Eight o'clock in the evening is a slow, sullen hour in Sin City, a.k.a. Lost Wages. "I'm tired," whines a member of the United States Twirling Association. "C'mon, we're supposed to be having fun," snaps her companion, a clone. In razor-crease jeans and stiletto heels they stamp into the ladies' room, flounce around the corner past the polished washbasins and disappear into the two long rows of toilet stalls. They are the kind of girls who obey their mothers' warnings never to sit on strange toilet seats. Attendants have to nip in after that...
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