Living in Sin

Las Vegas

‘ARE you going write me a check?” the buxom headliner at the Luxor hotel’s “Midnight Fantasy” asks me. “No,” I mumble as I put away my pen, a bit distracted because she’s wearing cowboy chaps that offer a view of her largely theoretical underwear. I’m taking notes during her show and I guess when a Vegas showgirl sees a pen, she assumes it’s to write her a check. She asks my name and repeats it for the whole audience. Then she instructs me: “Move your leg, honey.” I comply and uncross my legs which, like my arms, had been constricted in a pretzel of uncomfortable body language: I hate shows, I hate audience participation, I hate this. She sits in my lap and sings to me and I ponder how I can kill myself without drawing any further attention.

About the Author

Jonah Goldberg

Jonah Goldberg is a National Review contributing editor.

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Las Vegas

‘ARE you going write me a check?” the buxom headliner at the Luxor hotel’s “Midnight Fantasy” asks me. “No,” I mumble as I put away my pen, a bit distracted because she’s wearing cowboy chaps that offer a view of her largely theoretical underwear. I’m taking notes during her show and I guess when a Vegas showgirl sees a pen, she assumes it’s to write her a check. She asks my name and repeats it for the whole audience. Then she instructs me: “Move your leg, honey.” I comply and uncross my legs which, like my arms, had been constricted in a pretzel of uncomfortable body language: I hate shows, I hate audience participation, I hate this. She sits in my lap and sings to me and I ponder how I can kill myself without drawing any further attention.