WHEN ART IMITATES ART

An aspect of the 1970 Mel Brooks movie, "THE TWELVE CHAIRS," includes a beggar going through the village crying out, "Epilepsy, epilepsy!" Later we find out that he lived among a sub-culture of beggars who preferred this method of work to actually working. In private, these "bums" tried to concoct new ways to promote them self as the most destitute...hence more worthy of sympathy...in the form of alms, (donations).

I grew up in New York City and always wondered if the blind guys in the subway were faking. From that I developed an everyone's got their hand in your pocket mentality. When I moved to Las Vegas in 1979, I saw it was a way of life and that creative mooching was rampant. One of the big reasons was the hobo's shantytown hidden in an enormous train yard behind the Union Plaza Casino.

Hobos rode freight trains to Las Vegas. It was a perfect spot because Vegas combined year-round warm weather with give-aways and inexpensive food. More importantly there was a steady stream of gamblers to sponge-off, who were free and easy with their chump change.

The value of the land skyrocketed after I left town (1984) and urban renewal was set in motion. The vast majority of the transients vanished after the shantytown was eliminated and the train yard was developed. Also, the slum-like streets near the casino center, (Fremont Street), were razed and replaced with real estate offices, lawyers, banks and other new businesses to support their needs.

When I vacationed in Las Vegas last month, I found these changes stunning. The crowning touch of these downtown improvements is called the FREMONT STREET EXPERIENCE.

Located along the first five westernmost blocks of Fremont Street, an awning...more specifically a 90-foot high barrel vault canopy, was completed on December 14, 1995. It provides shade to a pedestrian mall below (Fremont Street) which is also the main pipeline to the Glitter Gulch casinos, (Golden Nugget, Horseshoe, Fremont etc).

BY DAY, FREMONT STREET (looking west towards Main Street) BUSTLES WITH ACTIVITY. KIOSKS SELL ANYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE. THE ILLUSION OF BEING INDOORS IS COMPLETED BY THE STRONG AIR-CONDITIONING ESCAPING INTO THE STREET FROM EVERY DOORWAY.

In addition to traditional vendors, the Fremont Street Experience had; a balloon-animal clown, a spieler selling time shares, a magician, strolling mariachi band and an artist. We found this artist particularly interesting. Crowds encircled him as he painted on an easel that was attached to a lazy-Susan atop a regular table. This format made it possible for even a little kid to watch.

He used spray paint mixed with oils on a "canvas" that was a solid, light-weight, 24 x 18-inch plastic sheet. The masterpiece we saw him create featured a babbling brook in front of a split log fence, framed by forests of fir trees. In the background, the star-studded night sky and bright moon reflected on the scene below.

The painter spun the canvas and sprayed, dabbed and added definition with a set of knife-like tools. Six other similarly styled finished products surrounded his work station. The price was $39.00 or 2 for $65.00. The sign on the partially filled tip-jar read: "STRUGGLING ARTIST FUND."

In New York, this demonstration would be a pick-pocket's paradise. At one point I checked my wallet and surveyed the congregation. I had all my stuff and nobody looked suspicious.

My mind wandered to my dad. He was an artist and would have appreciated this five minute show. Hell, even Van Gogh would have turned over in his grave for a better look at this guy in action.

We loved the one he was working on and were tempted to buy it. Only we didn't want to schlep it around and we knew our hands were already full to get back on the plane.

In a final crescendo filled with theatrics, the artist spun and dabbed and etched in such a feverish pace that our heads spun as much as the lazy-Susan. When he stopped, like magic, the landscape was suddenly finished. You'd think he was Salvador Dali when the gallery erupted in applause and whistling.

AT NIGHT, BIGGER CROWDS COME TO SEE THE EXCITING LASER LIGHT SHOW SET TO MUSIC, PROJECTED ONTO THE BOTTOM OF THE CANOPY. THERE ARE ALSO TWO SOUND-STAGES THAT FEATURE ORGANIZED (usually free) CONCERTS. THE BIG NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY THERE HAS BECOME A VEGAS TRADITION.

We stayed four nights downtown and each morning I did my power-walk. You get a false sense of comfort under the canopy because when you get out into the sunshine (at 7AM it was always at least 90 degrees), you want to die. The heat is staggering and with no shade, there's no place to hide.

