Showing posts with label Las Vegas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Las Vegas. Show all posts

Thursday, February 02, 2012

Las Vegas's Neon Museum/Neon Boneyard

The Neon Museum collection of signage consists of a vast Neon Boneyard, and a small collection of restored signs, "the Fremont Street Gallery," and several more signs along Third Street. 

The Boneyard is one of the coolest things we saw in Las Vegas.  It contains hundreds of donated and salvaged signs from the late 1930s through the early 90s from mostly Vegas hotels, businesses, and casinos.  The Museum will open sometime later this year.  In the meantime, they do controlled tours of the Boneyard. 

The Museum's Fremont Street Gallery and Signs Project also has actually fully restored some signs and placed them along Fremont and Third Streets. One small sign cost $20,000 to restore and re-electrify.  We went to see these too, but not at night unfortunately, when they are lit up.

It's about a ten minute drive from the strip and well worth a visit.


A public scolding in Las Vegas of the Schwartz Law Firm

Photo by Jack Brummet


Monday, August 29, 2011

Fear and Loathing in the desert

Hanny, whose blog "The Stone In The River" I follow recently excerpted this key early passage from one of my favorite Hunter S. Thompson books, Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. . .

"My attorney saw the hitchhiker long before I did. 'Let's give this boy a lift,' he said, and before I could mount any argument he was stopped and this poor Okie kid was running up to the car with a big grin on his face, saying, 'Hot damn! I never rode in a convertible before!'

"'Is that right?' I said. 'Well, I guess you're about ready, eh?'

"The kid nodded eagerly as we roared off.

"'We're your friends,' said my attorney. 'We're not like the others.'

"O Christ, I thought, he's gone around the bend. 'No more of that talk,' I said sharply. 'Or I'll put the leeches on you.' He grinned, seeming to understand. Luckily, the noise in the car was so awful--between the wind and the radio and the tape machine--that the kid in the back seat couldn't hear a word we were saying. Or could he?

"How long can we maintain? I wondered. How long before one of us starts raving and jabbering at this boy? What will he think then? This same lonely desert was the last known home of the Manson family. Will he make that grim connection when my attorney starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays coming down on the car? If so--well, we'll just have to cut his head off and bury him somewhere. Because it goes without saying that we can't turn him loose. He'll report us at once to some kind of outback nazi law enforcement agency, and they'll run us down like dogs.

"Jesus! Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me? I glanced over at my attorney, but he seemed oblivious--watching the road, driving our Great Red Shark along at a hundred and ten or so. There was no sound from the back seat."