Soccer Mom Luncheon

Lunchtime at the Venetian with the return of spring as well as a recent reinfusion of convention goers who find no problem hammering down drinks at 12 in the afternoon, while contemplating the possiblities of leaving their life at home for a future in the summer sun of Las Vegas. It always amazes me how people can seem so readily comfortable here slinging back drinks, mimicing the behavior of any chronic alcoholic drunk from most cities in urban America. A well worn woman of early thirties is propositioning a friend of mine for sexual monetary type exchange. The woman has the allure of a two kid parent who is spending the afternoon hooking while the kids are at school as an opportunity to make a bit of additional funds for this current lull in the economy, just not enough slots in the corporation for middle management, but plenty of opportunity in the theater of pain, a production in which this particular woman appears to hold one of the main character leads.

She asks my friend if he is here for a convention, he tells the prositute that he is working on a television show, then asks what she does for work, already knowing the answer. An entertainer, hmm, really I thought, she replies, I have a really good show that you will definitely like, all he needed was some money and a room. Such a desperate, lowdown, and spiral towards the bottom. What kind of fantasy was this hooker caught up in, while attempting to peddle her ass at 12:30p on a Wed. how many rungs down the ladder had this woman already fallen, what kind of astrocities had this lady endured to come to this point, where she would flat out lie about how much a sexual animal laid in wait for any man with the right amount of money. This two kid lady had two deflated beachballs for an ass, size 20 tire for a waist, not even that cute in the face, who was the clientle for a woman of this brokedown nature, a used car, coming near the point of throwing a rod in the engine.

I could not look at her, one I did not want to give her the impression that my interest in her act was more than a sociological observation, two, there was something extremely painful in this wholesale auction of her body, like a cattle rancher trying to sell a cattle with Mad Cow disease. This hooker looked to be selling dark misfortune dispair, a opaque elixir that would instantly disentegrate anyone foolish enough to ingest her poison. Lastly, the accompaning environment of a Las Vegas casino only made her folly all the more comical, where was her head, absorbed in the refusal to accept the downfall of Rome, a post gluttonous world where her vaginal cavity might have been more highly regarded and seeked out, but today, this woman was nothing more than trash on the side of the highway to be constantly blown off onto the tall dry grass, covered with other filth, trash, and dirt, day by day, month by month, year, by year, until she is nothing more than a forgotten artifact to be unearth sometime in the future to be studied like a tribesman who exhibits all sort of antiquated hunter and gatherer characteristic, her novelity, a fossil appreciated only the twisted arcane sideshow salesman.

No one was biting on her line as she offered up her business card, a generic laminated photo of a nude model that looked nothing like her, toss that thing in the trash, as the prostitute walks off to find a Midwest american who is on the fence with flirting with the dark side of our self indulgent nature in the US, what better way to start down the path that leads to obessesive means, ask Tiger, Ben, anyone who takes that first step toward the dark hallway, where nothing but abused half shells of human seek more hell, more pain, more reaffirmation that their current state of exsitence is well deserved, justified, and necessary to continue living, the ultimate excuse in treating everyone else like shit, give and get, one feeds the other, a continous cycle, where immediate gratification trumps everything else, feelings, humanity, and self respect. I have put some distant from this dark well, but have no problem recognizing it, more haunting now, intense, visceral, yet no longer living amongst this crowd makes my relation to this apparition cruising the Las Vegas casinos no more a bad memory, I still feel her charade, the impending mortality facing this hooker whether, tomorrow, next month or year. Fatality flows throughout this woman's blood that thickens day after day, no more heartbeat, conscious love, all solidifies like granite, medusa looks at herself in the mirror, turns to stone, yet no one cares.