THE UNBEARABLE HEAT OF PRE-CANOPY FREMONT STREET, (1983). BACK THEN, IN THE STYLE OF "AMERICAN GRAFFITI," IT WAS A BIG DEAL FOR HIGH SCHOOL DRIVERS TO CRUISE "GLITTER GULCH" ON FRIDAY AND SATURDAY NIGHT.

While I was walking east along Charleston Boulevard, I discovered that the slums are still there. Despite the urban renewal adjacent to the hub of downtown, away from the action, homeless people slept in the shade of tattered shrubs, countless drunks wandered around and other poor folks whose Vegas dreams never materialized watched me chug by.

Some desperate people become low-level casino hustlers. They hope for simple freebies like, liquor, cigarettes, food or abandoned slot machine vouchers.

Being a 30-year casino employee, I am sensitive to higher level hustlers. These hucksters/grifters/scam artists etc., look to "earn" a free gambling stake by manipulating the weak or less savvy gamblers. Most use hard luck stories but others sell get-rich systems, are prostitutes, loan sharks etc. Luckily I didn't encounter any of that.

What I did encounter was surprising. Away from the casinos, in mundane places like; stores, parking lots and gas stations, a new form of pan-handling was going on. I guess with the economy in the toilet...unemployment in Las Vegas is at an all-time high...many clean-cut people make up the hordes of a new generation beggars. Very sad.

Later, we went back into the big strip hotels. On our way to the Wynn Casino there was a broad alley between Harrah's and the Flamingo. Similar to the downtown pedestrian mall, this area was crammed with booths selling anything you could imagine. Therefore it was a shock to see another "struggling artist" with the EXACT same set-up, EXACT same prices and EXACT same paintings.

I'm guessing there was some sort of template going on because the painting were NOT similar, they were the same! I'm glad I didn't buy one and I felt dirty for dragging my father's memory into association with that crap. And forget about poor Van Gogh's ear, chances are, he would have cut his head off after seeing that.

THE EVER SNOTTY, MIKE "MEAT-BONE" FLEISCHBIEN

At a time when we should be celebrating today's 40th anniversary of the first men on the moon or at least the birthdays of two of my readers: LACC and BOZO...I choose instead to take a much lower road.

I'm still in the pleasant afterglow of my Vegas/Grand Canyon vacation. Its funny to me that part of the anticipation of returning to Las Vegas, was unexpectedly running into people. In my last visit these occurrences happened frequently. But now 17 years later...it only happened twice.

The first was a friend from my dealer school. My blog from last year "THE MIGHTY MACS" featured him and his wonderful family. When I referred to him in my short stories, I changed his name to John Heaverlo. In retrospect, it was unnecessary because there was nothing about his character or actions that would be embarrassing.

The other person I bumped into was NOT a friend. He was a cold-hearted co-worker who was so conceited, self-centered and selfish that it was paramount to change his name...to Mike "Meat-Bone" Fleischbien...to prevent possible slander charges.

Coincidentally, this knucklehead grew up three blocks from me in Canarsie. He was six years older so even though there was such a foundation to bond from, he was too annoying to be around.

What makes Meat-Bone such an ugly character is that he hadn't changed a smidge. In an industry that has grown to depend on hospitality, Meat-Bone remains the personification of negativity.

When I spotted Meat-Bone back in June, he was standing dead...his craps table was open but had no players. I doubted that he'd recognize me, so I nestled next to him and said, "Hey buddy, how do I get to Bagel Street from here?" Meat-Bone noticed I wasn't holding cash or chips and tried his best to ignore me. I continued, "Is Bagel Street in walking distance?"

He finally looked at me and said, "Never heard of it. But the information booth on the other side of the casino IS in walking distance!"

I think the best thing about control-freaks, arrogant people and know-it-alls, is, that they are so stuck on them self that they have no idea how much they are disliked.

While this was happening, my family was with me. So I ended the charade by naming his cross-street from the old neighborhood, "Bagel Street is between Avenue L and Avenue K." He remembered me at that point. Our ensuing pleasantries were short and went nowhere.

So with the vast wonderment of lunar exploration and the celebration of great people's birthdays, I instead focus on poking fun of Meat-Bone, one of the all-time jerks.

In a landmark achievement for my blog, today I present para-phrased excerpts about him from my short story, "A GUMMY CONSPIRACY."

Mike "Meat-Bone" Fleischbien is introduced in the story as a lonely pest who tried to invade my clique of craps dealers at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget, (1982-1983). The story takes place during the casino's metamorphosis from a sawdust grind-joint to a renown worldwide destination. In the chaotic process of converting the "toilet" into a palace many good employees were fired to clear-out space for influence peddlers. One of my group got fired that way. Meat-Bone seized the opportunity. He harassed the scheduler into accepting his bribe and weaseled a permanent position on my crew.

