Books In Review
Under the Neon Sky: A Las Vegas Doorman's Story
When
you think of Las Vegas, chances are you picture slot machines, card
tables, casinos, showgirls, and maybe even Elvis. Yes, those things can
all be found in abundance on the Strip, but take it from someone who's
lived and worked in Sin City: that's just the tip of the iceberg. In
his riveting debut, Jay Rankin presents the true story of a Vegas few
people know exists.
Los Angeles, CA (December 2009)—Las Vegas.
The name conjures up images of casinos, gambling, drinking, spectacles,
and sex. Yes, Vegas is all that, and more. It's a city without
boundaries. There are no clocks, no last calls, no one to stop you from
staying up all night, getting rich or going broke, destroying your
marriage, or finding true love. For a brief moment in time you're free
to be whomever or whatever you want to be. What could be more alluring?
If
you think you know Vegas, you've heard only half the story, says Jay
Rankin, author of the new non-fiction book Under the Neon Sky: A Las
Vegas Doorman's Story (Jay Rankin Publishing, 2009, ISBN:
978-0-9842109-1-6, $14.99). Rankin, a former probation officer and
television host who holds an advanced degree in psychology, worked the
graveyard shift as a doorman at the 5,000-room MGM Grand hotel for six
years. A memoir of sorts, Rankin's book tells the true story of this
turbulent period in his life.
In his position as a doorman,
Rankin found himself at the intersection of two worlds: the flashy,
electric exterior of the Las Vegas strip, and its gritty hidden
infrastructure. Surrounded by hordes of visitors whose singular goal
was often to cross lines, Rankin faced a nightly fight for his sanity
and his safety.
Visiting Vegas, says Rankin, is one thing. But
trying to live and work in a gambling town that never sleeps, all the
while struggling not to succumb to Sin City's temptations yourself?
Well, that's another thing entirely.
Imagine working a 2 a.m.
cab line populated by the desperate and the drunk, by high rollers and
hookers. Imagine a workplace characterized by up-close-and-personal
vice and violence. Now imagine getting through each shift under
scrutiny from surveillance cameras, supervisors, and guests alike,
knowing that one false move—whether in self-defense or in the best
interests of another—might get you fired, or worse.
"Vegas is
carefully constructed to propel visitors toward disaster," writes
Rankin. "Most guests are in freefall. Naïve, unsuspecting, they have no
defense. I witness the assisted suicide every night; I've seen it a
million times. I'm almost guaranteed to be there when the thrill ends.
"I
have a master's degree in psychology, which doesn't mean I'm less crazy
or self-destructive than anyone else, but I can see when someone's
about to cross the line into ruin. I can't do anything to stop them—or
myself."
Take a step into the Las Vegas you never knew existed,
seen through the eyes of a resort employee whose job was to offer the
impossible. How do you ensure that boundaries don't exist for guests
while your life is defined by them? How do you maintain a normal life
in a city that's anything but? And most of all, how do you salvage your
own soul when you're drawn to the thrill of ruin? These are the
questions with which Rankin wrestles on the pages of Under the Neon Sky.
Read on for a sampling of what it's like to live and work in Sin City, as told by a true insider:
The
survival strategies. One whiff of their breath exposes just about
everything. Garlic reveals one set of facts; scotch relates something
else entirely. Same with a cigarette or big Havana. I construct the
guests piecemeal, every detail adding to the portrait, purpose, and
propensities. Is he wearing snug custom clothes or loose, casual duds?
Are his hands dirty from coins or chips? Are his fingernails manicured?
What about shoes, hairstyle, age, cologne, gait, jewelry, tone, body
language, teeth, expression?
Once I put the bits together, I
know exactly who these people are. It's not a game; it's survival. In a
city without boundaries, I have a chance to defend myself by knowing
instantly, accurately, who's coming and going.
The fight night:
Tyson vs. Holyfield. The sound inside the hotel escalates to a jet
spiraling to earth. Screams mixed with glass exploding erupt from the
lobby. I see a fast-moving crowd, thousands of people, rushing toward
the doors, coming straight at me. I stand paralyzed. My brain won't
work. Then my survival instinct sends me hurtling to the side, away
from the force of this human tidal wave...
