STATE OF THE CITY |
Technology 1, Man 0 It started on Friday and hasn't stopped: Cars are taking on a life—or maybe death—of their own, ignoring their keyless-entry systems and their owners' desperate cries. Where there once was a beep-beep and a flash of lights, there's now silence. Has technology won this round in the war between man and circuits? Scores of people who relied on their keychains have had to call locksmiths, towing companies and dealerships to get into their vehicles. It's almost Darwinian, punishing those who took their wi-fi route, forgetting the old insert-key-and-turn motion the rest of us rely on. It's like Y2k+4. Of course, there are plenty of other logical explanations. Someone at Area 51 plugged in an alien coffee-maker. Sunspots, maybe. Armageddon. Oscar, somehow. (We blame al-Qaeda.) There's always the reliable scapegoat: the military. In 2001, similar incidents took place in Bremerton, Washington. When the keyless systems mysteriously began working again, it coincided with the return of an aircraft carrier. Days later, the devices stopped once more, again coinciding with the return of a Navy vessel. Somewhere, the Smoking Man was smiling. Between the rumors of jammers being used at Nellis, the nuclear joys at the Test Site, the little green captives at Area 51, plus the approach of a conference by the alien-worshipping Raelians, maybe we should be thankful that our cars are the only things affected. That we know of. |
The One-Minute Food Critic: Pancake Soup
Chuck Twardy tried something different at the newly opened Hofbrauhaus beer hall: For France you think, bouillabaisse, vichyssoise; Italy, minestrone, pasta fagiole. Germany is not known for its suppe. I once had a tasty asparagus cream soup in Heidelberg, but what dark corner of the Bavarian mind devised chopping pancakes, of any sort, and dropping the shards into a bland broth? The slivers of carrot are a nice touch, but a little awkward to manage on a soup spoon. It's not that the stuff lacks taste or tastes foul; it just feels weird in your mouth. Perhaps this mush goes down a little better after a liter or two of beer, but on the whole I'd prefer my potato pancakes on a plate, with Nuremberg brats. Hofbrauhaus, 4510 Paradise Road, 853-2337.
It's Official: Our Theater Scene Has Enough Edge to Shave King Kong
New theater companies in Las Vegas never die—or fade away—they just fade in and out. The latest set to fade in this summer is called the Got Theater? Project (GotTheaterProject.com). Headquartered in Syracuse, New York, and founded by ex-UNLVer Jason Dinant, the philanthropically-oriented GTP is ramping up a "Cutting Edge Theatre Series" for us, with proceeds earmarked for "selected Las Vegas charities." Its secondary purpose, Dinant says, is to "help build the careers of writers and actors" with "new writers, new plays and fresh faces—all cutting-edge."
Another theater troupe—can you say Cockroach Theatre, New City Theatre, Insomniac Project, the D.A.M.N. Theater and Test Market?—loudly and proudly proclaiming its cutting-edginess.
We're so cutting-edgy we're practically serrated.
Nothing Like an Afternoon of Fun As You Throw Up in Midair, Forget to Pull the Rip Cord, Lose Bladder Control and Pee on Passing Southwest Flight 201 to Houston, Scream in Abject Terror As Your Life Flashes Before Your Eyes and Makes Less Sense Than Gigli, Plummet to Earth at Supersonic Speed and Crash-Land in a Las Vegas Construction Site, Where Your Shattered Corpse Is Dry-Walled into the Future Master-Planned Residence of Harold and Myra Futzenbaum
Testing the limits of "the sky's the limit," UNLV this weekend debuts grad student/playwright Jim Moran's first full-length play, Emerald Eagle—about a sky-diver in a Seattle suburb decrying the ever-widening stain of Costcos and strip malls he sees beneath his free-falling feet, despoiling his pristine playground. "It's a story, roughly, about man vs. society, but also a father-daughter story at heart, because his daughter has become a real-estate developer," Moran—who doesn't actually sky-dive—told us. "There's a romanticism about what once was vs. what is now, and I think there are parallels with Las Vegas and its progress and development."
Meanwhile, real-life sky-fly guy Dale Hinton, a skydiving instructor, veteran parachutist, co-owner of Vegas Extreme Skydiving Inc. at Jean Airport—and probable Emerald Eagle audience member—is celebrating his recent recognition from the U.S. Parachute Association for making 8,000 jumps and spending 96 hours in free-fall. His attitude? "Development happens no matter what, and it certainly doesn't spoil the view," Hinton, a 36-year-old expat Brit, says. "At 13,000 feet, whatever you see is going to look beautiful. You can see four states—Nevada, Utah, California and Arizona. It's still gorgeous."
Three Observations from a Trip Through Polygamy Country
1.) Lin's Market in Hurricane, which used to do a good business selling bulk to the "extended families" from down the road, has changed. Only two polyg couples were seen, and there was only one wife present for each man, a surprise. Techno music blared on the usually conservative in-store radio.
2.) At the Casablanca's seafood buffet in Mesquite. Standing at the cashier, I noticed a table with a pile of crab legs on it. Then I noticed who was sitting there—six women, three men, a couple kids nearby, all dressed in the typical conservative attire. Stunning. I checked with my parents, who'd been visiting St. George for decades, and they said they'd never seen the polygs further out than the craft store in St. George, certainly never at any of the buffets in Mesquite.
3.) The general store in Virgin (on the way to Zion), Virgin Goods, has cherries painted on its signs.
Nick Christensen
Smooshed, Unidentifiable Rats? Now That Makes Us Wanna Buy a Sandwich!
A man burst into a local Quizno's last week. "I've just gotta know," he said. "What is that thing in the commercial?"
He meant those two high-pitched, hamster-looking creatures that have the texture of bread, the teeth of Sloth (from The Goonies), googly, unfitting eyes, and, in Quizno's commercials, sing about loving subs and a pepper bar in a screechy, irritating voice.
"It's a spongmonkey," the Quizno's employee replied, elaborating no further.
But what is a spongmonkey? Who knows? We have it from a reliable source—the Internet—that spongmonkies were created by brothers Joel and Alex Veitch (www.rathergood.com). As with so much stuff that jumps from the Web into the real world, it doesn't matter why they created them. All that matters is that Quizno's, perhaps because of the blatantly memorable qualities of the spongmonkey, decided it would be a good way to sell sandwiches. Those guys are marketing geniuses!
"That's disgusting," the man said. "I'm never going to eat here."