Storytelling 2014 | Vegas Seven Magazine | October 16-22, 2014 by Vegas Seven

NOVEMBER 5 - 23

OCTOBER 18

DARIUS RUCKER WITH SPECIAL GUEST

COREY SMITH

KISS ROCKS VEGAS

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PIERCE THE VEIL & SLEEPING WITH SIRENS THE WORLD TOUR WITH SPECIAL GUESTS BEARTOOTH & THIS WILD LIFE

OCT 24 ...............................FIVE FINGER DEATH PUNCH & VOLBEAT WITH SPECIAL GUESTS HELLYEAH & NOTHING MORE

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“We Do,” by Lissa Townsend Rodgers. The legal hurdles cleared, same-sex marriage is finally a reality in Nevada. Now let the fabulous weddings begin. Plus, Style, The Deal, a few less dollars for house flippers and a few too many camera flashes for Grumpy.

20 | Green Felt Journal

“Game Changers,” by David G. Schwartz. Long a dominant force in the casino industry, slot machines are now at a crossroads. How will they adapt to tomorrow’s players?

26 | STORYTELLING 2014 “Strangers in Strange Lands.” Five true tales of life out of context.

33 | NIGHTLIFE

“The Party Must Go On,” by Jessi C. Acuña. Fall and winter daylife keeps Vegas hot as the temperature drops. Plus, Seven Nights and photos from the week’s hottest parties.

65 | DINING

Al Mancini on the Griddle Café. Plus, the Valley gets a new cold-press juicing venue, and Cocktail Culture.

71 | A&E

An “Evening” With B.J. Novak,” by Camille Cannon. Our writer’s not-so-up-close-and-personal interview with her favorite celebrity author. Plus, what to see at the Vegas Valley Book Festival, a play by Harry Reid’s granddaughter debuts at The Smith Center, The Hit List, Tour Buzz and a review of The Used in concert.

76 | Soundscraper

Jarret Keene anticipates a heavy metal tsunami.

78 | Movies

Kill the Messenger and our weekly movie capsules.

88 | Going for Broke

Battered and beaten, our fearless forecaster seeks directions back to the win column.

94 | Seven Questions

Bauman Rare Books manager and Pawn Stars expert Rebecca Romney on sleuthing, Nevada collectibles and reaching a television audience.

ON THE COVER Design by Ryan Olbrysh

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DEPARTMENTS

October 16–22, 2014

18 | THE LATEST

Titan Insurance, superhero bobblehead and design are service marks of THI Holdings (Delaware), Inc. Nationwide Insurance is a service mark of Nationwide Mutual Insurance Company. Price based on March 2010 analysis of available national data for liability-only policies. Subject to underwriting guidelines, review and approval.

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Carlos Mencia October 17

9 P M // T R E A S U R E I S L A N D T H E A T R E // T I C K E T S 7 0 2 . 8 9 4 . 7 7 2 2

DIALOGUE LETTERS TO THE EDITOR The Native Feels the Heat James P. Reza’s most recent Ask a Native column (“Should I Give That Crying Girl a Ride to the Bus Station?,” Oct. 9) elicited a strong reaction on VegasSeven. com, with several readers taking offense to the piece. Here’s a sampling of some of the comments, as well as a response from the author: What a sad, jaded city we live in. I could have been that girl (minus the accent). … I haven’t been in that situation, but [if I ever was], I hope that someone wouldn’t leave me on a street corner just because they thought I was a prostitute and a thief, based on the fact that I was wearing short shorts and was alone. Of course, I don’t wear short shorts, and that may be my saving grace. If so, that’s really sad. – Marisa Dodge Let’s count the ways that this is a terrible story. One: It was weird, out-of-nowhere hooker shaming of a total stranger. She was, what, Eastern European? That makes her hooker material? … Why would a “runaway hooker” carry a camera and souvenirs? Two: The writing

J A M E S P. R E Z A

itself is lazy. Just because an idea crosses your mind doesn’t mean it needs to be published. Three: Let’s just say that … she was a runaway hooker. Why wouldn’t you let her into your car? Because [of] hooker cooties? What is wrong with you that you wouldn’t help a person in trouble no matter what their job may or may not be? – Laurenn McCubbin Reza responds: After doing a risky favor for a stranger (a favor that few others in our city likely would do) and then writing honestly about it (including the second-guessing that came later), I found the negative response rather befuddling—particularly since I’ve never wavered from my position that prostitution should be decriminalized. Perhaps I could have refined various points for clarity. But given the criminal element that exists, particularly in the part of town I referenced, I’ll stand by my suggestion that others do what I will: help with a phone call rather than risk personal harm.

THIS WEEK @ VEGASSEVEN.COM

NOTHING BUT NET

GAY MARRIAGE, ACROSS AMERICA

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL SURVIVAL GUIDE

CROWDFUNDING 101

Hoops novice and Vegas Seven associate style editor Jessi C. Acuña crashed the UNLV basketball team’s Slam Dunk Social for Ladies, where head coach Dave Rice and others instructed her on the court. Watch how she did at RunRebs.com/ HoopsCamp.

Now that samesex marriage is legal in Nevada (see Page 18), you’re probably wondering which states still won’t allow gay couples to tie the knot. Check out our interactive map that shows which states permit it, which still ban it and which remain in limbo. Find the map at VegasSeven.com/ SameSexMarriage.

Downtown’s Life Is Beautiful Festival is right around the corner, and we’ve got your essential guide to the music, art, food and more. So break out that smartphone and bookmark VegasSeven. com/LIB2014 to stay up to date on all the festival happenings.

You have a great business plan for a startup, but no investors. So what do you do? One Las Vegas crowdfunding expert gives tips on how to create a successful campaign at VegasSeven. com/Bytes.

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VEGAS MOMENT

Untying the ‘Not’

Have you taken a photo that captures the spirit of Las Vegas this week? Share it with us at VegasSeven.com/Moment.

| October 16–22, 2014

Forget about the toaster, the blender or even the fne china. The most important gift these four happy couples received on their wedding day was the mere opportunity to get hitched— legally. They did so at the National Coming Out Day event at Alexis Park Resort on October 11, after the U.S. 9th Circuit Court of Appeals in San Francisco struck down same-sex marriage bans in Nevada and Idaho. See story on Page 18.

VegasSeven.com

Photos by Jon Estrada

Participating Wineries 14 Hands Banfi Baron Fini Blackstone Chandon Chateau St. Jean Chateau Ste Michelle Clos Du Bois Colores Del Sol Drylands Estancia Gabbiano Hidden Crush Josh Cellars Kim Crawford Mark West

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“If younger visitors are avoiding slot machines— and many in the industry are convinced they are— that spells trouble for the future of casinos.”

GREEN FELT JOURNAL {PAGE 20}

News, style and tips on where to chow down and drink up this football season

We Do

The legal hurdles cleared, same-sex marriage is fnally a reality in Nevada. Now let the fabulous weddings begin.

LAS VEGAS PRIDE was already planning its National Coming Out Day Festival when the news hit that same-sex marriage was offcially legal in Nevada. Pride offcials hadn’t intended their celebration to double as a wedding reception, but when you’ve got a space full of banquet chairs and catering waiters and a herd of eager brides and grooms, why not? And so, on a rooftop at the Alexis Park Resort, the High Roller pulsating rainbow colors in the background, seven couples took the stage one by one to exchange vows. A pair of dapper young men in matching vests held hands; two older gents in T-shirts threw their arms around each other; one bride was pregnant; another answered “Do you …?” with “Hell, yes, I do!” Sure, there were drag trios and pop duos in place of traditional bridesmaids and cover bands, but there were still kids and old people, dancing and hugging, laughing and crying—just like any other wedding. After decades of struggle, a year of court battles and two days of some of the most Byzantine legal fipfopping on record, Nevada offcially joined the same-sex-marriage party October 10. That same night, the frst couple tied the knot, as state Senator Kelvin Atkinson and partner Sherwood Howard said “I do” on the steps of the Regional Justice Center. Their union occurred just days after Atkinson proposed to Howard at the Gay and Lesbian Community Center of Southern Nevada during a news conference celebrating the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals’ decision. Like Atkinson, who last year came out on the Senate foor during the debate to repeal the same-sex marriage ban, state Senator Tick Segerblom also rejoiced last week, but for different reasons. It was Segerblom who introduced a joint Senate resolution in 2013 to repeal the ban. “It was time to try to challenge it. So I

Kelvin Atkinson, left, and Sherwood Howard exchange vows.

started it, but a lot of people jumped on board,” Segerblom says. “We’ve gone through every other civil rights issue; this is the fnal one.” Segerblom would prefer that people support same-sex marriage based on the “inalienable rights” of their fellow citizens. But even if they don’t, he says Nevadans should embrace it for the economic benefts. “It’s crazy that this is not the Gay Marriage Capital of the World. People come here to have a good time; they should be able to get married here,” he says. “We’re going to make a ton of money.” He’s probably right. According to a study published by UCLA’s Williams Institute in June, same-sex weddings and wedding-related tourism in Nevada will bring in $23 million-$52 million and create 200-450 jobs in

the next three years. A day after the fnal ruling, the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority rolled out a full-page ad in USA Today featuring a cake topper with two grooms; at Caesars Entertainment properties, same-sex weddings have already begun, and “the uptick in business is for sure being noticed,” says Chandra Knee, a public relations manager for Caesars. Certainly, Nevada has some competition as it tries to solidify itself as the Gay Marriage Capital of the World. After all, before last week, same-sex marriage was legal in 19 states. By October 14, that number was 35 and rising in a tide that is far more likely to sweep the nation than be turned back. It makes sense. We live in an endless news feed of disease and destruction, hatred and

hopelessness—why would anyone want to put the brakes on love? Maybe the legalization of gay marriage isn’t enough to defeat ISIS or stop Ebola or make Sheldon Adelson plant a wet, sloppy kiss on Harry Reid, but this much happiness must make the world a slightly better place. To wit: About an hour after the ban was lifted, a couple in their 20s walked out of the county courthouse. One young woman in emo bangs and Chuck Taylor sneakers clutched a sheaf of papers; her companion wore a halter top and carried a single white rose, a happily dazed look in her eyes. The one holding the license beamed at an older woman accompanying them. “This is all the paperwork we need? Really? Really?!” The older woman smiled benignly. “Yes. For the rest of your life.”

PHOTO BY JOHN LOCHER/AP IMAGES

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

By Lissa Townsend Rodgers

By Bob Whitby

THURSDAY, OCT. 16: Been to the

Springs Preserve’s butterfly habitat yet? Why not? Did you know butterflies fly best when it’s between 82 and 100 degrees? In other words, now is the time to see this new attraction. SpringsPreserve.org.

FRIDAY, OCT. 17: October means two

things: beer and Halloween. Can’t help you with the latter, but tonight the former will be pouring at Downtown Container Park’s Oktoberfest, 6-9 p.m. and continuing through Sunday. If beer isn’t enough of a draw, there’s also face painting, jugglers, food and entertainment. But come on ... beer! DowntownContainerPark.com.

SATURDAY, OCT. 18: Itchin’ for a pet? The Animal

[ REAL ESTATE ]

VEGAS FLIPPERS IN THE RED BUT STAYING IN THE GAME It looks like house flippers in Las Vegas hit a profitability snag in this year’s second quarter. According to real estate analysis firm RealtyTrac, the average gross return on investment for a Las Vegas flip was negative 4 percent. That puts our city at No. 2 on RealtyTrac’s list of the top 10 worst flipping markets. San Francisco was the only other metro area that was upside-down, logging a negative 9 percent ROI on average. RealtyTrac defines a flip as a property bought and sold within 12 months. The current national flip profitability average is 21 percent, and—believe it or not—Pittsburgh is today’s hot spot with a profit average of 106 percent. Local flippers are feeling the pinch of more modest home-value appreciation, says Daren Blomquist, a Re-

altyTrac vice president. “Las Vegas is a hard market. It seems to either be on fire in a good way or bad way,” he says. “Now, with boring old single-digit appreciation, things seem out of the norm for flippers who were not prepared for that.” Flippers are also pinched on the sales side by some credit tightening and conservative overall lending practices, Blomquist says. When dealing with valuations of flip properties, some lenders request a second appraisal. A bank will only lend up to a certain percentage of the appraised— not agreed upon—price. And a low appraisal can kill a sale. Despite this seemingly negative news, Las Vegas should continue to be a flipping hot bed. Consider these stats: During the second quarter, 8 percent of home sales here were flips, and since 2011, an average of 8.9 percent have been flips—that’s nearly double the national average of 4.9 percent. This is not to say that the flipping game is for everyone. Blomquist’s warning to amateurs looking to make a quick buck: “You just have to be so much smarter if you’re going to be successful.” – Brian Sodoma

ILLUSTRATION BY CIERRA PEDRO

RELENTLESS DOCUMENTARIANS Got a social function to get to? Begin at “fashionably late” and tack on an hour. That crucial 60 minutes that used to be reserved for self-medication—when you weren’t expected to manage more than a few grunts of small talk—has been obliterated. Now? That frst hour is strictly for the picture rodeo. You taking pictures of them. Them taking pictures of you. Them taking pictures of their cocktails. Their cocktails taking pictures of the appetizers. Them passing around their phones so you can see the pictures of you, you with your cocktails, and any vacation photos they might have from the last fve years. You can’t stop striking a pose long enough to sip your drink. Despise having your picture taken? You might be an adult with agency and sound reason, but the camera cowboys treat you like a stubborn child. “Oh, please? Just one. It won’t kill you. Was that so bad?” Yes. It was. Look, I pretend your gluten allergy is a real thing. You back off from the pictures, and I’ll put down the plate of linguine. Even if it wouldn’t kill you to take a bite.

Foundation hopes to place 200 dogs and cats with loving families during the Sliding Into Homes Mega Adoption Weekend. Stop by any of the three on-site adoption centers Oct. 17-19, and find the furry best friend that’s right for you. AnimalFoundation.com.

