If I hadn't been suffering from a chest-bursting cold—complete with enough cold sweat, shivers, and rib-quaking coughing fits to fill a buffet—this Vegas trip might've been one of the best. As it was, it was pretty good.
Ate well (and held off on the Halls long enough to taste the high-priced steak), saw a decent show (Beatles Love, at the Mirage—better for the soundtrack than the interpretive dance), and gambled a lot (and got my clock cleaned steadily...but never went to an ATM and still came home with money in my pocket). What more can you ask from Vegas?
Here's my favorite moment: We were down at the Old Strip, on Fremont Street, in a casino called Four Queens. I'd bounced off my losing streak by sitting at a $10 double-deck blackjack table. When they changed dealers on me, I took my $175 and left to go find my wife, who was playing Roulette. I watched as she placed her bets—a set litany of numbers with special significance to her (birthdays, anniversaries, etc)—and placed a $5 chip right on top of hers on "30," the day of the month on which we were married.
Of course it came up. And it paid out 35 to 1.
In hindsight, I should've but a $25 chip down, but I'm not that kind of gambler, especially not on Roulette, which is only a hair more strategic a game than a slot machine or pick-up-stix.
Still, I was fiscally raped for the balance of the weekend. But I had a great time.