Once upon a time, Primm, Nev., had three bustling casino resorts, shiny gas stations, a roller coaster and Bonnie and Clyde’s “death car.”

It was a bit surreal, said former visitor John Honell of West Covina: “You had this whole complex in the middle of the desert.”

Southern Californians traveling the arid stretches of the I-15 would see Primm pop up. As he drove to Sin City for bowling tournaments, Honell would stop and “drop a few coins” into the slot machines. It was a gambling oasis — a little less flashy and a little more affordable than Vegas and 45 minutes closer.

“I guess it worked for a while,” said Honell, 85.

But it works no longer. The last of the three casino resorts will close on July 4, owner Affinity Gaming confirmed to The Times this week.

Honell, a regular in the 1970s, saw the growth of a desert gamble: the expansion of the Primm property, in the dusty town once known as State Line, from Whiskey Pete’s gas station, bar and slot machines into three busy resorts.

The Nevada gambling hub south of Las Vegas along the 15 Freeway appears finished, though. Southern Californians who appreciated that it was a shorter drive now can find gambling much closer, at tribal casinos.

Las Vegas insider publication Las Vegas Locally posted a termination letter from Affinity Gaming’s affiliate, Primadonna Co. LLC, to employees who worked at Primm Valley.

With the casino closing down July 4, all employment will end that day too.

Affinity Gaming declined to make an official comment.

The castle-shaped Whiskey Pete’s opened in 1977, followed by Primm Valley in 1990 and Buffalo Bill’s in 1994. Whiskey Pete’s was the first casino to close, in December 2024. Buffalo Bill’s Resort ended 24-7 operations on July 6, only opening when the casino’s concert venue, the Star of the Desert Arena, hosted special events.

David G. Schwartz, a gaming historian and professor at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, said Primm’s casinos were “built for an entirely different world.”

“Southern California is a huge market for Las Vegas and, in particular, it was once very attractive for those in the Inland Empire,” Schwartz said. “It was a way to trim 45 minutes off the drive — it was a 2-hour drive. It’s different math.”

Primm was once one of Nevada’s more popular gambling resorts, a less expensive, slightly more kitschy alternative to Las Vegas that benefited from being closer than Sin City.

Primm Valley, Whiskey Pete’s and Buffalo Bill’s all hosted at one time the famed Bonnie and Clyde V-8 Ford riddled with more than 100 bullets in 1934.

Whiskey Pete’s offered a quick and affordable 24-hour IHOP, in comparison to Vegas’ pricier buffets, and Californians and Nevadans visited Primm Valley’s 100-store outlet mall, supported by shoppers who were brought by bus to the mall for free.

The three resorts enjoyed expansion and growth throughout the 2010s by utilizing low prices, gimmicks and attractions to lure guests.

Buffalo Bill’s was the biggest of the trio, boasting a buffalo-shaped pool and 592 rooms at its opening (the Bellagio has nearly 4,000 rooms) and eventually expanding to 1,242 rooms.

Buffalo Bill’s and its sister resorts closed in March 2020 when the pandemic hit, reopening between December 2022 and 2023. But they struggled to attract customers.

Although the COVID-19 pandemic hurt all Nevada casinos, that was only part of the reason for Primm’s decline. Schwartz said tribal casinos in Southern California saw their prospects soar as Primm’s hotels teeter-tottered.

California voters passed Proposition 1-A in 2000, which allowed tribal casinos to operate slot machines and erased limits on card games.

“Many of those people Primm was drawing from began to stay in Southern California, where the drives are just much shorter and the amenities much closer,” Schwartz said. “You see the same issue playing out at Laughlin along the Arizona border and Reno and Tahoe in Northern California.”

Shortly after Proposition 1-A’s passage, San Manuel was one of several tribal casinos in San Bernardino and Riverside counties that declared an arms race with Nevada.

