Vegas. Vegas. Vegas. It’s the sort of place that warrants being repeated three times. As if each pronunciation allows the reality of what you did sink into your mind a bit more.
I’ve had worse nights. And when I say worse, I say it in the context of inebriation. I’ve been drunker. Been caught in more embarrassment. Crossed more lines. Etc. But Vegas has a way of making everything you do or say seem even more outrageous. If you drink 20 beers, steal a street sign and pass out with your underwear in your mouth like you’ve been gagged on top of your grandmother's ’77 Cadillac, it still won’t be as shocking as the time you took shots of whiskey with Elvis Presley under the Eiffel Tower right before being kicked out of Caesar’s Palace and eventually woke up with your best friends pants on, holding a commemorative picture of yourself and Cher in front of the Statue of Liberty. In the end, Vegas supplies all the amenities to build yourself an unpredictable night, specific in neither geographical destination nor historical time-frame.
Rather than typing out my experience to you, I think I’ll stick by the old adage, ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.’ But I will say this: The sun does inevitably rise in Vegas. Flava Flav is true to legend. Bars are not bedrooms. And I’m very grateful to have friends so dedicated to my search & rescue.
Vegas. It happens.
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