SUNDAY, OCT. 19: Speaking of furry friends, police dogs are law enforcement rock stars. They’re brave, agile, tough, smart and everyone loves them. Come check out some of Las Vegas’ finest at the Las Vegas Metro Police K-9 Trials, 9 a.m. at the Orleans Arena. Unless you’re a perp, in which case you might want to find somewhere else to be this morning. OrleansCasino.com.

MONDAY, OCT. 20: The weekend is over and so is all the fun, right? Wrong. Head down to Primm for the Primm Valley Classic, a four-day car show that runs through Thursday. They’ve got contests, poker tournaments, entertainment and more than 250 awards to give away in categories from vintage to custom. PrimmValleyClassic.com. TUESDAY, OCT. 21: We’re big into communication. It’s

kind of what we do. And it’s played a big role in the development of the state, the country and the world. See how things have changed, and stayed the same, at the Nevada State Museum’s exhibit Every Age is an Information Age: 150 Years of Communication in Nevada, through May. They’ll even let you play with their telegraph machine. Adult admission: $9.95; Museums.NevadaCulture.org.

WEDNESDAY, OCT. 22: You really haven’t heard pop music until you’ve heard a 20-piece band do pop music. So head to The Smith Center at 10 p.m. for David Perrico—Pop Evolution. Not only does this band sport some of the finest players in Las Vegas, they’ve got Danny Seraphine, a founding member of the band Chicago. Tickets: $19-$45; TheSmithCenter.com.

Long a dominant force in the casino industry, slot machines are now at a crossroads. How will they adapt to tomorrow’s players?

YOUR PLAYBOOK FOR PIGSKIN PARTIES

off some steam with a challenging game of pinball. There is a risk to the house, though: Casinos that offer even a slight advantage are notorious for losing large amounts of money quickly as skilled players mercilessly exploit them. But, as casinos court players who are used to leveling up and improving their play, it may be a necessary risk. Another company, Gamblit Gaming, is meeting the gamblers of tomorrow where they are now: playing 21st-century games on their smartphones and tablets. Injecting gambling elements into popular social-game genres forms another bridge from what millennials are doing now to where casino operators would like to see them go. Each approach has benefts and drawbacks. Casinos have limited foor space and limited budgets, so there is less room to experiment than there was in the past. Casino bosses are also hesitant to alienate their core customers; it is an oft-repeated truism that the average slot player is a woman in her 50s. But snubbing millennials—a segment whose buying power is growing—is a bad bet for long-term viability. The upshot? Expect to see slot titles with more youthful appeal—and a few games that play in radically different ways—mixed in among the Ellen DeGeneres and Wheel of Fortune machines. And, if things go the way developers hope, in a few years, the upstarts will be the new majority.

Every year new football-party options pop up all over town, both in and out of the casinos. Here’s a rundown of this season’s top choices for NFL viewing: • The two best traditional Monday Night Football parties are at South Point and Suncoast. Nothing has changed at South Point, where on Monday and Thursday nights a big crowd gathers in the showroom for $1 hot dogs, $3 pizza slices and all-you-can-drink draft beer for $15. A new discovery here are the chicken wings for $5. There are only five wings per order, but they’re huge. Suncoast’s party is also in its showroom and features footlong hot dogs for $1.75, chili for $2 and eight wings for $3.50. Drinks include $5 Red Bull cocktails; $4 shots of Bacardi, Jim Beam, Jack Daniel's and 1800 Tequila; $2 drafts; and beer buckets (five for $8). That’s $1.60 a beer and 44 cents per chicken wing— almost the best deal in town for both. Other busy gathering places on Monday nights include Aliante, Ellis Island, Gold Coast, Orleans and Sam’s Town (which still hands out the first beer free). The best MNF party Downtown is in the Triple 7 at Main Street Station, while good Sunday spots are the Westgate, Stratosphere and Golden Gate. • On the high end, two options stand out: Todd English P.U.B. in Crystals at CityCenter seems an unlikely host of a good (American) football party, but it draws crowds on Thursdays and Mondays, with oysters on the half shell for $2 apiece. Lagasse’s Stadium at Palazzo is always hopping, even if the best deal on a beer is $4.17 (when purchased by the bucket). • As usual, strip clubs offer some of the best deals. Treasures has a decent buffet and $12 beer buckets. Olympic Garden has a beer bucket and food for two for $15. And Hustler and Crazy Horse III rock an open bar. You have to buy a Vue card for $10 at Hustler, but it’s good for life. Meanwhile, Babes beats out Suncoast for the best wings deal (25 cents apiece Monday nights). • Lots of non-casino bars have strong parties, including O’Aces on South Decatur Boulevard (50-cent wings, $1 dogs and tacos, and $2 drafts), and the Lagasse’s Stadium-lookin’ Sporting Life on South Jones Boulevard, which has a live feed of betting lines and $1.75 PBRs. • Finally, for an easy default, head to any Station or Fiesta sportsbook (except Green Valley Ranch, Red Rock and Santa Fe), where hot dogs are a buck and bottles of Bud and Bud Light are $2 (down from $3.50 last year). You can also get $3 Crown Royal, Don Julio and Kettle One Bloody Marys, and $4 Belvedere and Red Bull during all the games.

David G. Schwartz is the director of UNLV’s Center for Gaming Research.

Anthony Curtis is the publisher of the Las Vegas Advisor and LasVegasAdvisor.com.

NanoTech Gaming's Vegas 2047 pinball slot machine.

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

AMONG THE MORE IMPORTANT TOPICS

addressed at the annual Global Gaming Expo, held earlier this month at the Sands Expo Center, focused on an industry in transition. Even as the number of casinos where people can gamble is increasing, the interest of millennials—those born more or less after 1981—may be waning. So those running casinos and those who make the machines that currently fll them have a dilemma: How do they reach out to new customers—without alienating their existing ones? The casino business has always evolved, of course. When modern casinos emerged in Las Vegas and Reno in the 1940s and 1950s, they emphasized table games, particularly craps. In the ’60s, blackjack soared in popularity, and in the following decade, slot machines began their rise—and since the ’80s, they’ve dominated American casinos. Even though slots only generate about half of the total win on the high roller-heavy Las Vegas Strip, in other markets, they can generate 90 percent (or more) of total win. So if younger visitors are avoiding slot machines—and many in the industry are convinced they are—that spells trouble for the future of casinos. What to do? There are two schools of thought. The frst is to make slot machines as we now know them more appealing to younger gamblers. That’s why you see such titles as Game of Thrones and Mad Men moving onto slot foors. In the best Las Vegas tradition, they have something for everyone: the gameplay that gamblers

know, immersive bonus rounds and current pop-culture references. This, some believe, will whet the next generation’s appetite for casino gaming. There’s been some success already: Aristocrat’s The Walking Dead slot is this year’s Global Gaming Awards Casino Product of the Year. The second approach is to fundamentally change how machines and players interact. For instance, instead of putting a new skin on existing games, or tweaking those games, offer something entirely new. Case in point: NanoTech Gaming Labs unveiled Vegas 2047, a game that, at frst glance, looks like your average high-end steampunk digital pinball game. But as players rack up points, their expected value (the amount they theoretically should win over time; nearly all casino games have negative expectations, hence the phrase “the house always wins”) increases, and can even fip from negative to positive—meaning, over time, the player will win more than he loses. After the last ball has been played, the game’s wager takes place on a wheel. As in slot machines, the result is determined by a random number generator, but unlike most slots, the player can gain an edge. And, at the very least, he’s blown

PHOTO COURTESY NANOTECH GAMING L ABS

THE LATEST

Game Changers

For tickets, call 702-388-2100 or dlvec.com across from

THE LATEST

STYLE

Michelle ‘Crykit’ Kolnik DJ

WHAT’S THE ORIGIN OF YOUR DJ NAME “CRYKIT”? It was given

to me during high school through the rave scene. I was so bouncy and always happy to be out meeting new people and socializing. My style of dancing is also like a cricket—bouncing around with my bubbly personality. DEFINE YOUR SENSE OF STYLE.

Boy meets girl. I love masculine looks with a feminine vibe. Androgynous is another way to describe it. I also love thrifting. Vintage, street and high fashion—I like mixing pieces from each. WHICH CELEBRITIES OR MUSICIANS INSPIRE YOUR LOOK?

I really love the Nervo twins. They can pull off the jeans and T-shirt look, but when it’s a bigger event, you see them in really cool high-fashion pieces. They know how to be playful with what they’re wearing. I also love M.I.A. and Gwen Stefani. WHERE DOES YOUR FASHION SENSE COME FROM? I didn’t have

Thrift store jacket. Coterie top. Topshop skirt and hat. Jeffrey Campbell shoes. @newcosmicorder necklace.

PHOTO BY JON ESTRADA

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

anyone [around me] growing up who was into fashion. Magazines [inspired me]. I love going through gossip magazines—never to read them, just to see what everybody is wearing. I’m originally from Wisconsin, but a lot of my style comes from having lived for 10 years in San Francisco. – Jessi C. Acuña

THE LATEST

STYLE

Perfect Scents Fresh for fall, new fragrances for him and her

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

Styled by Devin Howell Photography by Anthony Mair

~ For him: GIVENCHY Gentleman Only Intense Eau de Toilette, 3.3 oz., $88, Sephora, 702-228-3535; Sephora.com JOHN VARVATOS Artisan Acqua Eau de Toilette, 4.2 oz., $84, John Varvatos in Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, 702-693-6370; JohnVarvatos.com. PAUL SMITH Paul Smith Extreme Sport Eau de Toilette, 3.3 oz., $62, Paul Smith in The Shops at Crystals, 702-796-2640; PaulSmith.Co.UK. } For her: ACQUA DI PARMA Rosa Nobile Eau de Parfum, 3.4 oz, $180, Neiman Marcus in Fashion Show, 702-731-3636; NeimanMarcus.com. PRADA Prada Candy Florale Eau de Toilette, 2.7 oz., $88, Prada in The Shops at Crystals, 702-740-3000; Prada.com. LALIQUE Amethyst Éclat, 50 ml, $100, Lalique in The Shops at Crystals, 702-507-2375; Lalique.com.

Five true tales of life out of context

Illustrations by R Y A N O L B R Y S H

Strangers in Strange Lands

2 0 1 4 S T O R Y T E L L I N G

Off the Island By L I S S A T O W N S E N D R O D G E R S

e never should have come here. I am lying on a beach in the Mediterranean. I am lying on black velvet sand, gazing up at a cloudless, azure-blue sky. The water is so clear that no matter how far I swim out, I can still see the bottom—pink shells, blue bits of tiles, scraps of driftwood shaped like tiny angel’s wings. We have to fucking get out of here. Here is Stromboli, a tiny island that is the farthest south you can go and still be in Italy. It is the summer of 1990. I am a 19-year-old American college student with a Eurail pass, half of a round-trip ferry ticket, four traveler’s checks and no local currency. The other half of the “we” is my friend Liz. This is all her fault. I wanted to go to Venice, maybe Vienna. But Liz wanted to go to the beach. Specifcally, to “this beautiful island in southern Italy that’s a volcano, and where Roberto Rossellini and Ingrid Bergman fell in love and made a movie and—” and, as usual, Liz won. Liz’s parents were psychiatrists, and she possessed a Jedi-like power to convince. She would lay her mind control on people, while I would stand there mutely being alluring and/or intimidating until the velvet ropes opened, the drugs bestowed, the room upgraded, the charges dropped. We were a team: I kept my back to the wall, my eyes on the door and my exit strategy ready, and she made sure there was a reason for it. Liz was a busty Korean chick, and I was a six-foot redhead with a punk-rock pallor and a wardrobe of Kim-Novak-in-Picnic sundresses. I didn’t realize this might be a problem until we got to Rome. I looked over my shoulder and there had to be 20 guys following

us who erupted into a chorus of hoots, some words I didn’t understand and some gestures I defnitely did. We fed into a nearby McDonald’s—down a long, marble hallway with fountains and elaborate planters and into an oak-paneled room where we ate fries under a giant crystal chandelier until the crowd dissipated. As we waited for the train south, Liz’s wallet got stolen, and I chased after the thief across eight lanes of approaching headlights and into the labyrinthine subway tunnels. By the time I caught him, another crowd of males was following me, although this time I was glad to see them. I took the wallet and left the perp to the mob. On the train, we shared a cabin with a half-dozen elderly nuns, who projected disapproval even while asleep and snoring. I spent most of the ride in the corridor, sharing cigarettes with a boy who looked like a young Italian Matt Dillon. He didn’t speak English, I didn’t speak Italian, but we managed to get along. We arrived in Palermo, a dark-toned city of narrow buildings and winding streets. Aside from an initial run-in with some cops who didn’t understand why anyone would eat lunch at 2 p.m. or how to handle a machine gun safely, we spent our days on the beach and nights at those cliff-by-the-sea nightclubs you see in ’60s Italian movies. While we were vaguely aware of something called the World Cup, we didn’t realize we were at ground zero. When the Italian team played in La Favorita Stadium, you could hear the roar across the city, echoed in every bar, café and home with a screen or a speaker. We sat drinking Champagne on a football-feld-size plaza; no one else was on the street except two guys riding a

HEN I WAS IN ARMY

basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia, in the summer of 1988, the most anticipated part of every day was mail call, the one link back to a life before drill sergeants orchestrated your every move. Along with the usual letters from home, it wasn’t long before guys began receiving care packages, many of which included baked goods of some sort. And every time, the drill sergeants made the recipient toss the treats right in the dumpster without even a nibble. They soon offered up a deal, though: If a loved one sent enough homemade goodness for all 60 guys in our platoon to get a taste, we would be indulged. Word got out fast, because we soon started receiving packages containing five dozen cookies or cupcakes from someone’s mom, wife or girlfriend seemingly every other day. But when multiple boxes of sugary treats started arriving on the same day, the drills put an end to our arrangement. I knew my mom was planning a shipment of her own, and I called her from a pay phone that night to stop her. But it was too late. The cookies would arrive any day. I told her I couldn’t wait. The call came two days later: “DeFrank, come here and open this package!” I looked at the large box before me, so carefully bundled, a precious cargo with a damned fate. I opened it and saw not 60, but 120 delectable chocolate chip cookies. Two for every guy! Mom outdid herself this time. “C’mon, drill sergeant!” I pleaded. “She sent them before you disallowed them! Look at all the work she put into this!” He just pointed to the dumpster, about 50 yards away. I thought about eating a cookie as I walked off, but it seemed too risky. That kind of defiance would bring harsh consequences. So I opened the dumpster, which was nearly full, placed the closed box neatly atop the pile and gently lowered the lid. That night in the barracks, I told a few of the guys how I had rested the box safely in the dumpster, and that I was thinking of going to retrieve my lost bounty. They all thought I was crazy—except for Kelton. But then no one in our platoon was crazier than Kelton, a

bearish free spirit who once pleasantly startled me at 2 a.m. when he ran into the laundry room with a large pizza and six-pack of Coke he had ordered on a pay phone down the street. Of course Kelton was in for this mouth-watering mission. We would sneak out after most everyone had gone to bed. Wearing shorts, T-shirts and sneakers, Kelton and I crept down the stairs, edged along the wall outside and slipped into the darkness. We reached the dumpster, lifted the lid and turned on our flashlights. The box was sitting exactly as I left it. We grabbed it, extinguished our lights and slipped behind the dumpster, hidden by a concrete-block enclosure. We started scarfing down chocolate chip cookies with a speed and intensity that would have made a jackal nauseous. Barely a minute after we started our binge, though, we heard a door open. Huddled in the darkness, Kelton and I peeked around the dumpster to see someone walking toward us, the glare from the man’s flashlight outlining the wide, flat brim of his drill sergeant hat. I knelt behind the dumpster, the container of cookies in my hands as the footsteps drew closer. Kelton and I braced ourselves, knowing we were about to get busted, when the dumpster lid creaked opened and we heard a wastebasket being emptied. The metal lid of the dumpster slammed shut, and the footsteps began to recede. I finally started to breathe again as Kelton and I caught a glimpse of the drill sergeant returning to his office, the door closing behind him. Filled with sugar and adrenaline, we put the box back in the dumpster and stealthily returned to the barracks, where we laughed in disbelief. Our mission was a total success. They were the best cookies I ever had. I couldn’t wait to tell Mom.

