I should have taken the copy of On the Road out of my bag before we went into the theatre, though. I was very lucky it didn't set up some kind of thematic resonance and summon the ghost of Robert Anton Wilson or something. The explosion might have leveled a few dozen city blocks.
'Course, in Vegas, who'd know?
Conclusions: it's even funnier under the right thematic conditions; the North Las Vegas joke provokes applause and hoots from those who live here; Tobey Maguire cannot be made un-cute no matter what you do to him; Terry Gilliam is a genius; it's a pity the employment situation for Latina actresses is so bad that Vasquez is working as a maid at the Flamingo; I don't care how much these guys got paid, it wasn't enough to expect them to get into that water; Johnny Depp needs some new swishy hand gestures (I think, as Elvis was naturally blond, Depp is naturally limp-wristed); I wanna know who the heck Mark Harmon has incriminating photos of to have gotten out with his dignity intact; and that thing about the wave breaking and rolling back?
Is totally true. I can show you the spot. It's on a hillside in Pahrump.
The weasels were closing in. I could smell the ugly brutes.