Sideshow City!

Step right up, folks, step right up! Drink in the sideshow to the carnival that is Las Vegas! Behind this very curtain you'll find Jimmy Luv, the man in the box! Ten days, one box, no food, no water, just a blanket and a cell phone, taking up prime real estate outside Treasures gentlemen's club. Zoom in close and you may catch Michael Mack, carnival barker ... er, PR flack for the strip club, smiling down on the box—but not too close, because 10 days in a box isn't a smell for the faint of nose! Last year, he was entombed for five-and-a-half days, can he possibly pull off 10? The one, the only, Jimmy Luv, street magician and extreme stunt man: Will he narrowly escape a ravenous death, three kidney stones lighter? Or will that box become his final resting place, a see-through coffin imprinted with a strip-club logo, to be buried in the desert, weathered by the fire and winds of all eternity?

Come one, come all! Behind curtain number two, folks, dangles the amazing Masochisto, hanging from cables embedded in his flesh, bleeding soymilk! He's 75 feet in the air, but were he any closer, you could smell the garlic coming from those puncture wounds! It's not an illusion. There's no sleight of hand. Three hours, one man, four hooks and a bungy crane! Why, you ask? Why not, he replies! Friends, those hooks are as real as the flesh that dangles from them!

Ladies and gentlemen, I said step right up! Step right ... up? Are you out there? I don't see a line forming. I don't hear the airwaves buzzing. Just two men, alone, placing their very lives on the line for your entertainment. Ladies and gentlemen?

Both men share similar motives in their self-torture: confronting fears, self-empowerment and, of course, a shake at fame. Were they successful? Both were visited by two or three television news crews, and me, and both are hoping that bigger, better, riskier opportunities will follow. Jimmy Luv's entombing and disentombing were caught on tape, and he did some radio interviews. Over 10 days, he was visited by a trickling stream of men and strippers, who pounded on the box and flashed him, rubbing breasts and whatnots against the clear plastic tomb (the strippers, that is). Masochisto's first 15 minutes of dangling were a media draw. But the temperature was cold, the air windy and the 30 or so observers, most of whom work with him in the show Shock! at the Bourbon Street, took cover, and, except for viewings by his girlfriend and a couple of others, he dangled solo.

Here in Sin City—a carnival with expensive architecture—it's possible that we've grown used to spectacle. Residents look past the bearded ladies. They sigh with disinterest at the midgets. And bat nary an eyelash at these two men pushing the limits of the body. Is it the over-the-top culture of Las Vegas that kept the men from making waves, or did they just need stronger carnival barkers proclaiming their stunts? Don't know. But under the big top of this one-ring city, the press was more taken with the political circus of double and triple-dipping elected officials, California fires, mayoral discussions of legalized prostitution and Michael Jackson sightings.

Except for us. 

October 21, 6 p.m.

Jimmy Luv's supposed to enter the box at 5. By 5:30, we're waiting for more media to arrive. Coolio, a friend of Jimmy's, is here, and I ask if Jimmy's experience in the box might someday make it into his music. He thinks for a while, eyes aimed at the ceiling, then answers. "It probably won't be his experience in the box, it'll just be personal things. Like my homeboy Jimmy, little things you know." He pauses, thinking, then raps. "The shots we got might break off locks. My balls are big like Jimmy, when he was in the box. You know, some shit like that."

By 6, Jimmy decides he's not waiting any longer. They proceed to the box, Jimmy surrounded by Coolio and maybe 30 others—mostly dancers wearing Treasures T-shirts and lacy-panty things, plus a few men in suits and City Councilman Michael Mack, who handles the PR for Treasures, smiling on, coyly.

Coolio speaks. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is my homeboy Jimmy BB Luv. The BB is for 'big balls.' He is in the box." Jimmy has, indeed, climbed into the clear box, which is 6-feet 6-inches long, two-and-a-half-feet wide and two-and-a-half-feet tall. There's a hole near his head he can speak through, and two fans next to it.

