Las Vegas, Nevada. Hmmmmm... Someone told me this town is no longer catering to the family crowd, but has transitioned to a twenty-one and older state of mind. As I look around the groupings of pedestrians shuffling up and down the strip in front of the Palazzo Hotel I recognize the lack of children with bored looks on their faces as their parents drag them to casino after casino, only to dump them in the "entertainment" areas that are nothing more than elaborate day care centers. I pick out one family across the street that stands out like a sore thumb now that I've internalized the mindset that maybe this isn't the family resort town of the past.
The air is alive with the reverberation of music piped through loud speakers into the street, conversations in at least four different languages, automobile horns, and the smells of a variety of different cuisine options being prepared and offered to zombie-like gamblers finally staggering away from the monotony of the one-armed bandits that sit in rows like dinging and clanging thieves. All at once I'm aware of just how absurd the whole thing is. After all, the odds are in the House's favor. Each patron is building this city one pull of the handle at a time. But that's what this place is all about. A massive desert valley where anything goes, within reason. People want to be entertained, and this is an entertainment kind of town. Just look around.
The funny thing is that I'm here as a side effect of what this town represents. I got a call from a friend of mine who owns a media outlet to come down and be the "official" photographer on a commercial project his company was producing for an exotic car outfit inside the Palazzo Hotel. Honored to have that kind of confidence placed on my shoulders, I packed my car and headed for the big neon city. Las Vegas had a collection of some of the highest of the high end vehicles on the planet because of what Las Vegas represents: money.
Standing on the sidewalk amid all the hustle and bustle, the air is cracked by the blast of something new and almost frightening. The banshee-like wail resonating out of the single tailpipe of a cobalt blue Lamborghini Murcielago LP640 Roadster bellows down Las Vegas Boulevard and off the surrounding buildings. All foot traffic stops. The children on the other side of the street with their family duck behind their parents, and my heart races knowing that our group caused this commotion.
Earlier we had asked Nick, one of our contacts at the dealership, if he wouldn't drive into the front round-a-bout at the hotel so that we could get some shots of the car outside. He eagerly complies and is now clearing the throat of this beast on the street, causing all present to tremble and admire. If the sound of a Ferrari is like a practiced Italian operatic tenor, the LP640 is its leather jacket and denim wearing, bar-fighting brother. Brutal and angry sounds echo down the canyon of buildings as Nick makes the left turn into the hotel's front drive.
The high sheen of the blue paint glimmers in the hazy sunlight. This near $400K car is something to behold in broad daylight. Nick finesses the car into the drive and continues on to the hotel's drive-up gazebo. Emerging from the car with a rock star ambience, he leaves both famous scissor doors ajar in their upright position and ambles to the sidelines. My camera shutter is flying.
It's amusing to watch the clamoring as spectators fall over themselves to get a closer look at this marvel of modern technology on wheels. I keep having to ask them to step out of the way so that I can fulfill the task at hand and not get them in the shot. By this time even the hotel's security team is asking us to clear out as our spectacle is beginning to cause them distress.
I ask Nick if he wouldn't mind pulling through the round-a-bout again to pick me up so that we can make our exit. We need shots of this thing out on the open road anyway. He fires up the combustion chamber again and eases out.
We hang a right out of the hotel onto the boulevard and then right again onto Spring Mountain Road heading east. Nick punches the tall pedal and I'm reminded of just how stiff the seats are. We blast toward Paradise Road along Sands Avenue now. A left on Paradise and we meet up with the monorail cars and commence in a type of slow drag race between transportation modes. The monorail won (blasted traffic) as we now make a left turn onto Desert Inn Road. Nick is peculiarly quiet, almost as if he knows that no conversation need occur while the engine is yelling at us from behind. My head snaps back while the seemingly untamed horsepower rockets us westward. The wind rips at my hairline through the open cockpit and threatens to make me more bald than I already am.
We turn around at a gas station and race along our course in reverse heading back to the hotel. Nick is still eerily silent with nothing but a coy smirk adorning his face. He's enjoying this. So am I.
As we enter the parking structure under the Palazzo the confined space seems to amplify the sonorous idling noise escaping the engine bay of our voguish all-wheel-drive chariot. Those 640 horses appear to know it is time to return to the stables for some rest. But I can't clear out the thought that they still want to run, and hard.
Nick's ever-present smile is still there as he finally breaks his silence, asking me if I wouldn't mind opening the security door to the lower level of the showroom. I reluctantly climb out of the coach leather seat, through the peculiar scissor door, and conform to his request. I watch as he slides the car into its resting position neatly behind a black Ferrari 430, the Lamborghini obviously gloating toward its well-mannered counterpart. I never do learn why Nick is smiling, but I think I understand as I set about hoping that the edge now opened up on my nerves never goes away.
If Las Vegas is for twenty-one and older, this car is right at home here. It embodies Las Vegas, typifies it. No one under the age of twenty-one should be allowed to handle one. They're not ready. Instead, let them build up to it through years of damaging themselves in ratted out Japanese cars with bad body kits and poorly tuned exhaust systems that sound like they'll explode at any moment. Maybe then they'll understand what it means to to have the honor of handling the pleasurable, refined yet raw, capabilities of this car.
As we leave the Palazzo later that afternoon I recall the image that will ever burn in my mind as I reflect on my introduction to the LP640. Scissor doors reach skyward inviting fantasies and drivers alike to crawl inside and launch into blissful oblivion with reckless abandon.
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