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in a few hours, we arrived on Stromboli, a volcano looming up out of the sea with a village hanging off the side—a few dozen whitewashed buildings, wound around with scarlet fowers as big as my hand, 15-foot cascades of magenta blossoms, hillsides of yellow-budded vines. We found the one hotel, lazed on the lava-sand beach, and ate mussels and calamari on a terrace. This took almost all of our remaining cash, but we were leaving tomorrow anyway. The next day, as we waited for the hydro back, Liz struck up a conversation with one of the locals, a small, laughing man

By S E A N D E F R A N K

•••••

“Lissa?” I should have just said no immediately. Actually, I did. Then came the pleading and Liz’s Lillian Gish sad-eyesand-quivering-lip routine.

Operation Chocolate Chip

October 16–22, 2014

moped on their way to a Dionne Warwick concert. They offered us a ride to Cefalù the next day. Guess who said no. Guess who said yes. Guess who won. I admit that I wasn’t that resistant: After all, these guys had chosen a Dionne Warwick concert over the home country’s championship game. We crowded into their Fiat, whipping along the postcard coastline as they blasted Suzanne Vega. Cefalù was Romanesque and rocky, terra-cotta walls and orangetiled roofs dominated by a huge medieval cathedral. We saw the sights and went to the beach; after that, they were supposed to take us to the train station. Instead they took us to an empty house near the tracks. I opened the largest blade on my Swiss Army knife and announced that we were going to the train station. Now. They complied.

with gray hair and a deep tan. I listened to the waves, thinking about what I’d do when we returned to Paris, then when I made it back to London. “Lissa?” I should have just said no immediately. Actually, I did. Then came the pleading and Liz’s Lillian Gish sad-eyesand-quivering-lip routine. I believe the phrases “I’ll never ask you for anything again” and “You can go, I’m staying” were used. This total stranger had offered to put us up for the night. He took us to a sprawling beachside house with lush gardens, where a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Allen Ginsberg rolled his eyes and exchanged a few words in French with Liz before he disappeared into a courtyard. Liz insisted that our new friend who brought us here was “the uncle of everyone in the village,” but I doubt that was why he kept hugging her. His raptures over my “beautiful” hair and skin “like milk” were unnerving. We had no money and no way off the island until the next afternoon. “Uncle” announced he was taking us to dinner. There was course after course of just-caught seafood and justmade pasta. Our wine glasses were topped off every time we took a sip. We exited into unlit streets and a moonless night. And suddenly Liz and “Uncle” were gone. I ran toward the sound of her giggle, stumbling, turning blind until I saw the stripes of her shirt and grabbed hold. “We should go back to the house,” I said. “Now.” But we didn’t go to the house. We kept walking toward the beach; suddenly, Liz was climbing up a ladder to a boat. As bodyguard/nanny, I followed. I heard the ladder fall to the sand; Uncle shouted something about us leaving in the morning. Fuck. It dawned on me that a redhead and an Asian might be worth something to someone wherever this boat was going at dawn. Think. There was a wood railing that might work as a club, but even if I managed to brain this guy, it wasn’t like we could jump into a cab and disappear. Think. Strategy. I shouted after Uncle … “I need my bag. It’s in the house. It has my … money in it.” He put the ladder back, and I tumbled down, dragging Liz, and ran for the house. If we could move fast enough, we could grab our shit, disappear somewhere into the dark and hide. But the lights were ablaze, “Allen Ginsberg” was there, and Uncle caught up with us. Liz and I exchanged a look. I began feigning illness while she prattled at Ginsberg in French. He turned on Uncle with an expression of great displeasure and a barrage of Italian, stopping long enough to direct us to a back bedroom. We locked ourselves in as Uncle and Allen argued. I must have fallen asleep, because Liz was poking me awake. The house was dim and silent as we grabbed our backpacks and crept away. Outside, the sun was rising, rose-gold and heavenly like a Michelangelo ceiling as we headed down the beach.

The Beach, Stripped Bare By G E O F F C A R T E R

October 16–22, 2014

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do not know the family in the YouTube video. Their accents and conversational idioms suggest that they’re American, almost inappropriately so considering what’s going on in the clip. “We’re leaving today, if we can get out of here,” a male voice says. “This is no longer the beautiful place it once was. Thank goodness we’re on the third foor.” No, I don’t know the family in the video. But I do know the third foor. It belongs to the hotel where my friends and I stayed in November 1999 when we visited the island of Ko Phi Phi Don, just off the western coast of Thailand. Ko Phi Phi Don is one of several islands tightly grouped in Thailand’s Andaman Sea; another, Ko Phi Phi Ley, was used in the Danny Boyle flm The Beach, which wrapped flming before our visit. The week I spent on Ko Phi Phi Don was the most relaxing of my life. The weather was desert-like when it wasn’t pouring rain (which it did with aweinspiring suddenness, disappearing just as quickly). The sand was hot white, the sea warm turquoise. The beach was covered with Dutch and German tourists, which meant that we all shared these treasures with little more expressed than smiles and nods. All I did for one solid week was lay on the beach, listen to music (mostly

Moby’s Play, Scritti Politti’s Anomie & Bonhomie and Underworld’s Beaucoup Fish), write in my journal and take long, languid swims, either in the sea or the hotel pool. At night, we’d drink heavily while watching Asian soap operas, eat at Mama’s Resto (curries, pizza or both), and dance in the island’s clubs with an ever-changing landscape of European tourists and drag queens from the mainland. It was pretty typical island-vacation

from the jackfruit to the doorknobs. I talked to the residents of the island, many of whom were Buddhist. Their calm was jarring. To borrow a phrase from Vonnegut, they seemed to “glow like bass drums with lights inside.” My trip to the island was bookended by visits to Bangkok, where the otherness was even more intoxicating; we did all the things tourists should do, like overpay for items in the open-air marketplaces and get into the wrong

Now I can’t separate my trip from the tragedy that followed. I think of those Dutch and German tourists, and I mourn. I think of those kind locals, and I mourn. stuff, but I allowed it to blow my mind. I’d never left the United States before— save for one childhood trip to Puerto Rico that I barely remembered—and there I stood on the other side of the world on land so staggeringly beautiful that I couldn’t imagine anyplace better. And though I wasn’t doing anything more important than drinking my lunches and swimming away my cares, I marveled at the relative otherness of Ko Phi Phi Don. I took pains to learn the Thai phrases for “please” and “thank you.” I took photos of everything,

tuk-tuks and taxicabs. (We even checked out one of the strip clubs on Khaosan Road, but it made us kind of sad—we even left before the “pingpong show” could begin.) But my memories of Ko Phi Phi Don overpower my memories of Bangkok, because I have almost never felt more at ease with myself than I did there. It seems only natural that this happened thousands of miles from home. I wasn’t thinking about being myself while I was there; I was thinking only of being there, and giving myself over completely to my senses.

I’ve always got Ko Phi Phi Don in the back of my mind. Despite the wonderful time I had, I’ve never gone back. I gave serious thought to returning about fve years later, even looking at fights and hotels … but then, soon after, the December 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami wiped the island clean. More than a thousand people died almost instantly. I knew that video of the tsunami hitting Ko Phi Phi Don existed, but I couldn’t bring myself to watch it before last week, when I decided to write this. In a moment, I was back in my hotel room, looking out over the blue-green waters and white sand with not even the slightest notion that anything bad could happen to that place. But now I can’t separate my trip from the tragedy that followed. I think of those Dutch and German tourists, and I mourn. I think of those kind locals, and I mourn. And I think of that American family in the video, struck dumb by events beyond understanding, and I hope that the children I hear crying in the background, now adults, haven’t been having nightmares of that day for the past decade. As for me, I’m beginning to process what I saw in that video and what I keep in my heart. The one thing I’ve decided in trying to reconcile the two is this: I have to go back to that island. I have to.

S T O R Y T E L L I N G

reigned at elementary school recess. If fate sent the ball into my hands, I would freeze in the confusion and exhilaration of everybody suddenly calling out to me. Cindi, pass the ball! Pass the ball, Cindi! Cindi! Cindi! Cindi! It was heady stuff for an invisible 11-year-old with delusions of grandeur. Dribbling would get me nowhere. Shooting would result in shame. So I clutched that orb of attention as long as I could, savoring my

moment of glory. And then I passed. It would always be a letdown, my name forgotten as my classmates played on without me. But that was elementary, my dear. Athletic distinction can’t be found on a playground, after all. It happens on official fields and courts with coaches, i.e., teachers paid to make sure everybody gets the ball. And now that I was headed into seventh grade—the first year of junior high and organized school sports in my hometown

••••• “ D I D YOU H E A R T H E Y ’ RE G OI NG TO

tear down your junior high at the end of this year?” This was my mom, last week. “What? Why?” “To build an athletics complex.” “Hah,” I snorted. “Now there’s no place for 12-year-old me.” “You know, you really did have talent in cross country,” she said. “No, I didn’t.” “Yeah, you even finished sixth in a district race. You were mad you didn’t place in the top three.” I’ll have to take Mom’s word for it. Either way, my very first on-season did its job: I’m no marathoner, but Keilah Smith is still one of my best friends.

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TREET BASKETBALL

stop clowning around, that if I wasn’t going to take it seriously, I shouldn’t bother. Since I was being unfairly scolded anyway, I gathered the courage to ask: “Coach, if this is offseason, then what is on-season?” “Cross country.” That’s how I finally made a school team. Coach still wasn’t letting me do anything that required hand-eye coordination. But at last I got to wear a uniform, pose in the group photo and befriend the cool athletic girls. My biggest triumph was getting the popular Analisa Perez to explain the entire plot of a Univision telenovela as we rode the bus to a meet. She talked while my stomach churned in anticipation—not because I had any hopes of winning, but because I dreaded the torture of running. This was camaraderie! Coach invited Keilah and me to run cross country again in eighth grade, where the distance would increase from a mile to a mile-and-a-half. But Keilah was done. Could I run the extra length without my best friend? I stretched my legs on my mom’s mustardbrown couch and flexed my quadriceps. Up popped a hard, almost geometric muscle that I’d never seen before and have never seen since. I flexed and released, flexed and released. This is what I’d be giving up. Was it worth it? When Keilah and I quit cross country together, Coach seemed genuinely disappointed. She went on about our talent. Perhaps if it had been the beginning of the year, I would’ve believed her. I saw Elma Barrera’s talent—she was a wisp of a girl who could run forever. But me? The clumsy one who was only on cross country because I couldn’t make any other team? Don’t patronize me, Coach.

