I'm here covering the Chuck Liddell-Vanderleigh Silva fight at the Mandaly Bay Events Center, along with a crowd of thousands that promises to be as electric as a rock concert. I'm in a bar with my laptop, typing away, a couple of cocktails past sober. In a minute I'll wander over to the Mandalay and take in the blood and the silicon and all the glorious evil excess of a big night in Vegas. But right now I'm experiencing a weird form of nostalgia. I'm wishing I was in one of those movies like the Stand or the last Resident Evil or Six String Samurai or Damnation Alley, movies in which the desert has reclaimed the Strip and a few stragglers remain. I'd like to run a makeshift bar that serves bootleg liquor to the down-at-heels American actors and busty Italian starlets that pass through, all vying to be the last sinnner in Sin City. The pressure would be off, civilization would be more-or-less over, and folks would be just playing out the string. Me, I'd be a deranged fucker, probably be doing something like this:
Put me in that movie, Jesus! I'm ready for my close-up.