Music is blaring in psychological warfare fashion, while bright lights stream down on the see-through coffin. Dancers are blowing kisses and saying bye-bye. The lid-placers put the top on upside down. The locks won't lock, so they have to flip it. Then, Coolio brings it down a notch.

"Turn the cameras off for one second. Can we turn to real life for one second? Everybody, this is real shit, though. Dawg might die in this box." Public-service announcement done, he turns it back up. "Turn the cameras on, turn the cameras on, ladies and gentleman, Jimmy BB Luv is now in the box. We're getting ready to lock it up. Three days is supposed to be the maximum that a man or woman can go without food or water. He's already broken that record by going for five-and-a-half days. He's now going for the record of 10 days with no food, no water. And—turn the cameras off. Could you all give the box a kiss and put your ass right on it?"

One woman climbs on top, takes her shirt off and rubs her breasts above Jimmy's face. The dancers cheer. They clap. They wooo!

"I got yo back, though, dawg" says Coolio. "It's Jimmy BB Luv, in the box!"

 He requests that we all give Jimmy 10 minutes alone to collect his thoughts. I consider that the 10 days should be sufficient for that, and leave.  

Day 1: October 22, 9:53 p.m.

A couple is walking away from the box as I approach. Jimmy smiles broadly. His lips look dry, but he says he's doing fine, he's just tired. Coolio left this morning, after bringing out women all night to sit and wriggle on the top of the box. I ask him if he smells yet, and he brings his arm up, taking a whiff of his pit. "Wanna smell?" Nah. I ask him the series of five questions that I will ask every day he lasts in the box.

What's his focus? "I'm trying to keep my mind off girls," he smiles sheepishly. He has a blanket, which looks like a large napkin, draped over him to just above his waist. 

Craving? Chocolate milkshake.

Peed yet? No.

Worst part of the day? The heat. "It got close to 115 in the box."

Best part of the day? "You came to visit. There's not much excitement when you're locked in a box."

Day 2: October 23, 2:38 p.m.

Empty water bottles are strewn outside the box like a cruel joke. Jimmy's curled in a semi-fetal position. His skin's red, he's unbuttoned his shirt and hitched up his sweatpants. With the record-breaking temperatures hitting 90 outside the box, it seems our friend Jimmy is cooking within. He's talkative, and his saliva has become almost opaque as it stretches from his tongue. He's confused about how long he's been in there. "This is getting old," he says, his eyes bloodshot. Can he last all 10 days? "I ain't coming out," he insists. His lips are turning brownish and chapped. He applies Blistex.

Focus: "Make it through the day."

Craving: Ice water

Peed? 4:30 a.m.

Worst: "The temperature's bad. The sun."

Best: "Kate came to visit." I'm one of the few who doesn't flash him or bang on the box.

Day 3: October 24, 3:08 p.m.

His skin's less red. He's sleeping when I arrive, lying on his back with his shirt open and chest exposed. Girls have started signing his box with things like "Love, light and inspiration" and "Katia XXX 1/2." His cell phone rings, and he stirs, answering it slowly. Wrong number. He notices I'm here, waves and smiles. There's a faint sour smell coming from the hole in the box. His lips are browner, crustier, his spit's thicker, and he's hairier. He tells me he's starting to forget stuff, and his lower back's starting to hurt from his kidneys. I show him his picture in the digital camera. "I look like shit," he groans. I tell him the talk of the day is Mayor Goodman's talk of legalizing prostitution Downtown. This upsets him. "Well I hope he doesn't," he says. "I think it's wrong."

Focus: "I've actually been passing out a lot."

Craving: Caesar salad.

Peed? Nope. Took the catheter out because doesn't expect to.

Worst: Sun's getting to him, and he's too dehydrated to sweat.

Best: "Kate came to visit." I tell him he's getting redundant.

Day 4: October 25, 11:08 p.m.