By C I N D I M O O N R E E D

uniform, wondering what my life was really like. … That is, if I did well at this tryout. Not that I doubted my abilities; I was too young for reality. When the volleyball team roster was posted, I scanned the names, certain mine would pop. I looked a second time. Slowly. Reading every name so that, this time, I wouldn’t miss a “Cindi.” But it wasn’t there. Not even on the ‘B’ team. Turns out my enthusiasm couldn’t overcome one small shortcoming: I was afraid of the ball. While the cool girls practiced setting and spiking, I was exiled to offseason. This calisthenics hell mainly consisted of running the perimeter of the school grounds, endlessly. But the year was young. So while offseason pained me, it did not deter me. Forget volleyball. Basketball would be my game. I didn’t spend as much time scouring those roster postings. On the first day of basketball offseason, Keilah Smith, a girl from my honors classes, ran beside me. I kind of stared at her, then blurted out, “But I saw your name on the list. You made the team! What are you doing here?” “Turned it down.” This seemed absurd, unfair. To make the team and not even take the chance! “Why?” “I can’t dribble.” If we both couldn’t dribble, then how come she was chosen over me? Was it because she was tall and black, whereas I was short and white? “Who cares,” I finally told her. “You made the team! Run with it!” “But, Cindi, I can’t drib-ble.” She drew out the “can’t” and hung on both syllables of “dribble.” Despite really trying to understand, the best I could muster was sour stoicism. So Keilah repeated the phrase, making the words longer and sillier each time, until we were both laughing. From that day on, we ran together, planning elaborate junk-food feasts between jagged inhalations. “Oh, the french fries (pant) I’m going to have when I’m done (pant)—with the crispy on the outside (pant) and the salt that sticks to your fingers.” “Burger King (gasp) or McDonald’s (wheeze) fries?” “Both (pant). We’ll have (gasp) earned it.” Through all this running, a troubling paradox emerged: What if there was only ever an offseason and never an on-season? In the smelly basement weight room, I was struggling to bench press the bar. Coach told me to

October 16–22, 2014

The Eternal Offseason

of Arlington, Texas—I would get my chance. I could finally be part of a team. Wear a uniform. Share in that camaraderie known only to athletes who sweat together. Suiting up in the girls locker room before volleyball tryouts, I was enthralled by the realness of it all. Young hormones, tangy industrial cleaner and decades of grimed-in sweat swirled together in a musty stew of latesummer humidity. A cacophony of excited girls’ voices—still strangers to me—bounced off the cinder-block walls and quickened my heart rate. Soon, my medals would join the trophies of yore, forming an unbroken chain of ever-loyal purple-and-gold Chaparrals (Go big Chaps!). My face would one day peer out from a team photo that had grown yellow with age. Some future student—who might even resemble me, a little—would stare at it, contemplating my old-fashioned

2 0 1 4

Closed City By G R E G B L A K E M I L L E R

October 16–22, 2014

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ll punctual people are punctual in the same way; each impunctual person is late in a manner all his own. This is why people who are late are interesting, if infuriating. The things that can happen to make one late are endlessly entertaining, particularly if you are capable of being entertained by lies. And the things that happen once one is hopelessly, irretrievably, verifably late—well, those are the stuff from which life is made. The broken schedule, the shattered plan, the individual’s unwillingness or inability to paint within the lines of time: These open the world up to chaos—terrifying, ulcer-inducing, humiliating chaos. And who isn’t entertained by terror and humiliation? As a species, we have our drawbacks. In any case, let me tell you about the morning when I was late. I trudged out of the little apartment near Moscow’s Konkovo metro station at 17 minutes before 6 a.m. The middle-aged woman who was hosting my summer homestay was a former mathematician and university professor who had lost her job, so she was still sleeping, as she had every right to be, dreaming her way through the nightmare of 1993. The Soviet collapse had not been kind to her; everything she had worked for was gone—the nest egg, the prestige, the nation. Three weeks earlier we had all—even I—been summoned to scoop up our Lenin rubles and take them to the bank for an uneven exchange. I had brought a slim envelope with a month’s meager pay from my flm studio job. She had brought a battered, overstuffed plastic shopping bag emblazoned in English with the hot-pink words “Pretty Pretty You.” We waited in line among the grandmothers and stubbled, beer-breathed uncles, their knuckles worn with work. She returned with the bag neatly folded and a few fresh, new non-Soviet bills in the pocket of her burgundy blazer. Her husband had left long ago; her son, a computer programmer a few years older than me, popped in from time to time. She tried as best she could to be motherly—warning me not to wear my nice sport coat to Red Square, lest I attract thieves and tricksters; teaching me how to effectively launder without a washing machine; strenuously encouraging me to eat a gelatinand-meat concoction called kholodets. But at 23 years old, wedged between two years of grad school and reaching for a solid hold on the slick surface of adulthood, I had little patience for be-

ing mothered. All my life I had been a good son, and what I’d gotten for it, it seemed, was an endless, scalding depression that had begun more than a year before and refused to go away. I was scarred in ways that a mother could not heal. My host tried as best she could to make me feel guilty. One morning I arrived after staying out all night. She was furious; I can’t remember if I had called, but I remember her anger—wide-eyed, exhausted, bewildered. I remember her dingy bathrobe, her blond hair frazzled from a sleepless night. I must not have called. One did not behave as I had behaved. I understood this, because I did not behave as I had just behaved. Before that night, she had, on weekend afternoons, taken me to the places she still found meaningful: the swimming hole with a small adjacent well where elderly women lined up for holy water; the ski jump outside Moscow State University where she had once soared like an eagle. After my long night out, she turned to me less for flial devotion than for helpful contributions. I had prepaid for the homestay, but I should have been prepared to offer more. I did what I could, but it was not enough. I was too consumed by my own drama, by the wild angry poetry of a boy who had lost his girl, to understand the suffering of a woman who had lost her world. On a mild night in early July, I returned from work late and with little appetite. She had already given up on trying to feed me, but that night, for some reason, my place was set with a platter of stringy chicken thigh and wilted cabbage, which I gamely but gloomily chewed. She looked at me; I swallowed hard; she swept the plate from me, put it in the sink and turned the faucet on. For an hour she screamed at me, screamed in such a way that my Russian deserted me, and I simply stared at her, uncomprehending and mute and terrifed. I did not fall asleep until past dawn, and then, suddenly, I was awake, with a sour stomach and an alarm clock that wouldn’t lie. And so, at 5:43 a.m. on the day of my fateful lateness, I walked through the courtyard playground, across a wide muddy-grassy feld and descended into the Metro. I rode to the Kievskaya station. I hopped onto Trolleybus 34, grabbed a stanchion, and rode to the studio, where a bus left for our location shoot each day at 6:30 a.m. I showed my pass and walked through the gates of Mosflm Studio. It was 6:45. The bus was gone.

••••• after swapping my lenins, i realiized that I’d earned $30 in 30 days. I kept afoat by dividing 15 Power Bars I’d brought into tiny daily doses. I spent 14 hours a day on a flm set 40 miles southwest of Moscow, working as a production assistant/translator/ dialogue coach for a Russian/Italian/American joint venture. We were shooting a Western, in English; most of the secondary actors were Russian. The set was on a military base; a legendary Russian designer had built a replica Western town where even the Man With No Name would have felt comfy enough to chew his cigarette and shed

some blood. I spent hours teaching a wonderful Russian actor named Boris to walk into a bar, fx his eyes on the villain and declare, “You’re the only man I ever met who sunk to the bottom and then went lower.” The lines would be dubbed, but I had to get his mouth working the right way. Besides, I was from Nevada, and I assumed I could get him to talk like a cowboy. So now I had to fnd my way, on my own, onto a Russian military base in the remote countryside. I left the studio, took the trolley back to Kievskaya and hopped on the electric train to the town of Golitsyno. I dozed off and woke to a man screaming at me. Idiot! Give the babushka your seat! I looked at the big

cheekbones and deep-set blue eyes of the woman standing next to him. Every vessel could be seen—through the paper-thin skin, through the whites of the eyes. I yielded my seat; my head was heavy with half-dreams and hot with guilt. The man, a porcine, stubby-fngered fellow in a newsboy cap, called me an idiot again. I told him I’d been sleeping. “Sleeping?” he shouted to the loaded train car. “The idiot says he was sleeping! Don’t you think she’d like some sleep?” He put his hand on my shoulder; I shoved it away. “Leave me alone!” I shouted. The words sound less plaintive in Russian: Ostavte menya v pokoye! If you say it just right, it means Get Your Goddamn Hands Off Me.

The man leered at me with small, fat blue eyes; I stared back; we rolled onward toward Golitsyno; I stewed, ashamed of having slept while a crumpled old woman and her heavy pack of God-knows-what had clung to the handrail of a rattling suburban train. I loved this country, I loved its mothers, I loved all mothers, past, present, future. Back home, my girl had melted like a candle. Her pain—the victory of her pain—had not drained me of love, only of the ability to love. I was defeated. Only the study of this place—its delicious words, its infnite days of waiting and confagration, its stubborn will to do what could not be done—had saved me. Now, for the frst time, the Russian land was out of my

i wandered through golitsyno’s rail station square. Women in kiosks were selling pirated Phil Collins cassettes and pallid beer and small bottles marked Chanel No. 5. A song from a Europop outft called Ace of Base raged over the speakers: All that she wants/Is another baby/She’s gone tomorrow. At the far end of the square, I walked into the road and put my hand out. A red Zhiguli coupe pulled up. Golitsyno Dva—za skolko? (How much for a ride to Golitsyno 2?) The man, heavyset, heavy lidded, wearing a leather jacket on a hot day, looked at me with narrow eyes. “That’s a military town,” he said. “A closed city.” “I work there,” I said. He shrugged. “Five thousand.” As we rumbled over the crumbling highway, he took me into his confdence. Over the course of the summer, my mild accent, in short bursts, had helped me pass as a brotherly visitor from the former Soviet republics; it was a cozy identity: not quite a Russian, but not quite a foreigner; one day a Georgian, the next a Ukrainian. The car’s tuner was set to Russkoe Radio; the genius bard Vladimir Vysotsky was singing about the Great Fatherland War. His rock-grinder of a voice sang with unreasonable faith—Oni pomogut nam. (They will help us.) Who was this “they,” I wondered? It was a curious song: Russians do not want help; even when they say they want it, they resent their own words. Still: Where did I ft in? Who would I help? “Goddamn fucking foreigners,” said the driver. “Tired of them?” I asked. “They promise everything.” “Do they deliver?” “Fuck.” I let the comment stand. I would have let it stand for all time. The wisdom was unimpeachable. But something had seized the driver. He took both hands off the wheel and pulled up his left pant leg. The wood was sanded but not stained. He knocked. “You see this fucking thing? You see it?” “I see it.” “I earned it, fuck your mother. Earned.” “You’ve earned a lot.” “They won’t stop until it’s all gone.” “I hope that’s not true.” “Oh, it’s true, fuck. Why would you doubt that it’s true? It’s already gone. They won’t stop until it’s more than gone. Fuck you. Who the fuck are you?” “Just a guy going to work.” “What the fuck work do you have at a military base? You’re a soldier? No, doesn’t look like it, does it? What are you trying to do, going to one of our bases, fuck?” “We’re shooting a movie.” “A war movie?” “Yes,” I lied. “A war movie.” He nodded, coughed, straightened

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•••••

his cap. “That’s good,” he said softly, almost to himself. “A war movie. Show them how we fought.” “They should all know how you fought.” He turned to me with a twisted upper lip, as if he’d just made it through some dental mishap. “What do you mean, you?” he said. “Where are you from, anyway? Georgia?” I stared at the man; I couldn’t look away. I remembered words from the Passover Seders of my childhood: The Wise Son, even 2,000 years after Exodus, always says we came out of the land of Egypt, never you or they. A culture’s sacred history remains forever in the frst person. “I meant you,” I said, “as in you personally.” “Personally? Personally! Fuck. How old do you think I am?” He knocked on the leg again. “This is Afghanistan. You’re a dimwit, aren’t you?” “It’s entirely possible.” “Or a foreigner. Israeli? Emigrant, right? Back to rob us.” I said nothing. “Tell me, fuck, who are you?” The car screeched to a stop. The road was empty. A wall of silvery birch trees stretched into the distance behind a barbed-wire fence. “What are you stopping for?” I asked. “We’re here, dimwit. What’s with you? You don’t recognize where you’re going?” Relieved, I reached into my pocket for the 5,000 rubles I owed. When I pulled out my wallet, a small spiral notebook fell out. I’d scribbled freshly learned Russian expressions on the page, alongside their English translations. He looked at the notebook before he looked at the rubles. “You’re a foreigner—a real one. A real fucking foreigner!” I handed him the 5,000. “I am,” I said. I pocketed the notebook and opened the door and stepped out of the car. “Fuck your mother,” he said. I closed the door, and off he drove. I walked toward the barbed-wire fence, the glimmering birch grove. A bored-looking soldier manned a small gate. The bus had entered here each morning, but everything looked different now. Everything was different now. I would look for an apartment that night. I would not return to the apartment of the woman who needed what I could not give. I would not try to soothe a nation that had asked me for nothing and had already given me all that it could—a culture, a passion. I would long for nobody and denounce regret and live quietly and selfshly, slaking my thirst for this air far from home. Of course it would all end in failure. It’s hard to live needing no one and needed by no one. The hoarse drone of the Zhiguli engine faded behind me, taking with it a fellow human being who disliked me to the depths of his soul. I did not have a pass to get through the guard gate. I strode half a mile along the fence, then turned, climbed through the barbed wire and walked to work.

books and onto my boots. I had arrived, ready for rebirth; I had boarded the morning train and found that the currency of my goodwill was no damn good.

2 0 1 4

October 16–22, 2014

S T O R Y T E L L I N G

NIGHTLIFE Your city after dark and photos from the week’s hottest parties

Fall and winter daylife keeps Vegas hot as the temperature drops By Jessi C. Acuña

VegasSeven.com

The Party Must Go On

REMEMBER WHEN THE END OF POOL SEASON

brought to a close the acceptability of passing out midday? Neither do we— conformity’s never been our thing. But we’re still grateful for the geniuses behind the daylife parties that outlast the summer months. From a bikinifriendly winter pool party to a dining room devoid of etiquette, here’s the latest on the four daytime gigs that will keep the frolicking going till spring.

October 16–22, 2014

PHOTO BY AL POWERS/POWERS IMAGERY

The Marquee Dayclub Dome during the Halfway to EDC party with Dash Berlin.

NIGHTLIFE

From top: a Neon Junglethemed XIV Sessions at Hyde; GBDC; and Lavo Party Brunch.

MARQUEE DAYCLUB DOME

Now open. Pool season is year-round now thanks to Marquee. The dome—a 22,000-square-foot structure—acts as a roof, keeping the space above 85 degrees. Even better, the pools are heated. Expect the same raucous pool party the dayclub is known for, just don’t forget your parka for walking to and from the car. Open for select dates (such as the Freak Show Fun House Pool Party, November 2), the dome also will be used during normal nightclub hours, minus the swimming. In the Cosmopolitan, 702-333-9000, MarqueeLasVegas.com. XIV SESSIONS

The party starts October 19. Hyde’s monthly day-to-night party is back for its third season. The themed event kicks off with The Resurrection of XIV (in other words, please resurrect your favorite XIV costume from years past) on October 19 with DJ Zen Freeman—and yes, costumes are highly encouraged. (Here’s hoping the guys step it up instead of simply using it as an excuse to rock a hat and sneakers in the club.) The party starts at 5 p.m. and goes into the wee hours of the morning. In Bellagio, 702-693-8700, HydeBellagio.com.

