OUT ON THE wide cosmopolitan boulevard a man in a large bird suit held up a sign: THE SLEIGH BROKE. He was standing in front of Paris Las Vegas and its sky-high replica of the Eiffel Tower.
He twirled a red ski pole, poking the passing parade of desert sunshine lovers. He had not acquired the bird suit’s head. It was a man’s head and a bird’s body. He wore a tiny elf-sized white fedora. Below, he sported a pilly blue Speedo over the bird suit and on his bony legs he wore dusty brown Frye boots. He held out a begging bin: a vintage plastic tub with pink flamingos carrying high stacks of yellow and blue coins.
“The bird is in charge of public safety!” the birdman on the boulevard shouted. “The birdman, not the president. As I myself declared in a recent radio interview, Mister Bush has put
