"We should make a documentary," said Bryan the General Manager. "Show the world that Department Lemur is in tune with the common man." (At least, that 's what I think he said: it gets increasingly difficult for me to hear him across the moat as the other Lemurs whip around on JetSkis.) I suppose he wants me to tell you how I make this column the runaway media sensation that it is. Easy as pie. Reader suggestions sent to my bio-technical interface at passenger@vegaslounge.com, feed directly into my brain through a series of cybernetic implants. (This, of course, is coupled with marathon sessions of near-sadistic surfing.) I assign every suggested site a "motif" ripe with cheeky humor or wide-eyed wonder and I write the sucker up via direct thought transference (DTT). And, oh yes, if I fall behind, Lemur Guy lines my noodle up for par. One time he even asked me if he should use the nine-iron. A documentary. Ah, springtime.
 

"Tantra, baby!" declares Desmond Askew's hormone-crazed Brit Simon in Doug Liman's "Go." (See it now, if you're not one of the 30 people who've already done so.) While Simon's grip of tantric sex may not have been entirely accurate - if I were having stoned intercourse with two bridesmaids in a burning hotel room, it would seem pretty damn tantric to me, as well - but nevertheless the discipline exists, and Lucky Mojo wants to show you how, tough guy. A compendium of spiritual beliefs, talismans and techniques, Lucky Mojo is an easily-understood, populist guide to the new enlightenment, written in a conversational tone that strips the inherent "gee, I dunno about that" off such topics as Freemasonry for Women and Sacred Geometry and goes straight to the bone. Best of show: the Lucky W Amulet Archive, which explains every charm you've got stuffed in your wallet or nestled on your bookshelves, from the ubiquitous four-leaf clover to the ever-popular Hoodoo 7-day candle. Girls, direct your boyfriends straight to the Sacred Sex page for best results. Boys: remember, it's mostly about breathing, though that four-leaf clover may come in handy.
 

"Something about Germans playing heavy metal," said Lemur Jennifer, "is just so cool. "She's right, as always: Rammstein's "Sehnsucht" is just about the coolest thing I've heard since Ministry got in bed with Gibby Haynes. This is how industrial/metal is supposed to sound - dense, forbidding, cool, dark and towering. Their live performance garb consists of arm-mounted flamethrowers and plate-steel codpieces - all the better to catch sparks off that rotary sander. And yet: they're absolute pussycats. The band's statement on the "Trenchcoat Mafia" tragedy (like fellow Germanic Industrialists KMFDM, Rammstein has been unfairly demonized by the media) firmly states that the band has "children of their own, in whom they continually strive to instill healthy and nonviolent values." They seem to enjoy nothing more than curling up with a nice, tasty cocktail. And as aggressive as the lyrics may come across (we just love screaming "NEIN" along with "Du Hast") the true meanings speak for themselves: "Sennsucht" means, simply, "Longing," while the creepy "Heirate Mich" is a plea for marriage. Rammstein's official site provides a warm and fuzzy introduction to the band and their music. Think of it as form of opera: even the most plaintive of statements sounds grand in a language not your own. Ja!
 

"What were they thinking? How did they eat this bilge? Good questions, but you won't find them answered here." Smart thinking. Even if James Lileks' Gallery of Regrettable Foodstuffs attempted to explain 7-Up Cheese Filled Pancakes - yes, Virginia, made with the Uncola - or Beet Pie Casserole ("bears a remarkable resemblance to a close-up photo of an organ attacked by small green viruses"), there's no way on Earth you would believe him. Drawn from actual cookbooks of the '40s, '50s and '60s ("the Golden Age of Butter," Lileks shivers) and adorned with jaundiced photographs of the culinary monstrosities sitting on the dinner tables of unwitting test subjects, this page is truly not for the weak. There's some snazzy, ill-advised vintage advertisements to shake your melon at - fear the A&P abduction-ready scenario - but you may have a problem scrutinizing them through eyes scorched by the horrifying visage of cream of chicken soup cocktails (you know, for the ladies). There may even be laws against serving this crap to pets. But it's all kinds of fun to look at, and maybe, just maybe, you have a dinner date you want to get rid of. Share your stories with us next Bridge night.
 

If not for Anthony Bondi, I would not have known that Marcel Duchamp once visited Las Vegas. Truth to tell, without Anthony Bondi, I would not know Las Vegas at all. The hyphenate artist first caught my eye with his staggeringly beautiful collage art - images from vintage issues of Playboy and National Geographic, old Vegas postcards and heaven knows what all, recreated as two-dimensional frescoes of a wild and beautiful world that I still yearn to live in. Sometimes those images recalled Las Vegas, and sometimes they didn't, but they were always informed with the vision and conscience of someone who had seen the real truth and purpose of this city, the objects hidden in the negative space between the floors - and there wasn't a shrimp cocktail in sight. Recently, Bondi has ventured full-bore into three-dimensional forms of expression - his "Human Car Wash" was a runaway hit at last year's Burning Man festival - but I still fancy him the master of paper and scissors, cutting out the best pieces Sin City and the world at large and rearranging them into an artful territory where Marcel Duchamp could live, happily and forever.

"I'm a miniature golf ball! A goddamn miniature, Guy! You just need to tap," I scream, but he never seems to understand. And I don't understand why this part of the process requires multiple takes. I don't care if it's for A&E - I am not a Titleist, I am a free man!