Neon treasures, not trash

By Kristen Peterson (contact)

Friday, Dec. 22, 2006 | 7:08 a.m.

Disregard for Las Vegas' architectural past has broken many historians' hearts. Neon scraps disappear on the roadside of yesteryear, and the Neon Museum is out of breath hustling to grab the remaining relics.

Naysayers argued that the move of La Concha would never happen.

On Wednesday, Paul Revere Williams' Googie structure, a true modern relic dwarfed by rabid Strip development, was sliced like an orange and began its piecemeal pilgrimage to the Neon Boneyard.

"We've been working on this a long time. When I started I was a young man and I had a full head of hair," jokes Mel Green, a structural engineer from Torrance, Calif., who has been planning the move for two years.

"This is going to be a one-of-a kind construction and relocation project. They don't move concrete buildings that easy. You move wood houses, but not concrete."

The thin-shell concrete building - 28-feet high, 40-feet long and 90,000 pounds - was trimmed into 16-foot pieces and carefully braced for its drive down Las Vegas Boulevard.

And so begins the next phase. A sleepy La Concha will rest in the Boneyard among old friends until it can be resurrected as a visitor center and gift shop for the someday museum.

But it can't end there, can it? Given Las Vegas' short memory and progressive nature, we'll have more gems to move (forget implosions) five years from now.

But gosh, what to save and how to save it?

Stratosphere: At 1,149 feet tall and made of concrete, this one is going to be a doozy. An eyesore for years, a fire-spitting monster one night, then finally the tallest building west of the Mississippi decked with thrill rides, surely it must be saved. But even with the careful removal of the glass pod (aka the diamond) at the top, we're still talking about nearly three football fields of cement. And the 12-story glass structure, wrapped by a roller coaster, also has the revolving restaurant that must be kept from out-of-control spinning. We recommend airlifting.

Luxor: Again we're dealing with glass. This time, 13 acres of glass. Like La Concha, this 36-story building is dealing with nontraditional form. Is it worth the risk? Possibly. The Luxor replaced the sexy sultans of earlier hotel/motels with Egyptian mystique and drew thousands of tourists (and bats) to its beam of light that could be seen for miles.

It's important to remember that when it first opened, superstitious locals were spreading word that the Egyptian replica was hexed. A move could reinvigorate these ancient spirits but imploding it could be a worse offense to the ancient gods marketed among the slots. For this move, we suggest a pane by pane deconstruction.

Fremont Street Experience: This beauty of a canopy stretches five street blocks and has 12.5 million LED modules, which fortunately replaced light bulbs that would have needed to be unscrewed, wrapped in tissue and individually boxed. This glitzy masterpiece brought the layer of frosting to downtown hotels that they needed to convince tourists the insides were just as tasty. In 1997, it was the site of a clever protest by Laser Vida arts group, when families and other angry residents brought picnic food and played catch on the mall as a response to the city using money from park funds to pay for the canopy. A clean cut every 20 feet and you could fold it like a lawn chair.

Circus Circus: It's tough to decide what to take from Circus Circus. There's the carnival porte cochere that brings to mind nouveau riche carnies. The clown sculptures helped spread Las Vegas' "We're Safe for the Whole Family" promise, which preceded "What happens here, stays here ." The five-acre theme park under 350,000 square feet of insulated glass probably doesn't need to join the annals of Las Vegas yore, but the carousel that Hunter S. Thompson's attorney so hesitantly exited in "Fear and Loathing" is a must-save.

Wynn: Should the uppermost wedge that carries the John Hancock of the man who changed the face of Las Vegas be saved? Perhaps. But given the water shortage we'll have to do without the three-acre Lake of Dreams. And before you pull out the wood chipper, we may need the pine trees on the 140-foot man-made mountain to accent the unnatural with the natural.