Fantasy Springs Resort Casino in Indio, run by the Cabazon Band of Mission Indians, opened in December 2004. The tribe was the fourth between 2002 and 2004 to open or expand its operations, including Agua Caliente in Palm Springs, Morongo in Cabazon and the Pechanga Band of Luiseno Mission Indians in Temecula.

Most of these casinos have continued to build and expand their operations as revenue has continued to flow.

The Southern California tribal resorts are classified by the National Indian Gaming Commission, a gaming regulatory body, to be in the Sacramento region, which includes all resorts in California and Northern Nevada.

In 2014, the combined casinos contributed $7.9 billion in gross gaming revenue.

Ten years later, 87 tribal operations throughout two states combined for $12.1 billion, marking a modest 1.4% increase from 2023.

Yaamava’ Resort & Casino, run by the San Manuel Band of Mission Indians, sits in Highland, about 200 miles from Primm but less than half that distance from downtown L.A.

Yaamava’ completed a $760-million expansion in 2021, which added a 17-floor tower, three bars and about 1,700 new slots.

The 7,400 slot machines at Yaamava’ make the casino the West Coast’s largest, with 4,000 more slots than its Vegas peers. By square footage of gaming space, Yaamava is No. 4 in the nation and still the biggest on the West Coast.

“The decline has been part of a larger trend,” Schwartz said of Primm. “People are choosing options that most appeal to them.”

Around July 4, Mena started the countdown to football season.

Stowell joined him at sports bars to watch Longhorns teams, and managed to stick it out at an early-season Texas Longhorns home football game in 105-degree heat until halftime, where he met Mena’s cousins, who had season tickets.

“It showed me willingness,” Mena said, who didn’t miss any football “away games” in November 2021 when they stayed in a Cancun villa with a satellite dish for five days with friends.

In January 2022, Mena hosted a 40th birthday party for Stowell at the Golden Goose bar in Austin, and by the end of the year, they bought a fixer-upper — a one-story bungalow just a 10-minute walk to the university’s football stadium.

“His love of sports knows no bounds,” said Stowell, with memorabilia, posters and jerseys everywhere in his house. “I had to then take the reins,” with a more subtle nod to the Longhorns. “The front door is burnt orange.”

During the renovation, in August 2023, they took a trip to the Azores and Portugal, where Stowell proposed with a gray crushed diamond band as they sat on bar stools at Pavilhão Chinês, a quirky, hidden bar in Lisbon where servers wear tuxedos.

“After the renovation is done, do you want to get married?” Stowell asked Mena pragmatically.

On April 24, Elana M. Schulman, a friend of the couple who became a Universal Life minister for the event, officiated the 25-minute ceremony at Assembly Hall, an events space in Austin. Their 180 guests got to choose Austin murals as backdrops for photo booth snapshots, enjoyed local Tito’s vodka and Lalo tequila margaritas, and Zed’s New Zealand-style ice cream and a taco truck.

The monogram is not something that instantly screams “Los Angeles,” though the iconic Dodgers logo — interlocking white letters on a blue hat — is one of the most memorable monograms in the world. A combination of letters signifying a person or brand feels Old World rather than the shiny new feeling that defines our casual, everyday West Coast lifestyle. A lifestyle unburned by history and more connected to the mundane and the tangible. Monograms have been around for centuries, dating all the way back to ancient Greece. They became popular symbols of royalty, and in more recent times, were adopted by the upper class for use on stationery, clothing and accessories. They’re symbols of the elite, of status and success. Monograms are luxury typed and typified. Perhaps that’s why so many luxury fashion houses have employed monograms to build their aesthetic identity. None more so than Louis Vuitton, which is celebrating the 130th anniversary of its LV logo. But why do brands and individuals alike feel so compelled to write their names on anything and everything?

