Path: bloom-picayune.mit.edu!enterpoop.mit.edu!snorkelwacker.mit.edu!americast.com!americast.com!americast-post Newsgroups: americast.natrev From: americast-post@AmeriCast.Com Organization: American Cybercasting Approved: americast-post@AmeriCast.com Subject: THE GIMLET EYE Date: Wed, 25 Nov 92 12:17:28 EST Message-ID: Lines: 108 THE GIMLET EYE Post-Election Fight Mr. Freeman is a nonpartisan observer of the public-policy process in Washington, D.C. He was assisted in the research for this article by James Freeman. LAS VEGAS -- Richard Nixon used to tell his associates, exhausted after a long campaign, not to take vacations right away. Work for a while, he'd say, taper off for a week, and then go to the beach for a long sun-soak. My own counsel is different. I recommend, especially after a campaign like this, a politically incorrect weekend in Las Vegas, complete with profes- sional prizefight. The restorative process begins as your plane skids to a stop at McCar- ran Airport. Yes, it's named after former Democratic Senator Pat McCar- ran, who, for those of you who are too young to remember the Great War, was known in the phrase of the day as a dedicated anti-Communist. Fact is, on his good days he made Tail Gunner Joe look like a wimp. Fact also is, though, that McCarran was only small potatoes in these parts. The city father was none other than Bugsy Siegel, who said he'd build the place and then they'd better come. He did and they did. A civic leader of broad vision, Siegel supported entrepreneurial capitalism, empowerment, and school choice. He was a consistent critic of prosecutorial zeal. Your white stretch limo awaits you. Don't get too excited. Stretch limos await everybody. Indeed, Las Vegas has become a cashless society, with everybody drinking, gambling, and carrying on as a ''guest'' of somebody else. I'm not quite sure how this comes out black at the bottom line, but I think it has to do with the speed with which the pea moves around under the shell. Or, if you're given to political metaphors, think of it this way: We're in for a weekend during which the rich will get richer, the mid- dle class will get the shaft, and the bill will be presented to our children's children. At any rate, it should be fun. Now it's on to the Mirage for the big fight. This place is worth going about ten miles out of your way to see. Every so often a mechanical vol- cano erupts in the front yard, shooting real flames into the night sky and scaring the hell out of pedestrians plodding between one casino and an- other. Old Carville missed a bet here. This volcano could have become a fixture in Clinton spots. Whatever the opposite of infrastructure is, this just might be it. Inside, there are acres of felt tables, slots, hookers, costume-party cow- boys and (most amazing of all to these D.C. eyes) men in tuxedoes that fit. It's showbiz and everybody is starring in his own movie, wearing sun- glasses indoors, snapping fingers at cocktail girls, tossing away the rent money with more flair than they do back home. The fight crowd moves a little quicker than the rest, getting a buzz in time for the undercard. The fight, featuring champion Evander ''Real Deal'' Holyfield against Riddick ''Big Daddy'' Bowe, will be held on the campus, as they say, of the University of Nevada at Las Vegas. (This move itself scores pretty well on the Political Incorrectness meter. While most universities were primping this fall to attract a presidential debate, the Runnin' Rebels of UNLV had their eyes on the prizefight.) The Thomas and Mack Center, where the col- lege team plays hoops, has the look of a big-time urban arena, replete with neon signage for competing beer companies. And here in the $800 seats, I find what we were looking for the past six months -- a solid GOP precinct. Orange County may be gone, but Row 6 is holding. And the celeb watching is primo. Best Hair: Andre Agassi, sporting a shoulder-length tri-color tangle. Best Entrance: Magic Johnson. The crowd surges forward to touch him, for some reason. Worst Entrance: Jack Nicholson. Great actor, though. He is believable tonight as a small, creepy, Goodwill-clothes kind of guy. Best Voice: Michael Buffer. Invisible-hand-wise, this guy may be the last piece of the puzzle. He makes six figures for intoning, ''Let's get ready to rumble'' before big fights. Best Jacket: Mr. T. He edges out Melvin Laird (of whom my streetwise seat-neighbor says, ''Hey, there goes Dean Rusk''). Best Height Spread: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and his 5'2'' blonde friend. ALL OF Hollywood's tough guys are here -- Sylvester Stallone, Mel Gi- bson, Kevin Costner, Bruce Willis. They are here to see two really tough guys -- Holyfield and Bowe -- beat each other within an inch of their lives. (Have you noticed? Nobody ever complains about fighters being overpaid.) And of course they are here without their wives. There are no women in Las Vegas. Only broads. Michael Buffer enters the ring to hype his way through the introduc- tions. He assures us that this bout is sanctioned by the Nevada State Ath- a-letic Commission. (Pause. Imagine, if the handle is nine figures, a human activity that would be left unsanctioned by the Nevada State Ath- a-letic Commission. Pause. I give up.) He brings on the sculpted, 205- pound Holyfield and the towering, 235-pound Bowe. The bell is struck and the fighters begin to move, stick, cross, and combo. For 12 rounds they batter each other, shoving, grabbing, sucking for breath. At the end, Holy- field, with one eye puffed closed and the other glazed with blood and sweat, mounts a final furious attack. It is not enough and the championship goes to the better man. The crowd stands and applauds long into the night. -- NEAL B. FREEMAN This article is copyright 1992 National Review. Redistribution to other sites is not permitted except by arrangement with American Cybercasting Corporation. For more information, send-email to usa@AmeriCast.COM