I have to blog because the last post was kind of gross and I don't like it being on the front page. It needs to be buried, but not deleted, because - let's face it - I can be a bit gross myself. For example, you can't spend more than a few hours with me without some kind of booger story coming up. (Do you ever get the kind where it's like a shell casing and... no. I'm not going there. Self control. It's August. Gotta get back into "teacher mode.")
One of the books I picked up at the library yesterday, Beneath the Neon, is unexpectedly terrific! I thought it was going to be a pushy look at storm drain graffiti art (or "art") in Las Vegas, but here I am 100+ pages in, and graffiti has barely been mentioned. Instead, it's a fascinating account of one local journalist's time spent exploring these drains and tunnels, meeting the people who live in them.
It turns out that New York isn't the only city with an amazing subterranean society. However, I don't know if we have any rumours of mutant thirty-foot alligators. But there are crunchy swarms of six-inch crawfish, twice the average length, and Beneath the Neon has the photos to prove it.
Homelessness is a heartbreaker. As I read these stories, I find myself squirming, chewing my lip, not even realizing it. Who's immune? Am I immune? Because not everyone in the tunnels is a crack addict. Not everyone's an alcoholic or a gambler. Some people just lack the will to keep fighting the fight. Anyone who has danced with depression (if not entered the ballroom championships) may find themselves panting past some of these profiles, closing the book with breathless relief to have not chosen the adventure that ends with your Mom coming to visit you once a year in the elevated concrete tube of newspapers and candle stubs that you call home.
Many of the camps are more sophisticated than that. Grillers. Boomboxes. Paintings. Lots of futons. Libraries. Many of the residents described pride themselves on cleanliness. But some are insane. Some might've been dangerous in a different hour. Most are addicts. All, so far, take full responsibility for their condition.
The author has been lucky for the first half of the text, but can it last? I can't wait to find out. The events in the book took place in the summer of 2004, what's it like now? Has Metro swept the place out? Has the foreclosure crisis spawned a waiting list for the drier spots? I hope there's a postscript. I'm captivated.
He's a likable narrator, too. Adventurous, but not macho. Not too cool to drop his jaw, but not prone to sensationalism, either. Thoughtful, but not preachy. Literate and free with the allusions, but accessible. I may have to start reading CityLife (the alternative weekly where he is - was? - an editor) more regularly.
I never seem to get around to writing what I think about books, movies, shows... Even if I didn't want to correct the assumptions in the last post, I think I'd be making a point to gush now. Engaging stuff.
(But if you prefer me in negative mode, avoid The Secret Life of Siegfried and Roy: How the Tiger Kings Tamed Las Vegas. It's like one long Wikipedia article until the last chapter or two, when it finds its genuinely fresh and juicy slant. There, the personal experiences of the authors bring in the goods to the point where you can almost forgive all the previous exclamation points and overuse of the verb "gifted." I suppose I deserve it for reading a celeb bio in the first place? But now, back to salt bagels with scallion cream cheese, and to the people who live under the Strip.)
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