I do not remember when--mainly because the days and nights that I have spent in Vegas as an anthropologist merge into one bloated memory, one macro foam to consume the rest--but I was in the arcade passageway that connected the MGM and Bally's. Much like the original arcades of Paris, this version includes novelty shops, food stands, and personal services like hydro massage tables, pick your own pearl stands, and stores selling rotating devices that when placed on the head will relieve an alcohol headache. A small shop is there, completely nondescript and full of worthless knickknacks, Vegas refrigerator magnets, toys, adult games, drinking paraphernalia and, of course, the ubiquitous stuffed, battery-operated, moving animals. There is a circular pedestal, upon which a pig, a horse, and a dog are interacting, looking odd due to their mismatched scales, much like the rest of the city. They are scurrying around the pedestal while an additional figure--a male with rifle, one-eighth of the size of the animals--is bouncing up and down in a prostrating position, as if in ecstatic anticipation of picking off one of the creatures with his rifle. There is something wrong, though--some of the animals are on their backs and then begin to waddle around in the circular pen, making unexpected trajectories and occasionally bumping into one another. People begin to gather around the pen, following me and a few others who have made this stage as significant as the ones upstairs in the casinos' performance halls. A few of us think about righting the overturned animals that are beginning to look pathetic and uneasy in their uncertain movements, but a woman shouts out, "No, wait!" So no one makes a move and, instead, we watch some more. And we discover the oscillations, the pushes and the pulls, the sense that destiny is just around the corner, like the slot machine that is ready to spill.