Rather than appreciate his emergence onto our "A-List" by taking on a lower-profile, Meat-Bone, to make a "good" first-impression on us was an immediate nuisance. Aside from starting nearly every sentence with "I," it was important to him that we knew that he was God's gift to dealing. In so doing, between his sneezing and coughing fits, he explained the significance of his next body-builder competition.

Later, he was in the middle of telling us about his membership to a tanning spa, when he was politely told to, "Cool it," by Antony Francis our beloved floor supervisor.

Meat-Bone smiled and snarled in his heavy Brooklyn accent, "Shaddup."

Antony Francis was seething and nervously pacing as Meat-Bone started arguing with the few players we had. When he got bored of that, Meat-Bone lectured me on the finer points of standing-dead.

A half hour later, I was explaining the rules of craps to two young girls when his preaching became intense, "I gotta tell ya Sonny, this ain't no 'table-for-table' gig. I'm gonna make the same scratch whether I work or not...so, let's not."

Soon our game swelled to seven players. In the middle of admiring his manicure Meat-Bone loudly scoffed, "I'll have to teach you my move for 'looking-away' players."

A Hawaiian couple joined our game. Back in my day, Hawaiians gambling in Las Vegas, had the reputation (pleasant and generous) for being the best ethnic group to deal to. While another dealer was rolling out the red carpet to them, Meat-Bone was still antagonizing me. From his stickman position he proudly announced, "Kid, I'll explain what you did wrong after I 'thin-out the herd.'"

I was in the middle of setting-up this couple's bets when he tapped me with the stick and said, "Listen, I'm here to help, you understand...right? As soon as we're standing dead again, I'll finish explaining everything you need to know."

The Hawaiian woman read his name-tag and said, "Come on Mike, don't be such a downer. Smile, you only live once."

"On top of my deviated septum, I gotta bad cold," he rasped to intentionally embellish his symptoms, "I shudda stayed home."

"Then you should have stayed home. We came here to relax. This is no place to be miserable."

"I shudda stayed home home...you're right. But they have a strict attendance policy." He extended his hand and added, "But for two-hundred, I'll go home right now."

The woman was fuming as Meat-Bone stared me down and spat, "See what you started!"

When Meat-Bone was relieved from the stick, he was intercepted by Antony Francis and threatened with a "write-up."

Between his exaggerated coughing and sneezing Meat-Bone remained aloof to his players while putting-in a minimal effort. When the husband began a series of unusual place-bet presses, Meat-Bone in an intimidating manner growled at the man. In between the dice rolls, he then attacked me for allowing the game to open.

The wife came to my defense and said, "If you're sick, you're sick. But you don't have to be mean. Leave that guy alone."

The husband added, "Brudda, you need to chill out."

Meat -Bone scowled, "Chill out? I already told ya, I'm dying ova here."

The husband whispered, "Up in my room, I have some paco-lo-lo. That'll put a smile on your face."

"Look bub," Meat-Bone snapped, "I don't need no drugs to feel good."

While Antony Francis struggled to find the new, "Disciplinary Action Forms," Meat-Bone exploded with a thunderous sneeze. A two-foot long gob of mucus dangled from his nose. The meticulous Meat-Bone was mortified to look bad in front of a large group.

"Tap me out," he demanded. When no one came to his rescue, he was forced to gather his mess in his hand.

The Hawaiians were pointing at Meat-Bone and laughing the loudest, "Hana-budda, hana-budda!"

Craps procedure forced Meat-Bone to remain trapped at his base (station) so he cried out in desperation, "Francis, get me some goddamn Kleenex!"

Antony Francis hated being called by his surname. He bitterly grabbed the box. But he didn't hand them to Meat-Bone. Instead, he teasingly, he held the tissues just out of the impatient patient's grasp.

Our game came to a complete stop as Antony said, "Well."

"Well what?"

"How were you brought-up? Don't you EVER say please or thanks or apologize or..."

"C'mon a-ready!"

Antony bled every second of humiliation and said, "Say please, now...and there better be a thank you too."

"PLEASE, thank you...thank you with a cherry on top."

Antony wasn't satisfied and remained frozen. He folded his arms and tucked the box under his left bicep.

