What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but it's hard to forget the dead bodies.
I was born in Las Vegas, and despite the dead bodies, mafia encounters, and dangerous lizards, I remember my childhood as remarkably ordinary, almost boring. I was raised in Henderson, just south of Las Vegas, and although the two cities are now indistinguishable, this was not always the case. When I was young, Vegas was the Rat Pack, mafia, and neon glitz. Henderson was a blue-collar, gritty, working-class town populated largely by Mormons who worked at the petrochemical plants in the desert between the two cities. Las Vegas celebrated The Strip with gambling and showgirls. Henderson celebrated Industrial Days — an actual holiday — with a carnival and parade. The industrial complex is hidden now, the old desert buffer filled with miles of identical houses. You’d have to know the factories were there to see them. People still work there, but the cities try to hide the blue collars. Henderson no longer celebrates Industrial Days; it celebrates Heritage Days. I grew up in a smal