Thousands of people
race past me, the fastest ones push their way to the fore and knock
down anyone in their way. Hundreds of people disappear
underfoot...Nothing stops the momentum—not even the steel girders.
Ripped from their frames, the reinforced barricades shoot up like
missiles, then crash down. I hear the sickening snap of bones.
The
hooker. A tall, beautiful hooker passes by, and she winks at me. I
smile back. Her skirt is slit up the sides to her smooth thighs, and
her neckline plunges, all nude inside. The backless dress shows off the
dimples on her gorgeous ass. I wish she would take me away.
"How you doin' tonight, Angel?" I ask.
"I'm
so-o-o good," she says from whatever high she's on...She takes a long,
strong hit off the joint. "I worry about the real crazies. We never
know what's in a human heart."
Another hit and then [Angel]
blows the sweet smoke in my face. I try to catch it. I wonder if we're
on camera. I don't want to get into trouble for talking with Angel...If
a girl is smart like Angel, she can have it all—a shelf-long collection
of little black books plus a husband in the backyard and a couple of
kids in Little League.
The cab line. A fight breaks out. Just
what the street needs. Two more violent drunks. I search the mob for a
security cop, but none is in sight. I watch the men swing at each
other, and I brace myself. I've been hit by a stray punch or two. I
turn away to open a taxi door, still expecting an uppercut to graze my
temple. A moment later I turn back to see the opponents have settled
their differences and are hugging each other. Jesus Christ.
The
odors get denser, and the noise intensifies. I'm deafened by paradise.
Coins filling up metal slot trays. Screams. Car horns. I have to yell
to be heard. In a few hours my throat will be raw. I reach for the
whistle in my pocket...My profession's one piece of inventory. Stress
causes me to destroy one or more whistles every week. I lock my jaw and
grind the whistle between my teeth. At this moment black plastic shards
fill my mouth. I spit out the pieces and reach for one of the three new
whistles in my pocket.
The hotel administration. More than
enough dislike already ricochets between the doormen and our bell
captains. Sharkey and the other supervisors had begun harassing us
during our training classes, and their threats of dismissal had never
stopped. The captains thought we doormen needed to learn humility.
According to them, we were an elite group making too much money. Yes,
we did well financially, but we worked our asses off for our tips. The
captains didn't seem to give a shit about that. So T-bone and Weasel
complained about Sharkey to top executives, and within days, the hotel
had become a war zone. The negative energy of a battlefield swirled
around the porte-cochere, and I was turning into a basket case.
Sharkey
had been dangerous before T-bone and Weasel complained to management;
now he was lethal. He still believed I had ratted on him, even though I
professed my innocence. I tried to stay clear of him, but that was
impossible. His character had no room for compromise and whenever he
looked my way, his eyes were more piercing than ever. He wrote notes
after our every interaction, documenting what had been said, then filed
them in my permanent folder in the Human Resources office. My anxiety
increased in direct proportion to my supervisor's rising anger. I knew
if I didn't do something to defuse the situation, my own rage would be
uncontrollable. If I blew, I'd be out on my ass.
The work week.
Outside Las Vegas, the workweek began with Monday and ended with
Friday. But Saturday was my Monday. Which meant Monday was my hump day,
Wednesday was my Friday, and Thursday and Friday were my weekend. I
couldn't find anyone to party with on my Saturday night because it was
Thursday, which was their Monday or Tuesday. Monday Night Football was
played on my Wednesday. Worse, my shift "swung," which completely
turned my life inside out. If I wanted to socialize with someone who
worked days, we had to meet at three in the morning.
The home
life. In a twenty-four-hour town where work schedules split into ten
different shifts and different days off, relationships literally
disintegrated. Month after month, year after year, couples rarely saw
each other, let alone spent time together. Of course vows of loyalty
and true love went out the window when your "until death do we part"
mate became some stranger who shared your kitchen and garage. When the
partnership lost its meaning, Vegas offered countless pleasures, all
with impunity...
