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Las Vegas is a dry place. Always has been. It just got more intense after the war.
The residents got put on short rations, and all our lavishly watered lawns, even in the Republic of Summerlin, got torn out and replaced with xeriscape – pretty if you like fifty different shades of brown, but hot as the hinges of hell in summer.
Really, the only places where you see grass and flowers – and I don’t mean hardscrabble little desert wildflowers, but big, succulent, mob funeral-grade blooms – are where the power and money concentrate in the valley. That’d be the hotels and places like French Hills.
You get there by heading east on Sunset, past McCarran International, past Sunset Park, past row after row of strip malls and garbage-choked lots, and everything’s painted variations on the same two colors – fake stucco brown and caliche grey – and you’re wondering who stole all the colors and where he put them…