The unicorns arrive October 18. More wild, costumed frat party than pretentious club soiree, Ghostbar Dayclub steps it up for its fourth season with bottle options ft for the collegiate-forever variety. Purchase any regular bottle, then opt for additional $125 specialty shot bottles of Fireball, Don Julio or Jägermeister. B3ecause when you’re drinking a 40-ounce from a brown paper bag—a GBDC staple—you can stop pretending you’re schooled in craft beer and mixology. SEMA takes over November 8, and DJ Ace (Trey Smith of Will Smith daddy fame) celebrates his birthday November 15. Saturdays starting at 1 p.m., in the Palms, 702-942-6832, Palms.com. LAVO PARTY BRUNCH

Brunch is served starting October 18. Make no mistake: The food at Lavo is #foodporn worthy. But, the real reason you’ll want to schedule a late brunch (really more like an early dinner)? You can dance on the table, which you’ll want to be doing when the gold confetti showers strike. Enjoy a Beach to Brunch season opener October 18, followed by a Dia de los Muertos theme November 1, and celebrate Movember on November 29. Saturdays starting at 2 p.m., in the Palazzo, 702-338-8588, LavoLV.com.

XIV BY TONY TRAN; L AVO BY AL POWERS/POWERS IMAGERY

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

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NIGHTLIFE

Camille Cannon

SUN 19 Got a case of post-summertime sadness? Cure it by raging with Cedric Gervais at the dome-covered Marquee Dayclub. The French-born Florida resident will likely take the opportunity to play his upcoming Interscope Records single “Love Again,” which he teased on Soundcloud. You can take the opportunity to shop for a winter swimsuit. (At the Cosmopolitan, noon, MarqueeLasVegas.com.)

MON 20 If you remember the mindblowing game of dominoes in the video for Tommy Trash and A-Track’s 2013 song “Tuna Melt,” then you know Trash can make anything interesting. Let him hype up your Monday night at XS. (In Encore, 10:30 p.m., XSLasVegas.com.)

TUE 21 PBR Rock Bar & Grill celebrates four years of country-fried fun with a performance by the Morgan Leigh Band, $5 cans of PBR and shots of Jack Daniel’s. The drink specials continue though Oct. 26. (In the Miracle Mile Shops at Planet Hollywood, PBRRockBar.com.)

Jenna Marbles.

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

THU 16

You know “2 On” by sultry R&B singer Tinashe, but did you know she also has a musical tribute to our city: “Feels Like Vegas”? She shouts out to club essentials such as Champagne, live entertainment and fashing lights. You can expect to hear the track when Tinashe hosts the release party for her debut album, Aquarius, at Tao. (In the Venetian, 10 p.m., TaoLasVegas.com.)

FRI 17 Project 46 sounds like a supersecret nuclear plant hidden in the desert. We can neither confrm nor deny that, but we can say that it is defnitely the name of a progressive house duo that’s headed to Drai’s.

Their production method is a little unusual: They collaborate from opposite ends of their native Canada using email. But hey, that’s also how they got Kaskade to hear their demo, and they’ve since released tracks with him and Laidback Luke. Not bad. (In the Cromwell, 10 p.m., DraisNightlife.com.) Fans of the E! reality show the #RichKids of Beverly Hills will be happy to know that Dorothy Wang is hosting at 1 Oak. (Her tagline is “funempolyed and fabuluxe.”) Go party like her parents are footing the bill. (In The Mirage, 10:30 p.m., 1OakLasVegas.com.)

SAT 18 Brazen Internet sensation Jenna Marbles rings in the return of GBDC at Ghostbar.

We’re really hoping a few unicorns show up too, because this season’s fiers have us really excited. (In the Palms, 1 p.m., Palms.com.) In other dayclub news, Party Brunch is back at Lavo, boasting sounds by resident DJ Lema. Not to be confused with Lavo’s more traditional Proper Brunch, this is the one where you take dance breaks in between bites of eggs Benedict. For more fall dayclub launches, see Page 33. (In the Palazzo, 2 p.m., LavoLV.com.) Imbibe your way to another galaxy at Velveteen Rabbit’s Metagalactica: The Outer Space Party. The whole joint will be transformed with decorative UFOs and aliens, and costumes are encouraged. DJ Rex Dart leads your musical journey. (1218 S. Main St., 7 p.m., Facebook.com/VelveteenRabbitLV.)

Tinashe.

DJ Rex Dart.

WED 22 Head to Henderson for the newly opened Due & Proper and Whist Stove & Spirits in The District at Green Valley Ranch. The watering hole and adjacent restaurant fll out the space formerly occupied by Al’s Garage and Presidio. (2235 Village Walk Dr., Facebook.com/DueAndProperBar, Facebook.com/ WhistStove.) “Winterization”… back East, it means sealing pipes and wrapping the rose bushes in burlap. At Surrender, it means installing a 10,000-square-foot enclosure around what’s otherwise known as Encore Beach Club. And this is not last season’s tent, either. This thing’s got a solar-powered roof and revolving doors. Scope it out when TJR drops his latest banger, “Ass Hypnotized." (In Encore, 10:30 p.m., SurrenderNightclub.com.)

NIGHTLIFE

PARTIES

TRYST Wynn

[ UPCOMING ]

See more photos from this gallery at SPYONVegas.com

PHOTOS BY DANNY MAHONEY

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

Oct. 16 DJ Ikon spins Oct. 17 Alie Layus spins Oct. 18 DJ Turbulence spins

NIGHTLIFE

PARTIES

GHOSTBAR The Palms

[ UPCOMING ]

See more photos from this gallery at SPYONVegas.com

PHOTOS BY TOBY ACUNA

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

Oct. 17 DJs PJ Produkt and Benny Black Oct. 18 DJs Mark Stylz and Exodus spin Oct. 19 DJs B-Radical spins

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NIGHTLIFE

PARTIES

MARQUEE

The Cosmopolitan [ UPCOMING ]

See more photos from this gallery at SPYONVegas.com

PHOTOS BY BOBBY JAMEIDAR AND TONY TRAN

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

Oct. 17 Cedric Gervais spins Oct. 18 Bruno Mars hosts Oct. 20 Ashley Wallbridge spins

DINING

“You’ll see guys in lab coats back there [on the monitor]. You’ll see that they did cucumbers at 9:30 this morning. You’ll see they did carrots at 9:45.” {PAGE 68}

Restaurant reviews, news and a temporary last call for a local bar

Griddle Me This

New SLS diner ofers sweet, indulgent breakfasts and a solid lunch

| October 16–22, 2014

Room Service pancakes are filled with Champagne, strawberries and chocolate.

IF YOU’RE A BREAKFAST PERSON, you’ve probably heard of SLS Las Vegas’ Griddle Café, a dinerstyle restaurant that’s open 24 hours on the weekend, and for late-night dining, breakfast and lunch on weekdays. It’s an import from L.A.’s Sunset Strip, where the original is known for its over-the-top creations (particularly the sweets) and a young celebrity clientele. The menu is massive—seven pages if you discount the front and back covers. Once you make it past the signature cocktails, French press coffee and chips, you arrive at this menu’s beating heart: the pancake section. There are 20 varieties, ranging from familiar choices, such as buttermilk, whole wheat and blueberry, to cheeky specialties including ’Tis The Season (with pumpkin pie flling) and Room Service (flled with Champagne, strawberries and chocolate). You can even have liquor mixed into the batter. I recently had a slightly more subdued version called the Banananana, which had sugar-baked bananas in the batter. It tasted like a classic banana pancake, made unique by the contrast between the smooth, fuffy batter and the occasional crunch of caramelized sugar. And while it was sweet enough that I didn’t bother with the pure maple syrup on the table, it wasn’t the sugar overkill some of the more extreme options promise. Pancakes generally come three to a stack. But at close to a foot in diameter each, that’s a huge portion. Fortunately, the restaurant also offers singles for those who aren’t that hungry. The list of French toast preparations isn’t as extensive as pancakes, with only six. But you can still get it loaded with everything from bourbon, chocolate and whipped cream to graham-cracker crust with cheesecake flling. Do yourself a favor, however, and don’t overlook the original Mom’s French Toast, a simple, unassuming take on the classic that’s done to absolute perfection. Omelets and other egg dishes take up a full page of the menu and are just as creative as the sweets. Being from the Philadelphia area, I couldn’t resist the Hoagie omelet, topped with peppers and onions, and stuffed with

VegasSeven.com

By Al Mancini

DINING

The Sheer Madness burger with fries and an Addicted to Noisella shake.

Al’s

Menu Picks Banananana pancakes ($13), Mom’s French toast ($12), Broken Heart chicken sandwich ($14), Addiction to Noisella shake ($15).

mozzarella and Italian sausage. It didn’t taste much like a real Philly hoagie (that’s an Italian sub to the rest of you), but the sausage gave it a nice kick. If you’re in for lunch, there’s an expansive sandwich selection and

several types of street tacos. I really enjoyed the thick, moist chicken breast piled high with artichoke hearts, Parmesan cheese, spicy aioli and scallions. I would not, however, recommend the El Pollo Rico chicken tacos unless you really like spicy food, because the chipotle cream sauce and pico de gallo combine for a hell of a wallop to the palate. The Griddle’s décor is a slightly clichéd converted-warehouse style (exposed brick, ceiling vents and

corrugated metal) that’s obviously trying to capture the hipster crowd the resort is aiming for. Along those lines, the staff is young, beautiful and energetic. They truly seem to enjoy their jobs, and provide excellent, attentive service. I did fnd one thing odd, however. The menu offers six alcoholinfused milkshakes and two drunken foats. But when I asked for a plain vanilla shake without alcohol, I was told they couldn’t do it. Given my predilection toward booze, they didn’t have to twist my arm to get me to try a buttermilk cake shake spiked with Frangelico and Godiva liqueurs. But when the menu reads, “We care about our customers and we will make every effort to accommodate special requests, substitutions, special diets and more … just ask,” a nonalcoholic vanilla milkshake doesn’t seem like an unreasonable request when they are already offered with alcohol. Moreover, at a place that will undoubtedly attract families, isn’t it kind of mean to make kids watch milkshakes passing their table, only to be told, “They’re not for you”? That bit of toddler teasing aside, Griddle is a great restaurant for families looking for breakfast or lunch, as well as the late-night crowd seeking sustenance pre- or post-club. Just beware of the inevitable sugar highs and comas.

THE GRIDDLE CAFÉ

The SLS, 702-761-7613. Open for breakfast, lunch and late night 11 p.m.-4 p.m., Sun.Thu.; 24 hours Fri.-Sat. Breakfast or lunch for two, $25–$60.

[ JUST A SIP ]

FREAKIN’ FROG TAKES A LEAP

UNLV-adjacent beer den the Freakin’ Frog will go

on hiatus at the end of this month, says bar owner Adam Carmer. The shopping center where the bar is located on Maryland Parkway is to be renovated, which Carmer says is the reason for the break. ¶ Fortunately, the developers of the center and Carmer’s vision of progression are aligned: “We want a revitalized version of the concept,” Carmer says of the Frog and his bar-within-a-bar, the Whisky Attic, which occupies the second floor. So a return is expected, although there is no

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

timeline. In the interim, Carmer’s plan is to focus on alcoholic beverage academia as a way of im-

proving the already respected bar. “We are the first beer cellar, first certified-green, first no-gaming, first free-Wi-Fi [establishment on Maryland Parkway]. We like being in the mode where we can lead in a positive way.” ¶ The reservations-only Attic has “developed into its own animal,” Carmer says, hosting whiskey flight schools, rare keg tappings and a quirkily fun Robert Burns poetry night. “It is going to be resurrected in other forms, possibly in other areas.” ¶ However you feel about this temporary interruption of your regularly scheduled beer or whiskey flight, starting October 15, you’re going to want to make your way down to the Frog to do your part in culling the bar’s notoriously massive collection (1,100 at last count) for great beer specials and aged barrels on tap—what Carmer calls a “beer free-for-all.” ¶ This isn’t “goodbye”—it’s just “cheers!” – Jessie O’Brien

Get the latest on local restaurant openings and closings, interviews with top chefs, cocktail recipes, menu previews and more in our weekly “Sips and Bites” newsletter. Subscribe at VegasSeven.com/SipsAndBites.

[ AL A CARTE ]

EMERIL’S NEW LOOK, BENI’S NEW SPOT AND THE CHILI COOK-OFF COMES IN HOT Emeril Lagasse was in town last week to show off the renovations to his flagship Emeril’s New Orleans Fish House (702-8917374) in MGM Grand. Lagasse was one of the first celebrity chefs to open a restaurant in Las Vegas when he debuted the Fish House nearly 20 years ago. Earlier this year, plywood went up in front of the entrance so workers could give the classic spot a facelift. Lagasse was personally on hand October 9 to show off the new look and serve new menu items for invited guests at a cocktail reception. Emeril told me his favorite part of the redesign is the casual oyster bar. Don’t miss the lollipop-cut frog’s legs or the alligator meatballs. (Tip: It’s not on the menu, but if you ask nicely, they just might make those meatballs into a po’ boy for you.) Beni Velazquez has also gone fishing, putting the finishing touches on his new restaurant, Latin Fish, in the Desert Shores location that previously housed Garfield’s. The chef best known for his work at Arts District favorite Bar + Bistro will offer the small plates and Latin fusion style for which he’s acclaimed, but with a concentration on sustainable seafood. “We’re gonna do some really cool stuff with crab and lobster,” he says. Other plans include a variety of ceviche and a selection of sangria. Velazquez says he was inspired to concentrate on seafood when he saw the restaurant’s waterfront location, which reminded him of time spent in Marina Del Rey. Latin Fish is scheduled to open its doors the first week of November. If meat’s more your thing, you won’t have to wait long as the World’s Championship Chili Cook-Off (ChiliCookOff.com) returns to Las Vegas, October 24–26 as part of the Professional Bull Riders Built Ford Tough World Finals. It will be in the Tyson Fan Zone and Marketplace in the MGM Resort Village across from Luxor. More than 400 chefs will compete over three days in categories, including chili verde, salsa, homemade chili and traditional red chili. They’ll be vying for a share of $55,000, with the top prize of $25,000 going to the best traditional red chile. Other entertainment will include the Miss Chili Pepper, Mister Hot Sauce and Shoot ’n’ Holler contests—whatever those may be. Admission is free, and the event is open to the public. Meanwhile, chefs from our own city have been toiling in another competition. Production company Relativity Media spent eight nights in the Palms’ parking lot starting October 4, shooting episodes of a new TV show, Late Night Chef Fight. The show is based on the Back of House Brawl cooking competitions staged by Jolene Mannina in the Tommy Rocker’s parking lot. Just like the Tommy Rocker’s competitions, each of the eight episodes pits two prominent Las Vegas chefs against one another, cooking with mystery ingredients onboard food trucks. Mannina co-hosts, along with local chef Vic “Vegas” Moea and Laila Ali. (I’d been hoping to serve on a judge’s panel, but the TV gods were not that kind to me.) Look for it on FYI Network. – Al Mancini

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The Valley’s latest juice spot goes the cold-pressed route By Al Mancini

From left: SkinnyFats and Cold Press Express director of marketing and branding Charity Faith, owner Reed Allen Slobusky and executive chef Josh Green; Green feeds carrots into a cold-press juicer (inset).

