Lost in Nevada: Bull Head City

Near the end of the despairing blockbuster space epic "Armageddon," one of the many character actors on hand declares the proceedings a "surrealistic nightmare." As far as the rudimentary script goes, it's an orphan - the only verbiage that might possibly send you to your dictionary, mumbling "Man, them Michael Bay movies got too much talkin' in 'em sometimes."

Mesquite's first annual "Running of the Bulls," an event loosely based - and I mean loosely, Jack - on Pamploma, Spain's San Fermin festival, could qualify as a "surrealistic nightmare." All the elements were in place. The event was as loud and stupid as "Armageddon," no contest. It may have even pulled ahead of its cinematic rival at times, like when I spotted a guy in a t-shirt signed by all the waitresses at Hooters.

Though PETA may not agree, Mesquite's Bull Run was pulled from sources too noble to be duped. In Spain, the Running of the Bulls is part of an honorable, spiritual tradition - regardless of how we feel about those bulls being tortured and killed, you have to bear a grudging respect for the Festival of San Fermin because it's their thing. It is steeped in as much history and strong feeling as our own Independence Day. Take one piece of that tradition (the Bull Run) without taking the rest (the bullfights, the fiesta, Spain itself) and you've got an orphan, lost in a surreal and nightmarish setting.

THE HIGH CONCEPT

At one point, I considered running with the bulls myself. I wanted to see what kind of damage they would inflict. Originally, the bulls were set to run down Mesquite's main drag, past their dowdy casinos and (just wishful thinking here) into a waiting limousine, where they would be shuttled off to Vegas for a congratulatory round of beers at the Holy Cow. Maybe, just maybe, some lap dances from "The Girls of Knuhtsen," if Vegas' rules regarding exposed udders could be softened a bit for the weekend.

To my mind, there are three other entities that could be vastly improved by angry bulls charging through:

A. The Forum Shops at Caesar's (perhaps Mike Tyson can add bulls to his entourage); B. The Golden Nugget's "History of Sex"; C. "Armageddon" producer Jerry Bruckeheimer's left-brain.

When the State Highway Commission stepped in and told promoter Phil Immordino to move his Bull Run or lose it, I lost all interest in running and the poor taste of the event became too strong on my palate. Running in front of the bulls wasn't going to make me Hemingway and bringing a bull run to Mesquite wasn't going to bring anyone closer to Pamplona, spiritually or otherwise. It was just another brash, idiotic American stunt, like Evel Knievel's Snake River Canyon jump, the Bay of Pigs and "Armageddon."

THE CITY

Aside from a few vintage structures, a ranch market that sells "ostrich jerky" right next to chewing gum and a friendly (for Nevada) population, Mesquite is sort of bland. As slick as their casinos try to be, Mesquite's resort district has all the character of an airport concourse, with many of the same fixtures indigenous to the international gates - fake palm trees brushing against mirrored ceilings, surrounded on all sides by nauseating southwestern pastels. Even the slightly-sweet, antiseptics-and-cigarettes smell is the same and I couldn't walk through the Rancho Mesquite casino without compulsively looking up at nonexistent monitors, wondering if I'd missed that connecting flight to Tahoe.

Daytime temperatures are several degrees hotter than Las Vegas at its most hostile. The town is announced on Interstate 15 by a pair of McDonald's ubiquitous arches bearing the legend "Welcome to Mesquite." Ugly, cookie-cutter tract homes cut into the desert terrain as if they were haphazardly dropped from planes. An "upscale" trailer park borders the Oasis' golf course. ("Don't settle for being mere trailer trash. Move up - and become trailer refuse!")

Probably the most romantic things about Mesquite are the trucks - the 18-wheelers idling quietly in the hotel parking lots. That, and the drive-up stand optimistically serving up "ice cream, burgers and fish," allow Mesquite to keep its integrity as a Nevada town - a waystation for new pioneers, exploring a land as beautiful as it is rugged, harsh as it is patiently serene. It is a peculiar kind of warmth, but unique only to us. Just imagine a restaurant in Pamplona trying to serve up "ice cream, burgers and fish."

So why make a mockery of Mesquite? The employees of the hotels, restaurants and casinos all spoke favorably of the event, but there was something hesitant in their spiel. Almost as if, for the first time ever, these people were being forced to do something utterly against their character - to put on an ill-fitting, garish matador suit with landing lights running down the seams.

THE NIGHT BEFORE

My party - an even mix of journalists and aficionados - checked into the Holiday Inn at 7 p.m. on Friday the 11th, some 15 hours in advance of the big hooter. We dropped our bags, called our loved ones and set to drinking immediately. While I had promised my editors and myself that I wouldn't use Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises" as a framing device, we all felt compelled to follow the instructions it provided. I made vague plans to get "tight", pair one of the women off with one of the men in our party then beat the crap out of him to win her back.

It doesn't quite happen that way. The evening was quite pleasant, capped by a dinner in the Si Redd Room at the Oasis. I was garbed in a T-shirt and jeans, which fell afoul of their dress code, so they provided me with a jacket to wear - the first time in my life I've been so provided. Sure I felt a little foolish in my sandals, jeans and the ridiculous red sport coat they gave me - but I felt important too, and that's one caveat I owe the ubiquitous (for Mesquite) Mr. Redd.

I peered into the menu and the beef popped up as if greased. I stared at the choice of steaks and thought of the hundred-degree hell those poor magnificent beasts would be subjected to the following day. But the thought passed and I said the hell with it, ordered the Osso Buco and praised the day I became a Nevadan. I'll fight to the death for Harp Seals, but I refuse to get all worked up over bovines. They're not exactly an endangered species. And the next day, they would have a chance to give some back, without worry of getting a sword through the neck at the end of the day - probably the only redeeming part of the Mesquite event.

