My favorites pieces by far though were the personal recollections of two women who grew up there, both from very different backgrounds.

Susan Berman, growing up in the 1950s, is the daughter of the mobster Dave Berman. She describes how her father taught her math by giving her a slot machine to play with and the Sabbath meals that her grandmother used to prepare for her father's Jewish gangster friends.

Phyllis Barber also grew up during the same period of time and recalls how her family woke early one morning to drive out to see the atomic blasts and be part of history. Church-going religious Mormons, her mother disapproves when she joins the precision marching dance team at Las Vegas High School. Later she has to make a difficult choice between representing a casino in a parade and attending church on a Sunday afternoon.

I wished that some of these pieces could be longer. I would have liked to have delved deeper into some of the articles, especially these personal recollection pieces. But the tone of the book is a lot like Las Vegas itself. The lights keep flashing, the cards keep being dealt and the roulette wheel keeps spinning. All the reader can do sit back and enjoy!

I turn to Tosches' work again and again, for insights into music, and jsut for fun. Buy this book and you will too.

His style has a cat-like present-tense to it throughout. Edgy. Dangerous and in danger. You find yourself as curious about the author as you are about the journey he describes. I see some Hunter S. Thompson similarities, not because of the opium theme of this work, but because of the non-stop riskiness of the entire proposition. This is a new level of erudite gonzo journalism; focused, disciplined, researched, no-holds-barred. Toshes' mind is in some extreme place, at times beautiful, at times ugly, always interesting.

When I read this I actually felt a sense of sadness as Tosches personifies in my view the absolutely perfect writer. If I were a writer, this is the way I would want to write. Envy reared its ugly head in my benevolent heart!

I'm currently reading "Following the Equator" by Mark Twain and it is filled with charming informal anecdotes and vast discoursive rambling by that great master. I keep saying to myself that Twain would find his equal in Tosches, both being intellectual virtuosos of the highest order. They digress similarly: verbal jam sessions to the outer edge of the collective experience.

Read this book if you are interested in opium, or the history thereof. More importantly, read this book if you want to read a great writer weave a spell. A writer of this magnitude doesn't come along very often, and unless you are on the prudish side you will be totally and royally blown away. If you are on the prudish side, push past it and absorb this writer who perfectly conveys in-the-moment perspective. It was a new literary experience for me and it might be for you as well.

Ornate, pretentious, entertaining and ultimately depressing, Nick Tosches' souped-up take on anti-legend Dean Martin (born Dino Crocetti) is an essential work on an underrated performer. Make no mistake, however: this is a thesis-bound book, and in no way qualifies as adoration, or even respect.

Tosches portrays Dino as a virtually schizoid burn-out waiting to happen, a man so distanced from his own humanity that casual sex, hard drinking, and a laissez-faire work ethic are the inevitable results. A frightening
image - but is it the "real" Dean Martin? Likely we'll never know, as Martin never revealed much of himself to his public (or, apparently, to his loved ones either). It's a forced choice, then: take Tosches' account as the closest thing there is to fact, or dismiss it entirely; in either case, still no Dean. As he'd have liked it, no doubt.

I'm a fan of Martin's music, film and television work; as such, it seems to me that Tosches invests so much time attempting to reveal the unknowable that he loses all sight of the performer. Perhaps he's right - that the entirety of Martin's life and career was an increasingly flimsy and facile put-on, that his status as an entertainer was rooted in a sinkhole soul and not in the desire to bring even fleeting joy to his fans. But he did anyway. With all due respect, Mr. Tosches, you can't take that away from me.

Much is made throughout of Dean's aloofness and Tosches only offers glimpses of his good heart, generousity and loyalty since it would interfere with his own conception. Only someone of extreme good nature could have tolerated the ultra-difficult Jerry Lewis as a partner for ten years and I believe he did more for Jerry's career than Jerry did for his. Again, when Dean quits a picture for the sake of his friendship with Marilyn Monroe, Tosches only mentions it and moves on.

One issue Tosches handles beautifully is how the hero of one decade can be anathema in the next. In middle age, Dean became a parody of himself, consorting with women younger than his daughters and hosting friars' club roasts for celebrities who by that time belonged in wax museums.

Dean stopped performing in old age and his reclusiveness seemed like an act of grace compared to the alternative. I call it gracious because I happened to see Frank Sinatra perform in the 1989 "Ultimate Event' (which Dean wisely bailed out of) and can only profess great disappointment; Frank Sinatra was no longer Frank Sinatra. He was everybody's father or uncle, a frail, bald old man.

Unfortunately, it takes death to resurrect these people, restore them to their former glory and show us what we took for granted. Dean was king of the crooners, bar none, with a gorgeous voice and an effortless style. Rest in peace, Dean. You earned it.