There is a magical place in Las Vegas, NV where you must wear a hospital gown while eating bypass burgers, smoking unfiltered cigarrettes, and drinking butterfat milkshakes. If you tip the scales past 350 lbs, your meal is free, brought to you by sexy nurses and surgeons. Excess and obesity and poor heart health and the American Way of not giving a flying fuck are all celebrated like the delicious things they are. This place pulls no punches and rolls around in its absurdity like a pig in a particularly messy pen. This place is the Heart Attack Grill, famous at the time of my visit, not only for the aforementioned highlights, but also as the site of an actual patron or two’s heart attack. I found it to be equal parts brilliant, appalling, and enticing, which made for an enjoyable shoot full of cognitive dissonance.
Smokey had a heart attack not too long before I took this picture. He said it was what doctors referred to as a “widowmaker.” His first food destination upon leaving the hospital was the Heart Attack Grill. Rock on, Smokey.