PHOTOS BY JON ESTRADA

| October 16–22, 2014

IF YOU’RE LIKE MOST people on the juicing bandwagon, you probably love watching someone behind the bar feed fresh fruit and vegetables into a small juicer to make your drink to order. Or in a big way maybe you’ve even bought a countertop unit so you can juice at home. According to many experts, the most nutritious juices are ones made using a process called cold pressing. And Las Vegas now has a new supplier in the form of Cold Press Express, opening later this month next to the second SkinnyFats location at Warm Springs and Decatur Boulevard, just south of Interstate 215. The traditional juicing machine you have at home or are probably most used to seeing is called a centrifugal juicer. While they’re great at extracting juice, they also generate heat. “And when you use heat to grind the vegetables, then that heat is killing off all of the nutrition,” says Cold Press Express and SkinnyFats owner Reed Allen Slobusky. (This is the same theory behind the raw foods subculture.) To combat that problem, Slobusky has purchased cold-press machines, which rely on hydraulics instead of centrifugal force and don’t generate damaging heat. They weren’t a cheap investment, with each entry-level commercial-grade machine COLD PRESS EXPRESS costing about $22,000. But he’s certain it will fll an 8680 W. Warm underserved niche in the Springs Rd., local market. “People who 702-979-9797. are into juicing will generally tell you that coldpressed is the preferred method,” he says. The juice bar will need to sell a lot of juice (and smoothies, milkshakes and juice blends) to recoup that kind of investment. And that’s the plan. Slobusky’s team will be using that juicer practically from the moment they open at 5 a.m. until closing time. Cold Press Express will produce up to 20 seasonal juice varieties a day that will then be offered on tap at the bar. The only challenge with the commercial-grade cold press system is that the size of the machine makes it impractical to mix up one order at a time, or even to display it in the bar area. And when people see the lineup of pre-pressed juices at the bar, they might doubt the freshness. So the bar has set up a novel system to show off its opera➜ Grape + honeydew + watermelon + cucumber + bok choy + ginger = tions, hooking up a video feed from Jumping Jacks, a natural energy boost. the juicing room that connects to ➜ Watermelon + cucumber + grape + a monitor at the bar. “So you’ll see celery + ginger + spinach = Arm Wrestle, guys in lab coats back there [on for power and strength. the monitor],” Slobusky explains. ➜ Honeydew + orange + pineapple + “You’ll see that they did cucumgrapefruit + coconut water + celery = bers at 9:30 this morning. You’ll see Nap Time, for relaxation. they did carrots at 9:45.” As a result, ➜ Grape + purple kale + Swiss chard + customers should feel confdent their fennel + broccoli + apple + juice is as fresh and healthy as possible. celery = Hula Hoop, Now if only I could get past the for slimming down. taste of kale juice, perhaps I’d have better results at my next physical.

JUICE MATH

VegasSeven.com

DINING

A Most Pressing Matter

DRINKING

Carrot Gold

October 16–22, 2014

PHOTO BY ANTHONY MAIR

Get the recipe at VegasSeven.com/ CocktailCulture.

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“I come for my due and proper.” In Martin Scorsese’s 2002 historical drama Gangs of New York, corrupt cop “Happy Jack” Mulraney isn’t shy about asking for his customary bribe. That quote inspired the name of Due & Proper, the newest bar at the District at Green Valley Ranch. It comes from the same team that brought us Commonwealth, Park on Fremont, BLVD Cocktail Company and the District’s other new spot, Whist Stove & Spirits. (Due & Proper creators Ryan Doherty and Justin Weniger own WENDOH Media, which publishes Vegas Seven). Wirtz beverage development specialist Andrew Pollard also turned to the film for the name of his Irish whiskey cocktail, naming the Dead Rabbit ($8) for one of 19th-century New York’s infamous Irish-American Five Points gangs. Built on the foundation of a classic whiskey sour—whiskey, fresh lemon, sugar, egg white—the drink then takes a turn down the rabbit hole with a healthy dose of ... carrot juice. While this might seem equal measures precious and intimidating— not unlike A Clockwork Orange’s dystopian thugs sipping milk laced with drugs—the vibrantly hued cocktail packs a far more pleasing and complex punch thanks to Teeling Irish whiskey, Ancho Reyes chile liqueur, fresh lemon, Clément spiced sirop de canne and freshly grated cinnamon. Maybe this is what Happy Jack was really after?

A&E

“Vocally, Rob Garrett’s Neil Diamond impersonation is eerily good, nailing the superstar’s signature gargle-with-gravel growl.” SHOWSTOPPER {PAGE 77}

Movies, music, stage and Nevada’s best cowboy poet B.J. NOVAK IS the kind of person who makes you feel inadequate. Though he’s most recognizable as that guy from The Offce (temp-turned-executive Ryan Howard), the 35-year-old Harvard alum has applied his comedic Midas touch to stand-up, writing, directing, producing and, most recently, authoring two books. B.J. Novak is my artistic idol. So, I was excited when I learned that he’d be headlining the Vegas Valley Book Festival; this would be my chance to snag an interview. A probing discourse seemed like a done deal since Novak had been on the press trail for his second book, The Book With No Pictures, released in September. But my request was denied. And my soul … was a little bit crushed. Since I didn’t have the opportunity to personally ask Novak what’s in store for “An Evening With B.J. Novak,” which kicks off the festival October 16, I’m forced to imagine how I see it happening …

A writer’s not-so-up-close-and-personal interview with her favorite celebrity author By Camille Cannon

VegasSeven.com

An ‘Evening’ With B.J. Novak

Inside the Clark County Library’s theater, Novak is reading aloud from The Book With No Pictures. And yes, it really is a book with no pictures. “My only friend in the whole wide world is a hippo named Boo Boo Butt!” he says, dropping his jaw in fake surprise, just like he does in the promo Penguin Kids uploaded to YouTube. The words “Boo Boo Butt” fll a whole page in bold, red, capital letters. Such text treatment is Novak’s clever way of offering visual cues to his target audience: parents reading to children. Novak, single with no kids, procedes to explain why he wanted to write a children’s book. Just like he told The Atlantic’s Jennie Rothenberg Gritz in a September 24 Q&A, it started with his love for authors such as Maurice Sendak, H.A. Rey and Dr. Seuss. “For all of Dr. Seuss’ educational accolades,” he says, “every kid sees what he’s doing and knows ‘This guy is Team Kid. This guy isn’t trying to teach me anything. It’s a rebellious, joyous book just for me.’” He then elaborates on how that spirit of rebellion informed his writing process for The Book With No Pictures. “If the adult had to say silly things, I knew the kid would feel very powerful,” he says, reiterating what he told The Atlantic. “I realized that if there were no pictures, it would be

October 16–22, 2014

PHOTO BY CHARLES SYKES/BRAVO

*****

October 16–22, 2014

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B.J. Novak (right) delights Andy Cohen and Kate Walsh on Watch What Happens Live.

an even more delightful trick: The kid is taking a grown-up style book and using it against the grown-up.” Novak segues into a discussion about his own grown-up book, One More Thing: Stories and Other Stories. Released in February, the collection of short stories was Novak’s frst dive into the literary pond. It showed critics and fans alike that he’s a bona fde storyteller, delivering a strong comedic voice and intriguing narratives beyond the beloved characters and conventions he helped create as a writer on The Offce. Novak reads a passage from one of my favorites stories, “The Rematch,” in which Aesop’s fabled tortoise and hare race again: The hare trained like no one had ever trained for anything. He ran 15 miles every morning and 15 miles every afternoon. He watched tapes of his old races. He slept eight hours every night, which is practically unheard of for a hare, and he did it all under a wall taped full of the mean, vicious things everyone had said about him in all the years since the legendary race that ruined his life. Just as I did when I frst read the story, I marvel at how Novak uses detail to transform the classic tale into some-

thing so contemporary. I mean, I never thought I’d fnd a rabbit so … relatable. During the question-and-answer portion that follows, the hypothetical audience seizes the opportunity to get personal. A hot topic is Novak’s famous friendship with actress and fellow Offce alum Mindy Kaling. “Everybody wants you to get married!” says a fan, echoing the sentiment of Bravo’s Andy Cohen when Novak was a guest on Watch What Happens Live on February 7. Novak nods sympathetically like he did on the show. “Yes,” he says, “but no one wants us to get divorced.” He takes another question about what it was like working with Quentin Tarantino, who directed Novak in Inglourious Basterds. I tune out at this point because, 1) I think it’s ridiculous to ask someone as accomplished as Novak about another celebrity, and 2) I’m busy planning my own questions. What will you write next? What was your favorite prank you pulled on Punk’d? What’s your advice for young writers? As I regain focus, Novak is discussing his frst television writing job: the illfated Bob Saget sitcom Raising Dad. The story sounds eerily similar to what he told Nathan Rabin in a 2009 interview for A.V. Club: “I was so grateful to have a job so quickly, which is something so many people wanted. But it wasn’t what I wanted to do, and it wasn’t what I wanted to make. I thought, “Oh, wow, am I a sellout by the age of 22?” Novak punctuates the anecdote with a classic Ryan Howard eye-roll and thanks the audience members for their time. Oh no! I didn’t gather the courage to ask my question in time … not even in my imagination! I hightail it

to the lobby so I’m frst in line for the book signing. Finally, face-to-face! “I admire your career so much,” I gush. “And I was wondering what you think is important to successful comedy writing?” “Surprise is such an important element in comedic writing,” he says, offering a literally copy-and-pasted answer from his February interview with A.V. Club. “I think there are some built-in expectations in literature and in comedy that if something is quality, it’s expressing something dark. Sometimes, the more transgressive, surprising, new angle to take involves some lightness.” I’m so impressed by his answer that I can barely recall my other questions. The fctional fans behind me are getting antsy, so I blurt out, “What’s your favorite prank you pulled on Punk’d?” Really? That one? He answers: “Probably the one I did on Hilary Duff” as he told A.V. Club in 2009. Then he signs my books, another fan takes my place and my Evening With B.J. Novak is over before it’s even begun.

AN EVENING WITH B.J. NOVAK

7 p.m. Oct. 16 at Clark County Library, 1401 E. Flamingo Rd., free, 702-507-3400, LVCCLD.org. VEGAS VALLEY BOOK FESTIVAL

Oct. 16-18, Historic Fifth Street School, 401 S. Fourth St, VegasValleyBookFestival.org

In Aimee Bender’s fiction, strange fantasies collide with hard realities. She uses the magical and absurd to magnify greater truths. All this delightful weirdness makes the Los Angeles resident a natural fit to wrap up the Vegas Valley Book Festival, as the closing keynote speaker (4-5 p.m. Oct. 18, the Historic Fifth Street School). Bender is a twotime Pushcart Prize winner, and the author of two novels and three story collections. Her most recent is The Color Master. In it, a woman acts out a prostitution fantasy for her husband and is unable to return to her previous sex life; an ogre mistakenly eats his own children; and two sisters sew the stripes back onto wounded tigers. Praised for her prose, wild imagination and her ability to convey emotional truths, she’s sure to delight Vegas readers … and maybe, should she stroll the Strip, even find inspiration for her most surreal story yet. – Chantal Corcoran DON’T MISS THESE EVENTS NEVADA HUMANITIES PRESENTS WADDIE MITCHELL The official

poet of the Silver State’s Sesquicentennial. Noon Oct. 17 at Lloyd George Federal Courthouse, 333 Las Vegas Blvd. South, 3 p.m. Oct. 18 at Fifth Street School auditorium. THE PERSONAL ESSAY IN AN OVERSHARING WORLD with

Andrew Corsello, Leslie Jamison, Joseph Langdon, Dinah Lenney. 10 a.m. Oct. 18, Fifth Street School Reader’s Tent. VEGAS WRITES: LOST & FOUND IN LAS VEGAS—WHAT THE CITY HIDES AND WHAT IT REVEALS

with David Armstrong, Mason Bundschuh, Heidi Kyser, Joseph Langdon, Launce Rake, Moniru Ravanipour, Geoff Schumacher, T.R. Witcher, Mercedes Yardley. 11 a.m. Oct. 18 Fifth Street School Auditorium. FICTION: WEST OF EDEN with Charles Bock, Maile Chapman, David Fuller, Laura McBride, Vu Tran. 12:15 p.m. Oct. 18, Fifth Street School, Auditorium. 150 YEARS IN NEVADA: THE SILVER STATE’S COLORFUL HISTORY AND RESILIENT FUTURE

with Ralph Burns, Patricia Cafferata, Joanne L Goodwin, Gene Moehring, Geoff Schumacher, Doug Sawnson. 1:30 p.m. Fifth Street School Auditorium.