The LV monogram was designed in 1896 by Georges Vuitton, the offspring of the brand’s namesake founder. The logo was created in the style of Japanese family crests, with quatrefoils embellishments and stylized flowers. It found its way onto the sumptuous luggage that became the house’s trademark. It’s been tweaked and freshened up a few times since, and became a signature of the brand’s first forays into ready-to-wear apparel under the guidance of Marc Jacobs. Unlike other luxury brands that have toyed with new logos and typefaces in the last decade, the LV monogram has carried down through the various changes in leadership at Vuitton. The latest collection from men’s creative director Pharrell Williams continues to lean heavily into that visual identity on bags, puffer jackets and sunglasses.

Monogrammed Art Lewin bespoke button down shirt, Louis Vuitton jacket, pants and bag, DE LA GOLD necklace, rings and bracelets.

It’s not hard to see why Vuitton has continued to rely on the LV emblem for its branding. Monograms are simple to understand. They communicate easily, and more literally than an abstract symbol like Nike’s Swoosh or Adidas’ Three Stripes. It’s part of why I put my initials on items like my wallet, the cuffs of my bespoke shirts, my sleepwear and my towels. It’s a way to signify ownership, but also a sense of clear identity. These objects are mine, and this is who I am.

Not everyone is compelled to spend the extra money on a monogram for their jammies, but the impulse comes from the early days of life. When your parents shuttle you off to school for the first time, practically everything you own has your name written on it — your T-shirts, pants, lunch box and water bottle. The cubby hole where your backpack (which also has your name on it) has a label to remind you which one is yours. We teach the idea of ownership to children early. This belongs to me. It’s the fundamental principle of our society. I own this. And what you own eventually defines you. The kind of car you drive, the music you listen to, the furniture you sit on. It’s impossible to separate objects from meaning because meaning in our modern world comes from objects, whether we support that notion or not.

Memories, associations and context all go into assigning value and meaning to an object. If an old girlfriend buys you a set of cocktail glasses from a flea market, those glasses will always evoke thoughts of that person. If you ordered Taco Bell at a drive-thru the day a loved one died, unfortunately, that might ruin Taco Bell for you forever. By monogramming something, the first thing you think about is you. Maybe that sounds a bit narcissistic, and I certainly have been accused of such things once or twice (sorry, I’m a writer, this is just part of it), but it’s never been more important to assert your sense of personhood and independence.

Derek Rose monogrammed pajama shirt, Louis Vuitton belted coat, Gap tank top, Nordstrom underwear, De La Gold necklace, rings and bracelets, Swedish Stockings tights.

Technology and social media and artificial intelligence have turned us into widgets or worse, vessels for “engagement.” Even if social media affords you the opportunity to put a picture of yourself and your name on your account, you’re still liable to be drowned out by the crashing wave of millions of other people doing the exact same thing. And these worlds aren’t even real, just ones and zeros merged to form a network of communication that sometimes feels like incoherent gibberish.

Monograms are ancient. They’re tangible. They can and do mean something powerful. After 130 years, the Louis Vuitton monogram still carries weight, hearkening back to an era of remarkable craftsmanship. Instead of just looking at it like a logo that’s there to adorn a sweatshirt or a water bottle, think about what it stood for at the start — the labor and artistry that built an enduring legacy. Symbols lose their value if we forget where they came from, if we lose connection with their primordial origin.

If you step into a Louis Vuitton store today, the LV monogram is omnipresent, the symbol of a powerful luxury house. But it also stands for the man who created the company, the family that helped it grow, and the craftsmanship that brought it to market. It was built by hand, with care and attention. That’s what a monogram can do. It reminds us that a human being exists, or in the case of Louis Vuitton, existed. Not just a multinational conglomerate. A person.

I don’t monogram my clothes for myself, even if it seems like it from the outside. I do it for my son, who will have nothing left of me but memories one day — memories that live inside objects. My pajamas. My towels. My shirts. My legacy. He’ll be able to wear those clothes, look at the initials on them, and say, “These were my dad’s. And I loved him.”