[But] I believed that once someone crossed a
line—any line—that person was changed forever. The brain chemistry was
altered. The party animal had permanently set a course down a different
road, and no one could predict where the hell it might end or how. That
was now a dark secret...The best anyone could do was battle the current
and hope he didn't drift out too far to return to safety. That meant
knowing which lines were harmless and which weren't.
The
marriage. I was determined our marriage would endure. Las Vegas
wouldn't make that easy. Husbands and wives worked so many shifts, they
rarely had free time to spend with each other. As employees of the
hotel industry, we wouldn't even celebrate holidays together like
normal human beings...No employee ever had the Fourth of July or New
Year's Eve off. That was a given in this party town.
So was
this: Let's say you are at work and your wife is alone, searching for
something to do...In Las Vegas, the line dividing fidelity from
betrayal is laser thin, and it stretches clear to the horizon. Human
predators are always sniffing around, poised to pull her across...She's
just a faceless stranger used for a night of partying and then
discarded...And what about the wife in this hypothetical
situation?...That one stupid mistake poisons her self-concept,
redefines her, and destroys her marriage. If the waywardness gave her
pleasure, then she'll crave it, and that will prove her downfall. If
she feels regretful, then her shame and guilt will eat away at her. I
knew this. I had witnessed it. I feared it, and it haunted me.
The
friends. Once T-bone and I were in the parking lot, he pulled out a
small plastic bag filled with coke. I hadn't even seen him make the
buy. He stopped in the middle of the blacktop, threw back his head, and
took a hit...I supposed if I had realized how limited T-bone's
friendship would prove, I would have continued to search for a buddy.
That wasn't how things played out, though.
...In this town, when
someone found a friend he loved—or even liked—he wanted to hold on.
Making friends in Vegas was so tough, T-bone and I, and Sam and I, made
a point of discussing trust, so we would never lose sight of what we
needed from each other...When I first started working at the hotel, I
tried to strike up a conversation with one of the other trainees, a guy
who had worked in other hotels. He shut me down fast. "I never make
friends where I work," he told me, "and if you're smart, you won't
either. You can't trust anyone." I had felt sorry for him then. Now
experience was teaching me that he was right...I had to decide if a
shitty friendship was better than no friendship at all.
The
tips. D-man strolled over to me and said out of the side of his mouth,
"You're not checking the First National Backseat Bank...Listen, when
someone climbs out of the backseat, look around real quick. You'll find
money, sometimes lotsa money. Bills and chips'll fall out of the fare's
pocket when he pays the driver. Or sometimes the passenger doesn't
shove his money deep enough in his pocket. Either way..." He shrugged.
"Now if the driver sees the bills, they're his—everything in the cab
legally belongs to him. But if you can scoop up the dough without the
driver noticing..." D-man rubbed his thumb and index finger together,
then strolled away.
The style. I observed the other doormen
carefully and noticed the nuances of opening doors for people. This job
was more complex than I had thought...From Day One T-bone had used
fancy dance steps to dazzle the guests...Now I understood it was about
putting on a show. I needed to develop a style, too, but in no way was
I a dancer...So, what would fit my style and training? I had taken
years of classes in the martial arts and boxing. My movements were
swift, sharp, and strong, and I felt in balance and grounded while
performing. This would be my shtick. I created unique arm movements and
hand gestures based on karate and slowly attracted the crowd's
attention. I kicked, I crouched, I leapt. It paid off...I was beginning
to make more money. I mean, a lot more money. Was it just beginner's
luck? No. Each day it just kept coming and coming and coming.
The
dirt. One morning as I undressed in the locker room, I noticed my
thighs were black. How had I bruised myself so badly without realizing
it? I wondered, examining myself. Then I realized the rolls of bills
had pressed against my quadriceps all night and stained my skin with
greasy dirt from the paper money, coins, and chips. It was the color of
Vegas money. I tried to wash off the filth, but soap and water hardly
made a difference.
