog Dot. Steve, who was staying in room 133, was a Vietnam vet with a litany of health problems and a predilection for crack. He was also one of the nicest and funniest people I’ve met.

I got a call Sunday morning from a Colorado number. It was Steve’s brother Ken, whom I’ve never met, informing me that Steve died a few weeks ago in a Las Vegas hospital. Though this was not a surprise—Steve had been in and out of as many hospitals as weekly motels—it was saddening. He and I had managed to stay in touch over the years and I’ll always remember him as a kind and welcoming presence in a place (the Blue Angel) that could be cold and intimidating.

Here’s an excerpt from a conversation Steve and I had at the motel:

“What does she (the Blue Angel sculpture) mean to you?”

“She’s sort of like a helping hand. I look up and know that God’s put her there for a reason: to watch over the people here, who are wayward, who are like ships in a storm. They dock in the harbor to get out of the weather and then they’re off again. This place is like a port in a storm. Sometimes you stay overnight. Sometimes you stay a long, long time.”

“How long are you going to stay?”

“Long enough to get healthy and then I’m moving on. I want to get out of this town. I don’t really like it here.”

“When you leave, what will you remember about the Blue Angel?”

“It was a stepping stone in the direction I wanted to go in, but I won’t miss it. The only thing I’ll miss is the angel.

“But God will have one watching over me wherever I go.”

Laura Ling and Paige Hansen of Discovery Digital Networks were kind enough to let me host a program on the underground flood channels of Vegas. Their crew followed me into the tunnels and met a few of my friends. It was fun and they did a great job of producing the piece, but I should probably keep my day job.

Here’s the poem I contributed to Western, the arts journal published in association with Life Is Beautiful. The poem was inspired by my trip to Barcelona this summer. Special thanks to Shaun Christensen, Jarret Keene, Don Revell, Olivia Clare and my dad for reading it and providing feedback and to Sam Mc Mackin for publishing it.

How many storms

(Arabs, Franks, fellow Spaniards)

Can a stronghold weather

Scarred by spears and arrows,

And falling at the feet

Of its latest sovereign?

Cultures coalesce,

Become difficult to distinguish.

Trueloves are like this,

Which is why I occasionally

Confuse you with her.

Or her.

Love is not the Po, Nile, or Ebro,

But Mediterranean Sea.

Another argument

Across the Atlantic.

High, mud-swirl ceiling.

Duffel bag buried beneath clothes.

I slip into my sneakers

And stagger out onto the streets.

Mute, impotent, invisible—

I know how you felt

When you moved to the Meadows.

Nàpols and Mallorca.

Sant Joan and València.

Bailén and Gran Vía,

Where Gaudí was run over

By a cable car.

Assuming he was homeless,

They left him sprawled on the street.

He’s still there.

I hear him bleating,

As I cross against the light

And continue south.

Drifting down the Door of the Angel,

Alone amid the crush,

The rising sun

Silhouettes a family of four

Frolicking in the surf.

Perched on a cloud,

Columbus points toward the Gold Coast.

The tourists stand in the sand

And applaud,

As the Santa María

Appears on the horizon.

Like a mythic mortal,

I leered at beauty

And sacrificed my sight.

My marooned senses sharpen,

As I navigate the side streets

North:

Sea salt on my lips;

The bakery, soap shop, smoke shop;

A Catalan flag flaps in the wind.

Approaching La Rambla,

I reclaim my perspective.

As I’m waking,

You’re falling asleep.

If you’re going to Life Is Beautiful this weekend, drop by the old Western hotel-casino. It will house a handful of art exhibits, including a collaboration between writers and artists that I contributed to. (Photographer Marshall Scheuttle and I worked together.) I don’t know if the text and images will be displayed, but I believe a journal featuring the work will be for sale, with part of the proceeds going to charity. Other contributors to this particular project include Molly O’Donnell, Scott Dickensheets, Brent Holmes and Danielle Kelly.