Casino of Frankenstein (Pt. 1)

A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Drive-In

Most Angelenos fly to Hell, but I prefer to drive.

I take the 210 East to exit 64A, which brings me up through the Cajon Pass. The ascent is a little steep, and you might be fooled into thinking you’re on the road to Heaven, but make no mistake. By the time you’ve left Victorville in the rearview and you’re speeding toward Barstow, you know you’re headed for The Other Place.

Not that I think Las Vegas, Nevada is actually Hell, even if the temperature says otherwise. I love this crazy place, especially downtown, where the natural springs that lured human beings to a basin on the floor of the Mojave are currently buried under an anonymous pile of concrete and steel. (But more on this in a bit.)

I came to Las Vegas this past weekend to go the movies.

Specifically, Joe Bob Briggs’ 4th Annual Jamboree, a gathering of fans (a.k.a. “The Mutant Fam”) who came together thanks to Shudder’s cult hit The Last Drive-In, hosted by Joe Bob (John Bloom) and Darcy the Mail Girl (Diana Prince). I call it a “cult” hit acknowledging that I am a proud member of said cult. In each season—they recently wrapped up their sixth—Joe Bob and Darcy screen genre movies from Nosferatu to Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama. There films are paused at key points so Joe Bob can offer deep-dive commentary. Sometimes it’s obscure film history. Sometimes it’s a plunge down a weird rabbit hole. Sometime it’s a Dad joke. It’s all fascinating, and I can’t get enough of it.

Which is why I drove 250 miles to see this madness play out live.

My first stop was a dozen miles over the state line, where I stopped to relieve my bladder (and buy gum) at the World’s Largest Chevron Station. This place is the physical manifestation of American Excess: 96 gas pumps, 60 restroom stalls, and a 50,000-square-foot convenience store. When the world ends, this is where you want to hole up. Especially if you like beef jerky, Bigfoot, NASCAR, video poker and beer.

From there, I drove to Las Vegas proper where I stopped at the Sahara for lunch. I stopped here because the casino features an outpost of Chickie’s and Pete’s, the Philly famous crab house and sports bar. I grew up about a mile from the original Chickie’s, which used to be a humble neighborhood tap room. Sometime in the 90s it started to mutate and take over a large chunk of the Mid-Atlantic, This is perhaps thanks to its signature dish: crab fries, which are heavily dusted with a proprietary seasoning that will instantly send your blood pressure into near-Earth orbit. And when you dip a fry into the creamy cheese sauce, you know you’re shaving off hours, maybe days, off your lifespan. And why yes, it was worth it.

After lunch I checked into my suite at El Cortez, the oldest casino-hotel in town. Bugsy Siegel used to own a piece of this joint; his handsome-yet-doomed mug is everywhere. This is precisely why I chose this place. I like my hotels with a little larceny.

I also like them with a row of Frankenstein-themed slot machines. Though I do wonder what Mary Shelley would make of this.

But I’m not much of a gambler, so I headed out to experience the Fremont Street… er, Experience. Fremont was the strip before The Strip, lined with all the old school gambling halls, only now topped with a half-barrel canopy lined with 12.5 million LEDs. What caught my attention, however, was the 80s cover band, which attracted middle-aged tourists like moths to a DayGlo flame. I’m not judging; I was drawn in, too. I knew every song, every lyric, every drum fill. The band played live to a backing track of synths and a huge screen displaying MTV-era videos.

Back in the 80s, I used to play keyboards in a cover band and would silently judge the middle-aged patrons rocking out to the 50s and 60s songs we dutifully hammered out. Man, talk about being trapped in the past! So lame! But standing there on Fremont Street, it hit me: I was now one of those middle-aged patrons.

What was that Bible verse? Judge not, lest God send you to Fremont Street.

The next morning I woke up and wandered down the hall for a haircut and a beard trim.

You have to understand something: I don’t pamper myself. If I had the courage to use a Flobee on my balding pate, I would. And a barber, trimming my beard? Madness! But the last time I stayed at El Cortez, I noticed the Speakeasy Barbershop directly across from my room and was curious. I booked an appointment.

One scalp treatment later, I was a believer. If you happen to be in Vegas and feeling like a dirty hippie, hit up my man Jair. (And tell him Swierczy sent you.)

Lunch was chicken and waffles at a wonderfully bizarre place called Park on Fremont, which was full of taxidermy, gold-painted machine guns, and freaky Victorian photos over the urinals in the men’s room.

Bartender Ben not only was full of local advice, he also knew how to pronounce my absurd last name on the first try. This never happens.

Now that I was neatly coiffed and fed, it was time for the Jamboree, which like last year was held at the West Wind Drive-In, about 10 minutes northwest of El Cortez.

Despite being a rabid fan of The Last Drive-In, this would be my first experience at an actual drive-in.

I know, right? But my parents weren’t moviegoers, and I didn’t have access to a car during my formative film-watching days.

So I was excited and anxious. After checking in, I had no idea where to go. There was a line. Like a lemming, I joined the line. The sun was trying to kill me. Should I go back for an umbrella? No. I needed to stay in line. The sun was like, motherfucker, you really should have grabbed that umbrella.

I asked the woman standing in front of me: Uh, what’s this line for?

She told me it was the meet-and-greet for Joe Bob and Darcy, which was a relief, because I’d signed up for it.

The woman in front of me was Danielle, who was there with her husband Rich. We started chatting, and the conversation grew to include Byram and his wife Tara, as well as Jean (as in Jean-Claude Van Damme), who was married but flying solo to the Jamboree, just like me.

There is no joy like totally hitting it off with complete strangers in the blazing sun. I forgot about the sun… and not just because Danielle was kind enough to cover all of us in her circus-tent-sized umbrella. We joked, we shared back stories, we joked some more. Byram told us about the airport ad he saw for a cover band called Yächtley Crëw, which is exactly what it sounds like. This delighted us to no end.

(Judge not, lest God…)

Then it came time to meet Joe Bob and Darcy… which I will tell you all about in the next chapter.