It's Saturday night, and there's no one around him. His back is to me, and he's curled up. He's taken his socks off. He doesn't seem to have the energy to move his head or speak above a whisper, and says he passed a kidney stone earlier in the day. He bit his ski cap to deal with the excruciating pain. He's ready for it all to end, and is annoyed that Daylight Savings means marinating for an extra hour. "Sorry I'm not a picnic basket right now," he says. I learn from his "doctor,"—who turns out be a friend who's a respiratory therapist—that if Jimmy pulls through this, a major television network may sign him up for more stunts.

Focus: "I've been asleep all day."

Craving: Ravioli.

Peed? Once, earlier in the day, and birthed a kidney stone. Yow.

Worst: Passing a kidney stone.

Best: The kidney stone's gone.

Day 5: October 26, 8:15 p.m.

There's a little girl, maybe 9, sitting by the box, when I arrive. She's the daughter of the security guard who's stationed there, overseeing Jimmy, and she's waiting to meet Coolio, who's back in town. She doesn't seem terribly interested in the box. But the three kids who show up next are. They're around 1, 4 and 6 and bang on the box, laughing. "What's he doing in there?" I ask the 4-year-old girl. "I don't know. Making money?" She smiles, shyly.

Jimmy's looking better. Delirium? He's been hallucinating, and he passed another kidney stone that morning. He also reports that Atlantic City has expressed interest in signing a deal for him to do some kind of stunt there. I ask if he remembers talking to me last night, and he doesn't. "Was it before or after the kidney stone?"

Focus: Had a dream that he was a kid again, having dinner with his parents. They were eating creamed corn, chicken cutlets and garlic-mashed potatoes.

Craving: Creamed corn, chicken cutlets and garlic-mashed potatoes.

Peed: 8:30 a.m., passed a kidney stone. His catheter's reattached, and they emptied the bag twice. "I didn't know I could hold that much," he mutters.

Worst: The kidney stone.

Best: I don't think anybody's flashed me today.

Day 6, October 27, 6:20 p.m.

Bad day. "I'm pretty useless right now. I apologize," he says weakly. He falls back asleep as I take his picture. The smell's pretty strong. I breathe through my mouth.

Focus: Sleeping

Craving: Cheese ravioli (from a restaurant that I can't understand.)

Peed? No.

Worst: They gave him the wrong catheter. It's too small.

Best: Only a couple of days left.

Day 7: October 28, 4:30 p.m.

The owner and a manager of the club are outside, near the box. I overhear that Jimmy's requested some Febreeze. He's alert, in a good mood. He's pushing his hand against the box, as though he's trying to touch the outside world. As he talks, I have a hard time hearing because of what sounds like a plane. "It's a helicopter, Lois Lane. Aren't you a reporter?" he says, smirking. His teeth are brown and his spit's a kind of whitish-yellowish color. He apologizes for the smell. He's been giving out autographed pictures, which he signs "Feed me. Let me out." He's made dinner reservations at Little Buddah for Saturday.

Focus: Sleep. In his dreams, he realizes he's in a box and wakes up.

Craving: Mongolian beef from Little Buddah

Peed? No.

Worst: "I'm in a box."

Best: Got his new catheter—one that fits. And he only has three more times to wake up before getting out.

Day 8: October 29, 10:45 a.m.

His eyes are sunken, red, crusty. There's air-freshener sitting near the box, which he says made his eyes burn. "They try to kill me," he says, "but that's my job." I can't hear him, so we talk over cell phones. He's disoriented, thinks it's Thursday, and falls asleep while we're talking. The air is cloudy with smoke from the California fires. He didn't realize it was smoke causing the haze—thought it was his vision, and seems relieved to hear otherwise. "Somebody did a magic trick," he slurs. His mouth is dry, his throat hurts. He suggests that Arnold started the fires as a premise for his next movie.

Focus: Passing out.

Craving: Chocolate chip cookies and whole milk.

Peed: No.

