Friday morning in Las Vegas. A perfect golf breeze blows down Paradise Road, then everything stops.
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The joggers of the Strip unite in the shadow of a junk removal site.
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This is an all man-made course. It is difficult to exit.
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A goose walks into the sports book.
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So you could sit here and watch a football game? Great.
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Another rotten tennis court, another exploding swimming pool.
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In this boxing gym we teach the science not the violence.
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Betty Boop used to shoot craps here.
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Damn, the machine got me.
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We got stuck in the elevator and listened to the rest of Game 3 on the intercom.
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Dallas has very good odds. Odds subject to change.
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Look at that arena, as near as it is far away.
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You fellows up for some Riviera roof ball?
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What’s a Miami Marlin doing in Vegas?
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This little black book? It’s full of bets.
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Midday he got high on vodka and lay out on the empty pitch and dreamed of a plastic donkey race.
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No one’s winning, the bells aren’t going off, is that it?
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Unlimited golf is back — any time.
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On the way out, a series of broken signs.