Having successfully faced and decimated the animal activist in me, we enjoyed a great meal, limped out to the porte-cochere and called a cab, literally the only working cab in town that night. He received several other calls and assured every one of them that he would be on hand in "10 to 12 minutes."

Like the star-crossed lovers riding off into the sunset of "The Sun Also Rises," we pretty much had nowhere to go. I clutched the red jacket in my hands - appropriated by Lady Anne, God love her - and wondered where the fiesta was tonight; what plane we'd have to catch to get there. We shot pool for a few hours, then went to bed.

WHISKEYTOWN

By 10 a.m. Saturday morning, we were on a shuttle bus making its slow, labored way into the Oasis Ranch. Traffic was brutal. About 10,000 people turned out for the Bull Run, held on the hottest, dustiest part of the ranch and controlled parking was an afterthought at best. Immordino probably figured - correctly - that people would be too goddamn hot to fight over the inadequate parking spaces.

The air of freaky holiday that defined the proceedings was as fascinating as it was ugly. Concession stands hawked T-shirts that read "I GOT GORED IN MESQUITE." Some guy bleated out an atonal version of "Crossroads" under a placard that identified him as the "Bullshit Blues Band."

Most amusing of all was a sign attached the bleachers at the finish line. It said "VIP only - or $10 admission."

"Finally, someone's put a value on success," I said to my friends, as B.S. Blues wrapped up his set and a remote radio truck started blasting "Disco Inferno." Burn, baby, burn?

The crowd was a predominately-male mix of heat-crazed idiocy and drunken-idiocy. The runners were easily identifiable by a red sash they were given at registration; most of them surrounded the bull pen, looking with mild disgust at the tired, hot animals contained therein. I scanned the group for a friend of a friend - a girl for whom running with the bulls was a "lifelong dream" and was going to be filmed in the act by a local TV newsmagazine because her breasts defied natural laws. I couldn't immediately locate her and waded into the runners to track her down.

"They don't look all that badassed," I heard someone say.

"Neither do you, you big puss," a gravelly voice answered.

I felt a deep and profound embarrassment at that moment - for myself, for the state, the country and all humankind. I could only imagine what the average Spaniard thought of America now - the supposed greatest country in the world reduced to little more than a cheap hack, appropriating pieces of ancient cultures where it suited commerce. Forget "Armageddon" - this was the End of Civilization as we knew it, more nightmarish than surrealistic.

A couple of wranglers on horseback led the runners to starting position. They waved to genuine applause, relishing their moment in history. There was the odd freak here and there - a guy dressed up as Pee-Wee Herman, with a pool toy around his waist - but by and large the faces were earnest, grinning, excited. A few of them were still waving as the gate went up and the bulls - ? - did nothing. The runners took off, returned sheepishly as they realized what had happened, then took off again in genuine terror as the wranglers herded the bovines into a gallop.

It was the only part of the proceedings that approximated poetry. I found I could easily ignore the few hundred folk running ahead of the bulls and look at the bulls themselves - gleefully galloping toward a welcome meal. They had been trained to run for a bale of hay waiting at the end of the course. Bovines and wranglers alike seemed to be moving in slow motion, packed in a grouping as tight as those employed by precision jet pilots.

It was over in three seconds. Following the bulls was easily a hundred runners, trying to catch up with the pack (fat chance) and a drag-queen matador cooing "Ooooooh!" to an accompanying cameraman. I'd seen everything now. I half-expected the Taco Bell Chihuahua to bring up the rear but the pooch didn't make the scene.

"There's another heat," said someone nearby. "They'll do it again."

"I won't," I retorted and walked back to the shuttle drop-off. The bus didn't show and we had to walk back to the roadway, about 2.5 miles in 110-degree weather. We refilled our water bottles from a cooler on the golf course and hitched a ride from an associate when we reached the main road.

"Did you hear?" he enthused. "Justin got gored!"

This was perhaps the most colorful irony of the day. One of our sister publications, the Las Vegas Weekly, had two reporters entered in the contest. The one to get knocked over by the bulls - the only guy to get injured in that first heat - was one of ours. And a Ph.D. no less.

"Is he all right?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, he's fine," said my friend. "Just a scratch. He was grinning like a fiend. The guys from Real TV were all over him. They had him sign a waiver."

Despite myself and for the first time that day, I felt proud. Even Hemingway's Jake Barnes left Pamplona without a scratch on him. Good old Yankee ingenuity.

UNDER THE COLOSSUS

Am I ever done with Mesquite, boys and girls. I may wave out my window on my way to Utah and someday I may grab a Trout Ripple from that drive-up but I won't be back next year or anytime soon.

They've damaged themselves in my eyes, perhaps irreparably. The Running of The Bulls was a blight, hopefully not the first in a series of wrongheaded screw-ups designed to make Nevada into a kinky variant of Michael Crichton's "Westworld." It's all drawn from Steve Wynn's excesses but even he knows that his gimmicks are just that. He can put a Van Gogh in Bellagio but that won't make it the Louvre.

A state as beautifully American as Nevada doesn't need this kind of bullshit blues. We have more than our share of history without stealing it from others. And whether it is as charming as the Basque Festival or as overwhelming as the defunct Mint 500, it is natural and good, because we own it. Mesquite may succeed in ripping off Pamploma, but thievery carries with it a well-deserved stigma.

We ran the air conditioner full-bore as we streaked past city limits. I imagined, just for a fleeting moment, a group of terrified promoters running in front of our car.

The reverie was broken by the sight of the Golden Arches of Mesquite, kissing us off. We left Armageddon Town behind at no less than 75 mph, as fast as we could legally run.

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