PHOTO BY CHARLES SYKES/BRAVO

A&E

BENDER-ING GENRES

A&E

CONCERT

[ I WANT THAT BOOK! ]

The Used ‘Take It Away’ with a ferocious performance Brooklyn Bowl, October 9

“Congratulations,” The Used frontman Bert McCracken said. “It just took you five minutes to do the lamest front flip in history.” Acrobatics were a reoccurring element of The Used’s performance as several fans hurled themselves from the stage onto the crowd while the band played. The alternative-rock quartet blazed through hits such as “Take It Away” and “The Taste of Ink” with

band played their first single, “A Box Full of Sharp Objects,” with help from letlive. vocalist Jason Aalon Butler during their encore, sandwiching it in between impressive Nirvana and Rage Against the Machine tributes. ★★★✩✩ – Ian Caramanzana

NOW LET ME TAKE A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE 2014 is a banner year for Nas. His tour celebrates the 20th anniversary of his llmatic album, while a documentary, Nas: Time is Illmatic, screens in select theaters. Nas plays the Cosmopolitan’s Boulevard Pool on Oct. 17 ($32).

ADD SBTRKT TO YOUR TO-DO LIST SBTRKT (Aaron Jerome) just dropped his highly anticipated second album, Wonder Where We Land, with vocals from Sampha and appearances by Jessie Ware, A$AP Ferg and Ezra Koenig (Vampire Weekend). SBTRKT plays House of Blues on Oct. 18 ($30).

ON SALE NOW Stevie Wonder is taking his legendary Songs in the Key of Life album out on the road for an 11-city mini tour, and “I Wish,” “Sir Duke” and “Isn’t She Lovely” sound just as magnificent as they did in 1976. Wonder plays the MGM Grand Garden Arena on Nov. 29 ($45-$175).

PHOTOS BY ERIK K ABIK/ERIKK ABIK.COM

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

ferocity and control. A packed house sang along to fan favorites such as “All That I’ve Got” and “Pretty Handsome Awkward.” The

Somewhere during the second season of HBO’s Girls, Lena Dunham started getting on my nerves, or maybe I’m guilty of confusing Dunham with her narcissistic character, Hannah Horvath. I guess the only way to find out is by reading the screenwriteractor-author’s new essay collection, Not That Kind of Girl (Random House, $28). It’s been touted as candid, fierce and funny, but—to be perfectly honest—I’ll be satisfied if it’s at least one of those things. – M. Scott Krause

The

Native Daughter

HIT LIST

Playwright Ryan Reid brings her New York success home

TARGETING THIS WEEK'S MOST-WANTED EVENTS

By Cindi Moon Reed

By Camille Cannon

October 17-26, $49, Troesh Studio Theater in The Smith Center, TheSmithCenter.com.

RYAN REID BY ELIZABETH BUEHRING; WICKED BY JOAN MARCUS

Chandra Lee Schartz and Emma Hunton play the iconic witches.

LAUGH TRACKS Local comic Matt Markman has opened for Anthony Cools and George Wallace, but on Oct. 17, he’ll return to where his career began—Boomer’s Bar. Markman is recording his comedy album, My Name’s Not Mark, during two shows at 6 and 8:30 p.m. Go support and you might hear your giggles on CD. MattMarkman.com. SABINA STEPS IN Sabina Kelley is a very tattooed, very busy woman. In July, the former Jubilee! showgirl and Best Ink judge covered for Claire Sinclair in Pin Up. Now she pops in to the Plaza’s burlesque show Limelight Oct. 16-18. Perhaps her star power will extend this “limited engagement.” A PARTY THAT HAS IT ALL The Artistic Armory celebrates one year of event-throwing with its biggest bash yet: Nightmare on Art Street Part II on Oct. 18. Live music and art from top local talent will be on display in and outside of the gallery, and Abuela’s Tacos will be available for purchase. Yes, tacos. Facebook.com/ TheArtisticArmory.

WITCHING HOUR

If you still haven't seen this Tony Award winner, now is the time to restore your theater

'seat' cred. Wicked returns to Las Vegas for its second run at The Smith Center (through Nov. 9). Fly, don't walk there. – C.M.R.

PLAYS ON FILM Oct. 17-26 at Onyx Theatre, Poor Richard’s players will stage a theatrical version of Alfred Hitchcock’s thriller Rope, a 1948 film based on a play by Patrick Hamilton. If that’s not inception, we don’t know what is. OnyxTheatre.com.

VegasSeven.com

having a prestigious family has likely opened doors for this young writer, it’s actually Reid’s maternal grandfather who has infuenced her creative pursuits. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at the Lou Ruvo Center when Reid was in college. So yes, this is a case of art imitating life. It’s also a case of art aiding life and looking to improve it, delicately and empathetically.

of brain diseases. The Ruvo Center provided access to its doctors and staff and helped bring the play to Las Vegas. There will also be panel discussions after each performance (except opening night). The moderated talks will feature doctors, caregivers, social workers, and cast and crew members. If the name Reid sounds familiar, then the answer is, yes, that Reid. Her father is former County Commissioner Rory Reid and her father’s father is U.S. Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid. And while

October 16–22, 2014

IT’S NOT THE TOPIC that would typically attract a young woman. But Ryan Elisabeth Reid is interested in gerontology. The 24-year-old New York-based Las Vegas native takes accordion lessons from a 73-yearold man. She supervises a music therapy program in the dementia unit at Isabella Geriatric Center. And after founding Sprat Artistic Ensemble in 2012, she wrote, designed and directed a play called One Day in the Life of Henri Shnuffe in order to “increase empathy for” and bring awareness to the lives of the elderly. The play garnered a review in The New York Times in which Neil Genzlinger wrote, “The purpose here [is] to depict a way of life, solitary and disconnected from the world.” Reid's second play, Henri, will explore the “complexity of Alzheimer’s and aging." It also represents a homecoming for Reid—Henri will debut at the Troesh Studio Theater at The Smith Center. Reid is excited about the opportunity to collaborate with the Cleveland Clinic Lou Ruvo Center for Brain Health, which conducts research to help combat the effects

MUSIC Gus G. plays Count’s Vamp’d at 10 p.m. Oct. 17.

HEAVY METAL TSUNAMI THE FORECAST LOOKS SWEATY, WILDhaired and very, very loud with a serious chance of permanent hearing loss. That’s because it’s practically raining heshers and headbangers this week in Las Vegas. Indeed, it all kicks off with Greek shredder Gus G., who plays lead guitar for Black Sabbath frontman and rock legend Ozzy Osbourne. The six-string G-spotter brings his acoustic solo tour (with singer Mats Lynam) to Count’s Vamp’d at 10 p.m. October 17. If you haven’t heard Gus go pyrotechnical on his black ESP guitar, then you’re missing out. He’s touring in support of this year’s I Am the Fire album, which boasts fretboardburning, highway-blasting tracks such as “My Will Be Done.” To my slight disappointment, this will be an unplugged performance. Anyhow, I’m optimistic about seeing a highlevel electric guitarist conduct a more stripped-down affair. Classic British metal band Raven— best known for their 1985 hit “On and On” from the ridiculously titled album Stay Hard—ravishes Cheyenne Saloon at 10 p.m. October 19. These guys have gone through many lineup changes and stylistic revamps, but they’ve never abandoned their core sound of hard-rockin’ pomp. Sure, Raven hasn’t unfurled a proper studio disc of original music since 2009’s Walk Through Fire. But the band has enough songs—more

than 30 years’ worth—to make this merit giving up a night of Netfix. California-based newbie thrashmetal act Night Demon opens. There’s one hell of a concert descending upon Triple B at 6:30 p.m. October 20. No less than fve of my favorite death-metal bands—Suffocation, Kataklysm, Jungle Rot, Pyrexia and Internal Bleeding—are primed to bring sonic sadism to masochistic metalheads (me included). My current favorite of the bunch is Wisconsin-spawned Jungle Rot, whose last few chug-chugchug guitar-riffng albums have served no other purpose than to ignite ferocious mosh pits. Last year, Victory Records CD-reissued the band’s 1995 cassette demo Skin the Living, and it’s still faying my eardrums—in a good way. I predict the Rot will reign at this show. A few days later—7 p.m. October 23—at Triple B again, L.A. shockmetal band Butcher Babies will be carving up the crowd. Frontwomen Heidi Shepherd and Carla Harvey are more punk screamers than operatic howlers, but they compensate for any lack of “classic” metal-yawping with an emphasis on showmanship. And their thrashed-up songs—for instance, “I Smell a Massacre”—are pretty fun. Your Vegas band releasing music soon? Email Jarret_Keene@Yahoo.com.

PHOTO BY ALBERTO CABELLO/FLICKR

The glorious sounds of darkness will be fooding your ears this week

STAGE

UNSWEETENED CAROLINE Diamond tribute doesn’t turn on the ol’ heart light SADLY, I CANNOT BRING HIM FLOWERS.

Nearly 20 years of cloaking himself in Neil Diamond’s sequined personality (and shirts) around Vegas and elsewhere validates that Rob Garrett’s got certain chops as a Diamond doppelgänger. Now they’re packaged as Neil Diamond—The Tribute at the Westgate’s Shimmer Cabaret. But they don’t add up to a Diamond with the requisite sparkle. Vocally, Garrett’s impersonation is eerily good, nailing the superstar’s signature gargle-with-gravel growl. (Is it singing? Talking? More like speaking in melody.) Plus, the jet-black helmet hair from Diamond’s hirsute heyday is a wiggy wonder. What’s missing, if not technical profciency and visual approximation? Something intangible—presence. Watching Garrett, I never saw Neil Diamond. I saw someone who could be Neil Diamond’s valet, re-threading his boss’ sequins. The original commands a stage. The imitator sort of wanders it. Backed by his K.O.D Band (he bills himself “The King of Diamonds”), Garrett attempts the whole schmear. Many of Diamond’s marquee tunes are trotted out; he even refers to “my hits”—an affectation he abandons near show’s end. Opening with “Desiree,” Garrett runs through “You Got to Me,” “Hello Again,” “Kentucky Woman,” “Cherry, Cherry,” “Forever in Blue Jeans,” “Holly Holy,” “Cracklin’ Rosie,” the autobiographical (and vaguely silly) “I Am … I Said”—and, yes, “(Coming to) America.” Backup singer Rosanna Telford—who at other venues performed as Connie Francis opposite Garrett’s Diamond—steps forward to contribute the Babs Streisand end of “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.” Through most of it, Garrett is a musically faithful but otherwise wan and

sometimes awkward Diamond, never flling the bigness of the Diamond persona. Seeping through Garrett’s performance is a kind of sweetness that, while endearing, betrays Diamond’s baritone famboyance. Even an abundance of fourish-y, Diamond-esque poses and gestures—guitar thrust outward in a kind of phallic symbolism, fst pumping out the beats, arm waved high, fnger aimed skyward—register as mannered, rather than genuine. Coaxing a woman out of the crowd, he serenades her with “Play Me.” Audience encounters require both gentility to calm and encourage a volunteer, and a take-charge approach to guide the segment, but Garrett is tentative at best. Somehow, even a sing-along on “Sweet Caroline”—Diamond’s iconic, aural happy pill—had a lethargic undercurrent. Then, in an abrupt, stylistic U-turn, Garrett pummels “Love on the Rocks,” his overwrought interpretation outdoing even Diamond’s dramatics to further puncture the characterization. On a gut level—where a tribute artist must transport us to transcend the fact that these shows are built on fakery—Neil Diamond never arrives in full. While sketching him decently— he looks and sounds the part—Garrett never paints a portrait with the emotional fullness that implies. And the latter is vital when an act shifts from performing scattered Legends in Concert-style numbers—as Garrett once did—to a stand-alone show. In the strange, real-yet-unreal world of tribute artists—where, in fairness, our memories of our idols can far outstrip reasonable expectations for their imitators—there was no real Neil before me. Got an entertainment tip? Email Steve.Bornfeld@VegasSeven.com.

A&E

MOVIES

THE PRICE OF A SCOOP

Gary Webb (Jeremy Renner) fights the system to break the story of his life.

What happens when a journalist exposes the CIA’s sins? By Roger Moore McClatchy-Tribune News Service

KILL THE MESSENGER, the flm about journalist Gary Webb’s shocking newspaper stories that connected the Reagan-era CIA to America’s crack epidemic, shows just how hard it is to flm investigative journalism as a drama and get it right. The flm about a reporter destroyed by a story that turned out to be one of the great scoops of all time feels muted, more compelling than riveting. But Jeremy Renner dazzles as Webb, giving him both the swagger of a guy willing to take on the CIA and its media friends, and the nervous worry that he’s in over his head. His editor at the San Jose Mercury News (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) warns him, “We’re not the L.A. Times.” “We’re not small time, either,” Webb fres back. Webb had already broken the frst stories on police seizures of private property in drug cases when a drug dealer’s girlfriend (Paz Vega) approached him. The flm shows Webb cleverly feeding questions to her beau’s defense attorney (Tim Blake Nelson) as

the lawyer goes after a highly placed informant in the dealer’s trial. “You thought you were getting a piece of cheese,” the Latin drug moll purrs, “I just gave you the mouse!” That makes the twitchy prosecutor (Barry Pepper) blink, and that points Webb to other low-hanging fruit, all of whom point to the CIA providing planes and guns to the people then-President Ronald Reagan praised as “the moral equivalent of the Founding Fathers,” opportunists who fooded America’s inner cities with cocaine. The street dealer (Michael K. Williams, excellent) complains that he couldn’t “keep up with the supply.” “You mean demand.” “No. Supply.” The cheap coke through Nicaragua, where Reagan’s Col. Oliver North was funding an insurgency against the leftist government, meant that poor Americans

could afford cocaine. The crack epidemic began. Oliver Platt plays the paper’s managing editor, the one who complains that “this was 10 years ago” (the movie is set in ’96-’97), but who relishes “The Big One” that Webb breaks. Then the story turns, showing how Webb’s well-fnanced, well-connected competition—the Los Angeles Times and especially The Washington Post—used their CIA sources to attack the story and Webb personally. Director Michael Cuesta (“L.I.E.”) ratchets up the energy by chasing Webb with a jumpy handheld camera, playing up Webb’s touchy meetings with government insiders (Michael Sheen), an imprisoned Nicaraguan drug lord (Andy Garcia, oozing charm) and a Ray Liotta character who seems inspired by Donald Sutherland’s master conspirator in Oliver Stone’s

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

SHORT REVIEWS

Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (PG) ★★✩✩✩

Whatever else kids take from Judith Viorst’s delightful film, the subtext of this picture-heavy book is how exhausting and sometimes misguided the optimism of the eternally optimistic can be. Mom (Jennifer Garner) has the stress of all these kids and a job where she’s expected to dazzle 24/7. Dad (Steve Carell) has been out of work for ages and has an job interview where everybody is half his age. It’s just competent, light entertainment, no more ambitious than that.