Meat-Bone grimaced in defeat and said, "Yeah, I'm an ass-hole. Now, please...give me the fuckin' tissues."

When everything calmed down I asked the couple, "What does hana-budda mean?"

They started laughing again and the wife said, "In the Hawaiian language there is no real word for it because we don't catch colds."

She started to giggle and blushingly turned away so her husband added, "Hana is our word for nose and budda...is butter.."

The couple looked at each other and wailed, "Hana-budda, is snot."

THE "BLUE PLANET," PHOTOGRAPH BROUGHT BACK BY APOLLO 8, a. k. a. "EARTHRISE," HAS BECOME AN ICON FOR ENVIRONMENTAL CONSCIOUSNESS ON EARTH. MAYBE THERE SHOULD BE A PICTURE OF MEAT-BONE FROM OUTER SPACE TO SYMBOLIZE TO POWER-JUNKIES, JUST HOW INSIGNIFICANT THEY ARE TO THE REST OF THE WORLD.

My short story, "A GUMMY CONSPIRACY" is one of 20 I have written. If you'd like to read them, my 2 screenplays or novel...please contact me and I'll send them via E-Mail or lend you a hard copy.

VEGAS VACATION - 2009

This year our family vacation was in three main parts. Las Vegas for 4 nights, the Grand Canyon for 3 nights and while there, a day trip to the Painted Desert and Petrified Forest.

KURUDAVE was kind enough to drive us to the Philadelphia Airport. His funny stories made the usually dull ride the fastest ever.

Tightened security at the terminal resulted in our feet getting strip searched. Sans footwear our ordeal worsened when our mousse and sun-screen were confiscated from our carry-on luggage.

I stress the carry-on phrase because USAIR in an attempt to keep their airfares low, charge $15 for your first suitcase and $25 for each addition piece. This compels you to carry a ton of crap that normally would be stowed in suitcases. Luckily LEFTYDEE warned us about carry-on weight restrictions or we would have paid a lot more unnecessarily. However, we were not prepared in regard to liquids and aerosol cans that were seized from our carry-ons.

To further minimize their overhead, USAIR does NOT provide a free meal, movie or even pillows. The plane we flew is nicknamed an "Air-Bus" and I would guess that a Greyhound would have been roomier. This notion was emphasized by the narrow aisles and the struggle to navigate through them by the less-than-spry stewardesses and their 747-size butts.

On the ground we were met by FRANKIERIO who not only showed us around downtown Vegas but agreed to give us a full tour the next day.

FRANKIERIO WAS A CHARTER MEMBER OF MY POKER BUDDIES. HE MOVED TO VEGAS IN 1996. BACK THEN HE LOVED TO TAKE TOYS OUT OF ANDREW'S CRIB AND PLAY WITH THEM.

Don't get me wrong all the major casinos are beautiful and if you can afford it, they offer ANYTHING you could possibly want.

I DON'T KNOW WHATS MORE INSANE, A FERRARI DEALERSHIP IN THE WYNN CASINO...OR THE $10 FEE TO COME IN AND BROWSE FOR NON-FERRARI/MASERATI OWNERS.

The irony is that despite the upscale casinos having different themes...in the end...unless you're really observant, they are hard to differentiate from one another. One shining star was the brand new M Casino. In the middle of nowhere (the furthest southern point on the strip), it caters to locals and doesn't get at all caught up in the commercialism like the others. Coincidentally, several of our (Frank and me) former Atlantic City coworkers are there and we got a comp (freebie) to their lavish buffet.

IT WAS AT THE M CASINO POOL THAT ANDREW FOUND OUT ABOUT MICHAEL JACKSON'S DEATH. IT TOOK HIM QUITE SOME TIME TO FIND THE RIGHT WORDS TO BREAK THE NEWS TO ME.
AT THE VENETIAN, MADAME TUSSUAD'S WAX MUSEUM WASTED NO TIME IN GETTING A MICHAEL JACKSON TRIBUTE OUT INTO THE STREET.

Our casino hopping extended till after 1:AM with the outdoor casino shows at the Bellagio, Mirage and Treasure Island.

THE BELLAGIO'S FOUNTAIN SHOW SYNCHRONIZED WITH OPERA MUSIC WAS THE BEST AND MOST BEAUTIFUL.

The next day we set out on our own (about 10 miles) to Red Rock Canyon.

ITS NOW WRITTEN INTO A CONTRACT, I MUST REFER TO ANDREW IN ALL SHOTS SUCH AS THIS AS; "MR. BEEFCAKE."