One thing's for sure: Vegas is not your
average American town, and working as an MGM Grand doorman is not your
average briefcase-toting job. Earning a living in Las Vegas is a
nonstop thrill ride with an unknown destination. Look over Jay Rankin's
shoulder as he navigates pitfalls and temptations, and gets off the
tracks just in time.
Peeking through the Looking Glass to find wisdom today from those who lived 2000 years ago
This
book is different than other books written about Jesus because it's not
really about Jesus, it is about His effect on the lives of those who
knew Him, or knew of Him, prior to the beginning of Christianity. It
is an emotional account, rather than a historical one, offering insight
as to how the people who knew Jesus might have reacted to His choices.
Each chapter is dedicated to a specific theme around a person from the
life of Christ all the way from Mary Magdalene, Paul and Bartholomew,
to Judas and Pilate. The end of each chapter has a question and answer
worksheet designed to bring the ideas from the book into the reader’s
everyday life in a meaningful way. There is also a section where the
author shares how the message in each chapter impacted her life.
Walking through Illusion: Jesus Speaks of the People who Shared His Journey
(O-Books), by Betsy Otter Thompson, is a series of short stories that
give anyone, from any faith, a better understanding of one’s
spirituality. Through the wisdom of these friends and acquaintances
who knew Jesus, the author hopes that readers will sense their own
power to create the world of their desires – realizing that the secret
to happiness is in giving what you want, not in getting what you want.
The stories are a vehicle through which to explore human as well as
spiritual issues: the pursuit of meaningful goals, the nature of loving
gifts, why happiness is elusive, the healing of our hearts, the reason
for handicaps, and why life often seems so unfair! The author believes
that since our time on Earth is temporary, we need to recognize what is
real and what is not; the real bei ng what we feel in our hearts, the
illusion being what we see with our eyes. The book suggests that
action and reaction, cause and effect, or the pulling of energy back to
itself, is a force that runs the universe as well as our lives, and
since we have the power to use this force in any way we wish to, we
might as well use it to create a better life. See Thompson’s website
at http://www.betsythompson.com/ .
Thompson’s goal in writing
her deep and insightful book is not to challenge history but to
challenge herself to become accountable. She hopes that in learning
about these people, readers will bring more love to their lives and,
then, enjoy the miracles that follow. No stranger to the media,
Thompson has worked in several radio stations as well as appeared in
television commercials, later working at Castle Rock Entertainment and
Warner Brothers in Los Angeles. Now writing full-time, Walking through
Illusion is the second book in her trilogy on the life of Jesus.
New Children’s Book, “My Best Friend,” Tugs Readers’ Heart Strings
Hartland,
WI – Beans & Novels, LLC, is releasing a new children’s book in
time for holiday gift giving. My Best Friend, written by Kim Doyle, is
based on the story of the warm and loving friendship between Doyle’s
son, Matthew, and their family dog, Boots. The book highlights the boy
and pet relationship and chronicles a journey of unconditional love,
friendship, loss, and joy. The story features the antics of Boots, a
charming Boston terrier and the adoration of Matthew, the little boy
who loves him. It is a tale of friendship, along with a heart-breaking
good-bye.
The 40-page My Best Friend book is available for
$19.99 online at www.amazon.com, www.faithtalk.tv.
www.beansandnovels.com, and at www.lightsource.com. Doyle said she
would be donating a portion of the book’s proceeds to a children’s
hospital and to a humane society.
In a religious message, the
book also reveals another important friendship of Matthew’s, his
relationship with Jesus, his friend who would never leave him.
Artistically, the book features compelling illustrations by artist Lori
Vanslett, and each page includes inspirational bible verses.
Kim
Doyle formed a passion for serving the Lord after an injury led her to
reflect on her life’s purpose and priorities. Several of the verses in
My Best Friend are from her life and faith journey. She began her
personal ministry in a coffee shop where she met to offer bible study
and encouragement to women. Over time, Doyle’s mission has grown to
include senior outreach, inner city, tweens and teens, support of
deployed service men and women, and international missions.
