the increasingly epic adventures of the flying pedagogues
Las Vegas is a city all about the numbers. The number of hours you can trade from day into night and back again behind blackout curtains and never-fading artificial light. The number of electric megawatts and gallons of water siphoned cavalierly into the desert for the pleasure of the suffocating number of tourists who jam the sidewalks. The number of cocktails one can consume on the house, or on the blistering miles of block between attractions, or before becoming sick or comatose. The number of thousands of rooms in a hotel and the room number someone must remember that matches the nondescript key card. The number of oysters or pieces of sushi on the $50 platter and the number of labels of vodka behind the ice bar. The number of minutes one is willing to stand in line for entrance to a club, the number of inches on the platform heels or barely skirts of the clubbers, and the number of clubbers who can fit in the elevator up the number of floors from the casino to the club itself. Th...