Storm over Las Vegas

One of the few great things about Las Vegas is the rain. When it rains in this town, even if it's only a tepid, minute long sprinkle, you can pretend you're someplace else. The clouds roll in over the mountains and for a few brief moments hide the strip; that ugly, open gash of ill culture and goombah crass. You can step out into the rain and pretend you're back home, where ever home is, and forget the illegal aliens aggressively handing out stripper cards on the street, the corrupt politicians and angry cops who look like rejects from a Hunter Thompson novel.

And then the rain stops, and the streets start smelling like somebody pissing on a burning tire, and you remember...oh shit. You're ...still... here. When that happens, you want to find the nearest blunt, heavy object, and cave your own skull in with it.