Doyle
co-hosts and produces Faithtalk.TV programming (available through
Lightsource.com by the Salem Web Network) and is a member of Women in
Christian Media. Doyle’s goal is to use relevant media venues to
communicate the love of Jesus Christ. She currently resides in
Hartland, Wisconsin, with her husband, two children, and two dogs.
Child Holocaust Survivor Traces Steps to Lifelong Dream
Female Cantor Went FromRags To Riches to Tragedy to Faith
By Tony Panaccio, News & Experts Syndicate
Estherleon Schwartz was destined to be a Cantor.
A
holocaust escapee, she was four years old when her father tossed her
over a barbed wire fence into the waiting arms of Swiss soldiers. Just
before that fateful event, he looked to the heavens and uttered the
words, “Save my daughter and she will always serve you.”
Her
first view of America was from the deck of the Queen Mary when she was
eight years old, passing by the Statue of Liberty, thinking she was
holding a magic wand. About 40 years later, after a life that started
her in tatters, yet bathed her in riches, Schwartz discovered both her
treasure and her destiny as an American, and she became invested as one
of only a few hundred female cantors in the United States.
“I
am very grateful to have the honor of fulfilling the prophesy my father
made in 1944 at the Swiss border when the Nazis were chasing us,” said
Schwartz, who recounted her story in Tears of Stone and My Deal with
God (www.estherleon.com). “It has been a painful, tiring yet
inspirational journey in reaching my goal to have a deeper
understanding of myself, my purpose in life, in relationship to the
world around me. One thing I always hung on to were my father's words
of serving, so I 'hung out' with God, asked for guidance, tried to have
patience and faith which gave me hope and wisdom to understand that
everything is in divine time.”
But the road to that destiny
wasn’t always easy. In fact, it was relentlessly difficult. Her life as
an adult began not long after she graduated high school, when – against
the advice of her mother – she married the first man she ever kissed.
“I
can’t imagine why my father and mother locked me up in my bedroom the
night of my high school graduation after I told them I was going to get
married,” she said. “So, I ran away and got married and quickly had two
children. We were poor, and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for
dinner. They separated not long after, stranding me as a welfare mom
with two children in a roach-infested apartment on the south side of
Beverly Hills. There were nights I wish they had kept me locked up even
after that night.”
After a string of dead-end jobs – and
suffering through the unexpected passing of her father in 1973 – the
single mother struggled to make ends meet. One night, a well-meaning
friend, trying to help her find a new husband, gifted her with a
vintage lavender shirt-maker dress and took her to a society party.
That night, the husband of the party’s host advised her humorously that
she had to leave, because her dress was so beautiful, it was stealing
his wife’s thunder. She proclaimed the dress was for sale, and wound up
selling a $45 dress for $500 to the man. The idea that she could get
such money simply from selling a dress inspired her, and so she and her
brother Sam started a clothing store, House of Cashmere. The store grew
to 13 locations, and the two siblings went from rags to riches selling
upscale high-end fashions to the rich and famous in Beverly Hills.
Despite
their success, Sam took his own life in 1985, and Schwartz began to
reach out for something more than material wealth. She found it in the
music of her in the sacred, ancient choral sounds she claimed had
“become intertwined with my DNA.”
In a man’s world, she was
invested as a Cantor, and began administering to people of all faiths.
She founded three storefront spiritual reading rooms for all people,
religions and cultures, and in the process created Beth Shirah (House
of Song). She tirelessly administers to the sick through her voice, as
a volunteer Para-Chaplain at a renowned hospital in Los Angeles. She
works to use her music and poetry to bring people into the fold of
caring, through nurturing and compassion. Further, she is acting on her
dream to bring comfort to others by donating $1 from each sale of her
book to support Feed the Children’s effort to end world hunger.
"The
children are our future, what better way to receive than to give them
life through our deepest caring. Their poverty is our poverty, and our
shame. We have to listen to their voices of hope."
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