Worst: Coolio brought over his catch for the evening and they laid on top of the box.

Best: "Kate came to visit and she made me chocolate chip cookies." (Not really.)

Day 9: October 30, 2:30 pm

Jimmy's talking to a woman and a security guard when I arrive. I've brought Masochisto, the man who hangs from hooks embedded in his flesh. Jimmy is alert, and I ask him if he'd do it all over again. "For that kind of money?" he asks. I pry again, asking what he's getting paid, and he won't tell me. As he and Masochisto talk, it becomes clear that the visit was less of a treat than I expected. "Thinking of meat hooks makes me nauseous," Jimmy says.

Focus: "Getting out tomorrow. I've about had it."

Craving: "Nothing."

Peed? Yesterday, after I left, he passed another kidney stone.

Worst: He says he put some lip balm on and it go into his mouth and accidentally swallowed it. It was disgusting.

Best: No answer. "How about meeting Masochisto?" I ask. He shakes his head, hard. "Kinda fun?" He shakes his head, harder.

Day 10: October 31, 3:30 p.m.

I call Jimmy from the parking garage of Circus-Circus, where, from the warmth of my car, I'm watching Masochisto dangle. Jimmy's coherent, but not terribly, and apologizes for being out of it. He's looking forward to 5 o'clock, when they'll lift the lid off his box. I tell him that I'm watching his friend hang, and that there aren't many spectators, possibly because of the cold and windy temperatures. "No," the man in the box tells me. "It's because it's gross."

4:53 p.m.

I arrive at Treasures for the disentombing, and ask if they plan to start on time. I'm told they're waiting for Kate Maddox of Channel 8 to arrive. Maddox wrote about Jimmy Luv last year for the Weekly and described bodily waste surrounding him in the box while poolside at the Palms. They're not big fans of Maddox, but it seems they'll do what it takes for coverage.

There are about 20 people milling around, until the DJ inside commands everyone to put down their drinks and go outside to watch history in the making. The number grows to about 40. Paramedics are standing next to the box, ready with their gurney. As four busty women unlock the container and the lid is hoisted, Jimmy is met with claps. He sits up, very slowly, and the paramedics move in, taking his pulse, talking quietly into his ear. They hoist him onto a gurney and wheel him to an ambulance, wrapping him in blankets and attaching monitors. He gives us a thumbs up as they close the ambulance doors and take him away, without flashing lights or sirens.

Tuesday, November 4

Four days out of the box and Jimmy's almost back to normal. The first things he ate were a piece of cheesecake and a chocolate milkshake, and any pain remaining rests in his knees, calves, lower back and neck. He says he'd do it again in a heartbeat—it seems to be paying off. There are rumors that Atlantic City wants to suspend him in an enormous ice cube. He says some casino properties in town have expressed interest in his stunts. And soon, he hopes to be boiled for 22 minutes in a vat of vodka.

 From time to time, there arises an opportunity in the world of offbeat journalism that seems so colorful, so perfect, it can't be passed up. Last Thursday, the day before the hanging and the disentombing, I interviewed Masochisto for about an hour outside of an Einstein Bros. Bagels. Afterward, he agreed to accompany me to visit the man in the box, where the two commiserated about their experiences, all the while looking down their noses at each other. Mutual respect? Sure. Mutual disdain? That, too.

Masochisto: "I'm going to hang tomorrow, for about three hours. I'm going to start at the bottom and probably reach about 175 feet in the air."

Jimmy laughs. "Where you going to do this at?"

"The bungy jumping place, by Circus Circus."

"Don't you think it's going to hurt?"

"Yeah. [Laughs.] But I'm sure you understand what suffering's about."

"My kidneys hurt."

"I've done short, dry fasts, no food no water for like three days, but I'm usually up running around and stuff. What kind of preparation have you done?"

"I did a liquid diet."

"OK. What kind of liquids?"

"Ensure."

Masochisto laughs, hard. "OK."

"I actually passed three kidney stones."

