by ron w. deutsch Saturday. 9 a.m. Sunset Boulevard. Los Angeles. Several hundred of L.A.'s trendiest hipsters, sickly pale in the piercing morning sun, hover like zombies in front of two Hollywood venues — The Coconut Teaszer and The Union. What brings these denizens of the night out during daylight? A free trip to Las Vegas. Camel cigarettes held a sweepstakes around the country and the winners of this contest are being bussed and flown in for a night of fun and excitement at the "Camel Big Vegas Groove Blender." But somewhere along the way, all those coming from southern California are, in fact, F.O.C.M. (Friends of Camel's Marketeers). Not one of the five bus loads of swingers about to spend five hours driving through the desert has won any such sweepstakes. "You and your guest are on your way to one of the greatest events of all time.... You will not believe your eyes as you enter the Blender and experience the pure excitement."
Web Resources: Joe Chemo Secondhand Smoke Linked to Secondhand Coolness Fight Ordinances & Restrictions to Control & Eliminate Smoking Friends of Tobacco	Jump-suited security guards — big bouncer types who usually work rock concerts — ride in each bus. Their mission (as our guard tells me) is "to protect you from others and protect others from you." That's reassuring somehow. We pile into the bus, and after waiting two hours for the boxed lunches to arrive, we're off. Within minutes, our bus is a mobile re-creation of L.A.'s seediest nightclub. Cigarette and pot smoke hang in the air and the floors are a sticky cocktail of spilled Budweiser and cheap champagne. Caddyshack flickers on the video monitors and lounge music bleeds from the speakers. Three hours into the trip, the back half of the bus is passed out. One couple keeps disappearing into the bathroom to have sex. Two hours to go. Trudging off the bus at the Flamingo Hilton, we are called by name and handed a collection of gifts, including a Camel duffle bag, a Camel Zippo lighter, a Camel ashtray, some Camel T-shirts, and a pair of sunglasses. Packs of Camel cigarettes are doled out. We are sent to our rooms (strangely we are all on a non-smoking floor). After a quick shower and change we head across the street to Caesar's Palace to get into the Groove Blender. Suddenly, the several hundred hipsters I arrived with are diluted by the thousands of contest winners — ugly Americans who bothered to collect their Camel dollars and enter a sweepstakes. They come in all sizes and ages, but they all look like they came from trailer parks. As I wait in line, I hear one gal from Mississippi say she's a REAL Camel smoker. In fact, her father was a Camel smoker even after he got lung cancer, she proudly states.
	Saturday. 7 p.m. Caesar's Palace. Las Vegas. The Groove Blender is neither groovy nor a blender. After passing an array of Camel-sponsored racing cars, we find several rooms to "party" in. One features two guys dressed as The Blues Brothers singing along with a back-up tape. A second room offers virtual reality games and a test-your-skill game in which you try to beat the clock as you change a car tire. We wander into the main room where bar mitzvah caterers serve eggrolls, Swedish meatballs, and bland pastas for our pleasure. A D.J. yammers non-stop from his booth. Tables are set up so we can gamble away the handful of Camel dollars we were given on the way in — which can be traded in for more Camel trinkets, like Camel jackets, Camel neon signs, and more Camel lighters. Video cameramen run about recording the happy consumers for R.J. Reynolds executives. Two real live Camels stand bored in a corner occasionally dropping shit. Grabbing some food, I sit down next to a fat couple from Tennessee. After learning that I am from California, the guy asks, "They got any jobs out there?" and his wife wonders, "You know my cousin in Orange County? Shirley Johnson?" Oh, god. The stage curtain opens and those wacky rocksters, Southern Culture on the Skids, start to play. Soon, the guests figure it out. Why are we standing around here drinking beer and wine when we could be gambling just out the door and getting real booze for free? Though the party is supposed to go 'til midnight, by 10:30 p.m. there is barely a smattering of folks left to eat the cold appetizers and drink warm beer. I head downtown to see naked women and play craps. As I travel through the casinos, I keep running into my fellow bus riders who have similarly bailed the Blender.
	Sunday. Noon. Flamingo Hilton. Las Vegas. All the other buses have left. We are waiting for one couple who just woke up and haven't checked out yet. They are collectively booed as they board the bus. Several of our co-riders from yesterday completely bailed and flew home. I wish I had. The bus ride takes even longer. The bus driver starts to pass out from all the smoke and drives one-handed, waving a can of air freshener in the other. Camel spent a fortune putting on this event. What were they thinking? Would we go home committed Camel smokers? Tell our friends to switch, so in debt would we be to the R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company? I have no clue. I only lost thirty bucks gambling. I fell in love with a stripper. My clothes stink of stale smoke and I want a decent meal. Oh yeah, and a fresh pack of Marlboros, please. After his much sought-after screenplay Viking Girls on Spring Break became the center of a legal action between two producers, Ron W. Deutsch decided to quit show business and embark on a career as a travel writer. The problem is, he hates to leave his three aging cats alone for more than a night. In his spare time, he edits both the Life and Style and Regional reviews areas for Excite! and makes fairly drinkable wine. © 1997 Tripod, Inc. All Rights Reserved.