I ran into Allen today - apparently he had accidentally deleted my name from his phone, but he figured I'd "come walking down here again." He's got a new uniform, so I almost didn't recognize him (also, I did not have my glasses) but he looks distinctly more like a police officer in long navy pants and a navy collered shirt with several badges. He hasn't stopped gambling and will not consider putting his name on any lists that would bar his access to American casinos. He's not thinking like that anymore. Instead, he has set up a bank account for his winnings and swears that the prize money is being put to good use.
When I asked about photographing the security guards, he squinted his eyes a bit and said, "Nah, you can't do any of that." Apparently it's not authorized. The Sands has barred any sort of public sight seeing and photography - this is reminding me of the Eiffel Tower at night - isn't the image of the glowing structure copy written? Allen said he'd get fired. "Somebody would see us. Somebody would rat." He remained still for most of the time, unflinching in the humidity, staring over my shoulder or down at his feet as we spoke.
"They caught some guy up on the blast furnace the other day," he started. "The cops got him as he was leaving." I inched forward and gasped a bit, although I hope not too theatrically.
"It was raining that day. He must have been trying to kill himself."
So, I have to get clearance to photograph the guards. Allen gave me the name of the chief of security but told me not to mention his name. Sure.
As always, the Sands had no idea what to do with my phone calls. The main line transferred me to security who transferred me back to the main line who transferred me to marketing where nobody picked up. I left a message.
"So many people want to photograph this place," Allen sighed. "Tourists, bikers, walkers, runners, people from the casino... and I don't blame 'em. They're just not authorized."
When I asked about photographing the security guards, he squinted his eyes a bit and said, "Nah, you can't do any of that." Apparently it's not authorized. The Sands has barred any sort of public sight seeing and photography - this is reminding me of the Eiffel Tower at night - isn't the image of the glowing structure copy written? Allen said he'd get fired. "Somebody would see us. Somebody would rat." He remained still for most of the time, unflinching in the humidity, staring over my shoulder or down at his feet as we spoke.
"They caught some guy up on the blast furnace the other day," he started. "The cops got him as he was leaving." I inched forward and gasped a bit, although I hope not too theatrically.
"It was raining that day. He must have been trying to kill himself."
So, I have to get clearance to photograph the guards. Allen gave me the name of the chief of security but told me not to mention his name. Sure.
As always, the Sands had no idea what to do with my phone calls. The main line transferred me to security who transferred me back to the main line who transferred me to marketing where nobody picked up. I left a message.
"So many people want to photograph this place," Allen sighed. "Tourists, bikers, walkers, runners, people from the casino... and I don't blame 'em. They're just not authorized."
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