"How often do you urinate?"

"Um, when's the last time I peed?" Jimmy looks at me. I tell him it was two or three days ago. "I passed a stone yesterday. I'm worried about the calcium buildup in my back."

"It's also in your teeth. Yeah, I've had a lot friends who've had permanent tooth damage because of weeklong fasts and stuff. They didn't do too much preparation."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why do I do it? Every time it's a different reason. I learn more of why I do what I do every time I do it."

"You're going to hang upside down?"

"No, this one's just going to be an easy one. I'm going to be hanging by my knees and by my back for three hours."

"From what?"

Masochisto lifts his shirt and shows him the flesh holes he'll be hanging from. Holes, everywhere. Dark, scabby punctures. There's the eight that he'll be using tomorrow (the circular cables go in one hole, out the other), and hole scars from previous hangings.

"Ow." Jimmy gives me an ewww-is-this-guy-for-real? look, then looks back at Masochisto.

"I've got these cables, like you just go pick up at the hardware store," Masochisto says. "They've got a plastic coating on them, I make them all clean and sterile."

"Are you gonna pee?"

"I don't know, I'm probably not going to be drinking much water because I don't want to be up there and have to go use the bathroom or anything. ..."

"Good luck."

"Thank you. How much longer you got in here?"

"Tomorrow at 5 o'clock."

"Tomorrow? Nice."

The circular cables are embedded, four circles through his back, two through his knees. Employees at A.J. Hackett Bungy are about to hoist Masochisto into the air for three hours. But as he's being lifted, his skin pulled towards the sky like the wrinkles of a Sharpei, he screams in pain. "Whoa! Take it easy. Stop!" The ascent stops. "I need to stretch them out. If they could drop me down like a foot?" he calmly requests.

The "them" that need stretching are the holes in his skin, and it's a good thing they lower him, because once he's down, the hook in his knee, which is held in a circle by a metallic cinch, springs open. "Looks like the party's over," says one of the Hackett guys. "Nope," Masochisto says. "I can hang from my back." With that, he starts walking, pulling downward so his skins pulled out, stretching it out.

Masochisto, who also swallows swords and snorts things (metal rods, plastic straws, whatever) in his nose and out his mouth, daylights as a massage therapist and, until last Saturday, starred in the show Shock!—inspired by the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow—at the Bourbon Street hotel-casino. (He was filling in for someone else, temporarily.) As a Halloween treat, he's going to dangle for the media and a small crowd, most of whom were friends or coworkers from the show, plus a few tourists who'd just finished bungy-jumping.

Why? In an interview the day before, Masochisto explains what he gets out of it. "Some people have a sexual connection with the pain. For me, pain is something to learn from. That's my thing."

It's about pushing limits, and seeing the world from a new perspective. As the name denotes, Masochisto is a masochist, who's acutely aware of his body, what goes into it and what comes out of it. He's a fruitarian, meaning he eats primarily fruit and nuts with some soy, tofu and garlic for variety. He says that, because of his limited diet, his body has an amazing ability to heal. When he hangs from hooks, he doesn't bleed. Rather, he says, he emits a substance that looks like soymilk and smells like garlic.

But today the substance surrounding his hooks is undeniably blood. Now that he's stretched out, they raise him about 15 feet off the ground, to make sure everything will hold. He swings around on the cords, and his girlfriend, who's standing on a roof just under him, pushes his shoes so that he spins in wide circles. He's a human swing.

After 15 minutes or so, the crowd has dispersed. I drive over to a parking garage so that I'm parallel to him and can watch from the warmth of my car. He's maybe 75 feet up, hanging. Just hanging. Watching a man dangle is impressive, a little gross, not terribly exciting, and Jimmy Luv's scheduled to come out of the box, so after about 20 minutes I leave. The next night, I watch a recovered Masochisto in Shock! He dangles again, this time writhing in (mock?) pain. There, his holes seep a substance that really and truly does resemble soymilk.