THE NEXT DAY WE FOUND OUT THAT A HIKER IN RED ROCK CANYON FELL TO HIS DEATH RIGHT AFTER WE LEFT. THAT'S WHY, IF YOU SQUINT, YOU'LL NOTICE THIS DANGEROUS SHOT WAS POSED BY A PROFESSIONAL STUNT DOUBLE. NEXT TIME I'LL PONY-UP THE FEW EXTRA BUCKS AND RENT ONE WITH LESS OF A GUT.

That night we went to the Mandalay Bay Casino and saw the touring company production of Broadway's "LION KING."

Our last Vegas day was a photo shoot and visit to every gift shop in town.

ICONIC "VEGAS VIC" HAS LURED GAMBLERS INTO THE PIONEER CLUB CASINO SINCE 1951. UNFORTUNATELY, ITS NOW AN ESPECIALLY SEEDY TEE-SHIRT SHOP FEATURING A TIME-SHARE SPIELER IN FRONT !

On our way to the Stratosphere Casino gift shop, we encountered one of the greatest examples of substance over form. This casino features amusement park rides on its lofty tower roof. We figured we'd go up to the "penthouse" just to take pictures. With the rides having a separate price, they have the audacity to charge $15 per person just to go up, (it was still $12 for hotel guests). Our ten minute look-see would have cost us $45. Conversely, substance once again prevails because a seven-day admission to the Grand Canyon is $25 per car.

AT THE SITE OF THE FORMER JOLLY-TROLLEY CASINO, THE SELF-PROCLAIMED, "WORLD'S BIGGEST GIFT SHOP" HOLDS SWAY. PERSONALLY, ALL IT IS, IS A VEGAS-THEMED SPENCER GIFTS. AND TRUST ME, LIKENING THIS SCHLOCK STORE TO THE GIFT SHOP AT HERSHEY PARK, SIZE-WISE, IS LIKE COMPARING RHODE ISLAND TO ALASKA.

We finished our trip's Vegas segment with a near-disastrous trip to the outlet center. Sue was on the clock for 90 minutes and went her own way. While Andrew and I cased this outdoor mall in the early evening 102 degree swelter, I stopped at a bench to get a pebble out of my sneaker. When Sue was done, I volunteered to get the car. At the car I realized I didn't have the keys. I didn't panic because I knew the only place Andrew and I stopped was that bench...I hurried back, but they weren't there. While Sue searched for a lost and found and security...I stupidly decided to re-trace all my steps. I'm guessing the forces of evil went back to hell to cool off because a little farther up from where I THOUGHT I stopped...was an identical bench and the keys were there.

The Grand Canyon when you drive a rented, 4-cylinder Ford Focus at 90 MPH, is less than four hours. To break-up the trip we had a "pit-stop" in Ash Fork, Arizona.

MOTHS LIKE THIS WERE UBIQUITOUS AROUND THE GAS PUMPS. WHEN I ASKED THE ATTENDANT WHAT THEY WERE SHE SAID, "THEY'RE SOME KIND OF BUG."

I visited the Grand Canyon in 1976. I was young and dumb, and figured I'd take one look and leave...I took one look and stayed three days. Afterwards I told people; no picture will ever do it justice, the Grand Canyon is something you have to see to appreciate.

READ THE SMALL PRINT AT THE TOP. SEE, I WASN'T ORIGINAL, THIS SIGN IS POSTED OUTSIDE WHERE THE GRANDVIEW, (THE FIRST GRAND CANYON HOTEL), WAS BUILT - 1898.

The National Park portion of the Grand Canyon's south rim stretches about 50 miles east to west. Every picture you take has unique beauty. We went to two sunsets and were rewarded both time.

