NOTES POST-VEGAS: So I'm back from Vegas, largely intact and ready to blog.

What an odd city. All of society's shadow elements bundled into a singular consumable experience. Sex. Greed. Class warfare. Vulgar displays of power. Vulgar displays of sex and greed. Vulgarity. Inebriation. Titillation.

Ball of confusion.

I lost a couple-hundred, which as far as I'm concerned is a win.

The current hot spot is The Palms, the Maloof-Brothers-owned hotel/casino over by the hotspot of yore, The Rio. The Palms is prison-ugly on the outside but understated opulent inside. And it's where you'll see the biggest men, the most bountiful women, and the longest nightclub lines. Think WWF wrestlers, Baywatch babes, and then a whole lot of Average Joes and Janes (like yours truly) surfing the fringes, vibin' on the energy.

I met a guy on the plane back. He says, "You from Chicago?" Yeah, I say. I'm from Chicago. "I hate Chicago," he says. Nice to meet you, too, I think.

Later he farts into his seat, noiselessly but evidently. Why is it people think their farts are stealth on airplanes? They are not.

Later I spill my water on his pants. I say I'm sorry. I am not.