The Judge (R) ★★★✩✩

This film flatters its protagonist Hank Palmer (Robert Downey Jr.), a hotshot Chicago attorney famous for his loose ethics. Then Hank’s mom dies, which necessitates a dreaded trip back home to Indiana. Hank attempts to make nice with his estranged father, the feared local judge (Robert Duvall). Then comes the movie’s hook. The old man is accused of hit-and-run murder, requiring Hank to swallow his pride and defend his father against a clever prosecuting attorney (Billy Bob Thornton). Suddenly The Judge transforms into a darker, better film.

Gone Girl (R) ★★★★✩

David Fincher’s film version of the Gillian Flynn best-seller is a stealthy, snake-like achievement. The film’s primary narrator is Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck, never more effective), a laid-off Manhattan magazine writer. To look after his aging parents Nick has returned to Missouri with his wife Amy (Rosamund Pike), who served as inspiration for her parents’ Amazing Amy storybooks. The present-day action begins when Amy disappears from the home leased with her trust-fund. There is no moral to Gone Girl; Flynn’s working on a higher level than that.

J.F.K. That bit of the tale makes it seem that we’re seeing all this through Webb’s increasingly paranoid eyes. The personal cost to Webb and his family is also squeezed in, with Rosemarie DeWitt as the wary wife who is leery of her husband’s obsessions and mistakes, and Lucas Hedges, good as the adoring son who sees dad’s faws for the frst time. Like the Dark Alliance stories themselves, Kill the Messenger feels leaky and a little incomplete. A screen version of a scandal with real people in it, naming some names and changing others, is never going to wholly satisfy. But Renner’s performance—beginning with bluster and descending into twitchy paranoia—sells it and makes us fret for every “messenger” who is suddenly the target of the spotlight himself. Kill the Messenger (R) ★★★✩✩

By Tribune Media Services

Annabelle (R) ★★★✩✩

The devil-doll lark Annabelle exists to make its host movie, last year’s excellent The Conjuring, look even better by comparison. As prequels go, it’s not bad, even if it does look like cheap digital crud. There’s also premise fatigue, leading to low-level audience exasperation. How many shocks must this bright young California couple (played by Annabelle Wallis and Ward Horton) endure before they realize the doll on the shelf is the source of their problems? The thing reeks of Satan.

Men, Women & Children (R) ★★✩✩✩

Tracks (PG-13) ★★★★✩

Based on Chad Kultgen’s debut novel, this film depicts modern-day America as the land of scarily unlimited digital opportunity. Father Don (Adam Sandler) spends untold hours in thrall to online porn, not unlike his own teenage son (Travis Tope). Mother Helen (Rosemarie DeWitt) assumes a new identity online and meets her secret lover (Dennis Haysbert) for trysts. Don, meantime, is doling out money to call girls. And so the movie goes. A lot of the acting’s good, though.

This new film is based on the 1980 travel memoir by Robyn Davidson, a free spirit who spent nearly a year crossing 1,700 miles of Australian desert with four camels and a dog. Director John Curran’s gorgeous film starring Mia Wasikowska betrays hardly a trace of Hollywood machinery. Wasikowska is wonderful here, unaffected and affecting. Curran is keen on unlocking the natural rhythm of a story about a young woman testing herself against her memories, her loneliness, her ability to disappear for a while.

The Boxtrolls (PG) ★★✩✩✩

The Equalizer (R) ★★✩✩✩

The Maze Runner (PG-13) ★★★✩✩

The Guest (R) ★★★✩✩

Oregon-based Laika animation house’s latest feature is based on Alan Snow’s 2005 book Here Be Monsters! The Boxtrolls remains relentlessly busy up through its final credits, and it’s clever in a nattering way. But it’s virtually charmless. A human boy named Eggs (voiced by Isaac Hempstead Wright) has been raised by the marginalized Boxtrolls, who live in an underground lair full of fantastical inventions. Eggs teams up with the mayor’s daughter, Winnie (Elle Fanning), to prove the Boxtrolls’ right to peaceable coexistence with the human element.

The Maze Runner—from the first in James Dashner’s trilogy—makes the “dyslit” clichés smell daisy-fresh. At the outset, Thomas (Dylan O’Brien) is sent up an elevator, his memory wiped nearly clean. The heart of this film is the action, and director Wes Ball seamlessly blends computer-generated spiders with the actors. The script may be a tad too long, but it’s treated well, creating a plausible, textured atmosphere of dread. Are audiences weary of dyslit screen adaptations? The Maze Runner, already a success in overseas markets, suggests otherwise.

Denzel Washington plays Robert McCall, a trained killer with a CIA-ish past who now exists undercover. Chloë Grace Moretz is the prostitute who frequents McCall’s favorite diner. A Russian sleazeball with underworld connections beats the Moretz character half to death, and McCall retaliates, five Russian thugs dead. The rest concerns the Russian sleazeball higher up the sleazeball ladder brought in to take care of McCall. At its best, Antoine Fuqua’s film shows interest in something more than the next neck-snapping flourish.

A crafty genre pastiche until it stalls, director Adam Wingard’s The Guest introduces its title character after he knocks on the door of a New Mexico family that lost their older son in the Iraq War. The Guest plays an interesting guessing game with the audience. David (Stevens) is a steely dreamboat, and everyone in the grieving family uses him for different reasons. Wingard’s facility with violent action is uneven. But he certainly knows his recent film history, as proved by the film’s retro synth-y musical score by Stephen Moore.

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BETTING

TACKLED FOR A LOSS Battered and beaten, our fearless forecaster seeks directions back to the win column LAST WEEK, you may recall that I lamented in this space about my 1-6 debacle to start October. What you didn’t read was this line: Hey, as bad as that was, it could’ve been worse—I could’ve gone 0-7. You didn’t read that line because I deleted it, for fear of jinxing myself. Turns out that bit of self-editing is the only smart decision I’ve made over the past fortnight, because last week it indeed got worse: I went 0-for-7. So how does one go from the Aaron Rodgers of handicapping (18-10 in September) to the Geno Smith of handicapping (1-13 since) over the course of two weeks? I’d like to chalk it up to a lot of bad luck and bad beats. I’d also like to be Santa Claus. Sure, I’ve been on the wrong side of a couple of results that could’ve gone either way, but the reality is I’ve been getting my clock cleaned. We’re talking big home and road favorites losing outright (see last week’s Best Bet on Fresno State over UNLV); small home underdogs (Bills over Patriots; UCLA over Oregon) getting crushed; small road favorites (Auburn over Mississippi State; Bengals over Patriots) getting crushed; and over/under plays (Bears-Falcons OVER) missing by two touchdowns. Now, I will say that I’ve always subscribed to the idiom that it’s OK to make mistakes—even 13 in two weeks— so long as you learn from them. Well, here’s what I’ve learned: First, on multiple occasions I committed the cardinal sports-betting sin of overreacting to the previous game’s outcome (the most egregious case being fading the Patriots as a home underdog against Cincinnati when New England was coming off an embarrassing Monday night loss). Second, I’ve jumped on certain bandwagons too late (going against UNLV) and jumped off other bandwagons too early (bailing on the Chargers two weeks ago, and Mississippi State and the Cowboys last week). Third, and most inexcusably, I’ve slipped into a bad habit of playing too many high-profle games (read: ones with the sharpest lines) rather than searching for hidden gems. Alas, understanding the problem is one thing. Solving it is something else. With that, let’s see if I can apply some of the lessons (I believe) I’ve learned and snap out of this funk. (Hey, this time I can say with certainty that it can’t get any worse!) Colts -3 vs. Bengals: Because Andrew Luck has led Indy to four straight wins by an average margin of 34.5-18.8, and because the Bengals

MATT JACOB

LUCKY SEVEN

Colts -3 vs. Bengals (Best Bet) Seahawks -6.5 at Rams Panthers-Packers OVER 49 Virginia +2.5 vs. Duke Air Force -9.5 vs. New Mexico Ohio State -19.5 vs. Rutgers Kansas +14.5 at Texas Tech

have given up 80 points the last two weeks to an aging Tom Brady and a gimpy Cam Newton. Seahawks -6.5 at Rams: Because I don’t trust a rookie free-agent quarterback (the Rams’ Austin Davis) against an angry Seahawks defense, and because St. Louis (one sack all year) won’t contain Russell Wilson. Panthers-Packers OVER 49: Because Carolina has topped the total in four straight games (giving up 37, 38, 24 and 37 points), and because the Packers are 5-1 “over” this season (scoring 27, 42 and 38 in their last three). Virginia +2.5 vs. Duke: Because Virginia had a bye last week, because Duke is in a letdown spot (coming off a road win at Georgia Tech) and because the Cavaliers are on a 7-0-1 ATS roll dating to last season. Air Force -9.5 vs. New Mexico: Because while both teams can run the ball, only one can stop the run (Air Force gives up 112.3 rushing yards per game; New Mexico allows 284.7 rushing ypg). Ohio State -19.5 vs. Rutgers: Because Ohio State has won its last three games by the combined score of 168-52, and because Rutgers is allowing 31 points per game on the road. Kansas +14.5 at Texas Tech: Because Kansas has covered two in a row since kicking coach Charlie Weis to the curb, and because no team mired in a four-game losing skid that hasn’t won a game by more than seven points all season should be this big of a favorite. Last Week: 0-7 (0-3 NFL; 0-4 college; 0-1 Best Bet). Season Record: 19-23 (9-13 NFL; 1010 college; 2-4 Best Bets). Matt Jacob appears at 10 a.m. Fridays on Pregame.com’s First Preview on ESPN Radio 1100-AM and 98.9-FM.

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You interact with two disparate audiences: Upscale book buyers and Pawn Stars fans. How do you reach both groups? [Some] collectors are more well-versed in details; you can talk bibliographic details with them. But my job is to make this complex subject accessible. If you want a frst-edition book but you don’t know how collecting works, I’m there to talk to. I’m the expert who does all of that, so you don’t have to drop your life. Frankly, I would not have a job if this were easy. … Either way, I’m pretty much just teaching, and that’s why I like Pawn Stars: There are people who love books and feel intimidated, and I want people to feel like they can learn about rare books. I want people to be excited about them. They’re amazing, and I want to share them. If it’s intimidating, it’s going to be hard to share.

October 16–22, 2014

VegasSeven.com

Rebecca Romney

The Bauman Rare Books manager and Pawn Stars expert on sleuthing, Nevada collectibles and reaching a television audience By Cindi Moon Reed What’s a rare book dealer’s day typically like? We research for collectors. We serve as personal curators for rare book collections. It’s much harder to fnd these books than to sell them. On top of that, we’re very picky about condition. It’s hard to fnd the perfect book.

And it’s very hard to fnd frst editions. We have people who work full time traveling and looking at collections. I’ll do a lot of that on the Web. If someone is interested in a specifc book then we’ll track it down. It’s very nerdy sleuth-like. You’re always looking for the next clue.

What Nevada or Las Vegas books are collectible? Books that deal with the Comstock Lode, mining certifcates, things like that. A lot of Western exploration works that touch on Nevada can be important. One that’s really signifcant is John C. Fremont’s expedition. The

How do you have your rare book and read it, too? You can actually read a lot of these books, but collecting books isn’t really about reading them. Collecting is about deciding you want to take part in this grand purpose of preserving historical artifacts. Collectors are responsible for shepherding this historical artifact on to the next generation. We have books from 1598 here, from the 1400s. These books are going to ideally— if they’re taken care of—be around generations longer than us. You spoke out in a Facebook post a year ago against Internet trolls who were posting sexist comments. Has it improved? I haven’t really seen it end. It doesn’t matter what you say, people are still going to do it. When it’s aggressive accusations and things about being a woman in the public sphere, it actually encour-

ages me to stay active in the public sphere because I feel that’s an attempt to get me not to be contributing. It is particularly diffcult for young professional women to make their way, and you have to be unafraid to stand up for yourself. You have to be unafraid to deal with trolls. You have to be confdent in what you do. … It’s funny, I talk with [Pawn Stars boss] Rick Harrison and the other experts, and they’ll mention that they have trolls, too. Then I’ll show them an example of what I get anytime I post something, and their jaws will drop. They get things, but not with the same frequency and not with the same pointed nature. It’s been a diffcult adjustment. … My way of combating has been always to bring it back to the books. Do you have any plans to proft from your newfound fame—perhaps by writing a book or opening your own bookstore? I don’t have any plans to leave Bauman, because the resources it has to fnd books are above and beyond what you’re going to fnd anywhere else. [Pawn Stars] was always done as advertising for my company. I was caught off guard by the personal attention. People say, “Oh, Rebecca, you’re so great!” “No, no, no, no, the books are great! I don’t know why we’re talking about me.” I’ve always diverted the attention. Writing a book [could] contribute to teaching people. It’d have to ft in with my long-term priorities, which are to help people create collections that mean a lot to them. Got any book recommendations? Books are incredibly personal. People will ask for recommendations, and my frst question is, what kind of books do you like? I could have a favorite book, and it wouldn’t speak to you at all. Don’t be afraid to come in and talk to us or look at the books. Some of the books we have here, you’re not going to see outside a museum. There’s no admission. You don’t have to be a collector. For me, it’s all about talking with people who love books. That’s why my job is great.

PHOTO BY JON ESTRADA

SEVEN QUESTIONS

map with the Fremont book is done by Charles Preuss, and it is the frst map to have Las Vegas on it. What does very well [in Bauman’s Las Vegas store] are the James Bond books by Ian Fleming—Casino Royale, From Russia With Love, You Only Live Twice.