OUR SECOND SUNSET WAS AT THE SCENIC OVERLOOK CALLED "THE ABYSS." THEY DON'T ALLOW PRIVATE CAR TRAFFIC TO THE WESTERN END OF THE PARK SO YOU HAVE TO USE THE FREE SHUTTLE. WE WANTED TO GO ALL THE WAY TO THE END...TO THE BEST PLACE TO SEE THE SUNSET, "HERMIT'S REST." BUT BECAUSE WE HAD TROUBLE PARKING, WE WERE RUNNING LATE. INSTEAD WE BAILED-OUT AT THE ABYSS. AS WE GOT OFF, THE DRIVER INFORMED US THAT THERE WERE ONLY TWO MORE BUSES BACK TO CIVILIZATION. AS THE BUS PULLED AWAY, WE REALIZED THAT WE WERE THE ONLY PEOPLE THERE...ITS KIND OF SPOOKY BECAUSE THERE ARE CROWDS EVERYWHERE. ABOUT 10 MINUTES LATER, ANOTHER BUS CAME JUST BEFORE THE SUN WENT DOWN. WE EXPECTED THE NEXT BUS...THE "LAST BUS" ANOTHER 10 MINUTES AFTER THAT. WELL IT DIDN'T COME. IT GOT DARK AND SWARMS OF GNATS ATTACKED. SOON HUNDREDS (one at a time) SMALL BIRDS STRAFED JUST ABOVE OUR HEADS. I THOUGHT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO NOT MENTION THAT THEY WERE BATS. SOON, SUE WENT INTO AFRAID-OF-THE-DARK MODE AND STARTED TO PANIC. SHE WANTED TO WALK THE 3.5 MILES BACK TO THE CAR. I SOMEHOW TALKED HER DOWN. IN THE ENSUING 40 MINUTES, I TOLD HER THAT THE LOW FLYING BIRDS WERE BATS. SHE WAS TOO WORRIED ABOUT GETTING EATEN BY BEARS AND/OR MOUNTAIN LIONS TO CARE. WE WERE THERE ABOUT AN HOUR WHEN THE LAST BUS INDEED SHOWED UP.

The highlight was the hike down into the canyon. Its 9 miles to the bottom (Colorado River). We decided on the mile and a half route...about 2 hours round trip. We followed the safety suggestions and understood that its a lot harder coming back up. We didn't quite make it to our goal. Still, the slow walk up was terribly exhausting...but we all proudly survived the challenge. At the top I proclaimed, "Diet Cherry Pepsi for everybody!"

A RARE SHADY SPOT...ITS A GOOD THING I MADE RESERVATIONS THAT DAY. ON THE OTHER HAND, MULE RESERVATIONS MUST BE MADE A YEAR IN ADVANCE. ON THE WAY UP, I WAS INCREDIBLY TIRED BUT THE AWFUL DUNG SMELL MOTIVATED ME TO KEEP GOING.

On two separate nights, we attended outdoor lectures. Afterwards, at 9:30PM, the park is virtually empty. Seemingly alone on the road back to our hotel, the RED FEATHER LODGE, (10 miles away in scenic Tusayan Arizona), I was spotted by a park ranger. He told me that I rolled through two stop signs. I was convinced that I was getting a summons because it took so long to process my info...but he let me slide.

We finished our stay with a jaunt to the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert...a three-plus hour drive. The Grand Canyon is a tough act to follow and although these are beautiful places and we have great memories...they were rather dull.

SUE WAS UNIMPRESSED AND SAID OF THE PETRIFIED FOREST, "IT'S A BENT HUB-CAP AWAY FROM LOOKING LIKE A JUNKYARD." AND ANDREW SAID, "WE CAME A LONG WAY TO LOOK AT GIANT, CUT UP HOT DOGS." I LIKED IT MORE THAN THEM BUT DEEP DOWN, I COULDN'T HELP BUT AGREE.THE PAINTED DESERT HAD IT'S MOMENTS BUT BY THIS TIME, ALL WE WANTED WAS LUNCH.

Our last stop on the way to the Las Vegas (McCarron) Airport was Hoover Dam. Highway-93 runs across the top of dam. Due to heightened security, cars are spot checked. The traffic back-up along the steep, twisty road was awful. To reduce the chance of sabotage and to relieve the traffic crunch, a new bridge spanning the gorge is being built. Please notice the cables and partially completed roadway in the background of the photo below. Hoover Dam is much lower and can't be seen from this angle.

WE ONLY TOOK A COUPLE OF SNAPS THERE BECAUSE IT WAS 110 DEGREES.

Our flight back to Philadelphia was smooth...except for the old woman with a loud coarse voice behind us that kept harping on the death of TV pitchman Billy Mays...who died three days earlier...when his USAIR "air bus" had a rough landing and baggage fell out of the overhead compartment and onto his head. He seemed okay but two nights later he didn't wake-up.

Our great vacation was over. Kurudave faithfully picked us up in Philly and of course it was raining.

EDITOR'S NOTE - An additional 25 different vacation photos...with snappy captions...can be found on my FACEBOOK page.