S hortly before 2 a.m. Monday, the Scandinavian fellow in corpse paint posed a question.
The mayor of Psycho Las Vegas is on the line, chatting about Sir Francis Drake, the British Royal Navy and 16th-century buccaneers.
They thought maybe it was their “La La Land” moment.
What’s an “Alcoholocaust,” you ask? Find out in the latest roundup of recommended Vegas music releases:
No one would have blamed him if he never came back.
The turning point was all the strangers shedding tears in the backseat.
No “Closer,” no deal.
The traffic lights continued to work at the corner of Third Street and Bridger Avenue, though they did little to alleviate the gridlock of bodies.
“Rock and roll ain’t dead!” John Gist says, his voice rising like booster rockets at blastoff, propelling his words to the rafters of the Hard Rock Hotel’s Center Bar.
The human metronome answers his own question.