Who says romance is dead?

Back from Vegas, and starting to feel a little less like I’ve been hit by a truck...which is never a good thing to feel like in the first place when you've actually won more than you've lost.

I suppose this is the point where I should be wading in with all sorts of incisive medicare commentary, but we’ve kinda been there already, haven’t we? So until there’s something fresh to be said, I offer a brief Sin City story instead.

It’s mid-afternoon on Sunday, and I’m taking in the “late” NFL games (those would be the ones that start at 1:00 p.m. out there, as opposed to 10:00 a.m.) at the Paris sports book. At halftime, I stagger over to the blackjack table to play a hand, and wind up next to a very pleasant 30-something woman.

She’s from Oklahoma, she tells me, and it’s her first time in Vegas. She loves it. We make a bit more polite small talk, with the gentleman to her right occasionally joining in. And then, just as I’m about to head back to the sports book, I hear her tell the dealer that she and said gentleman got married a couple of hours ago.

That alone wasn’t particularly shocking; Vegas is full of brides and grooms wandering around, although the brides are usually wearing a veil and they’re generally not tucked into a $10 blackjack table. But what really blows me away is that this wasn’t even newsworthy enough to merit a mention when she was telling me about her weekend. In keeping with the local spirit, I'm placing the over-under on that one at about two-and-a-half weeks.

Anyway, my weekend was pretty sweet. Any town where you can drink $1 Heinekens while watching a delightfully horrible lounge act and hang out with the beautiful people at the Ghost Bar in the same evening is okay in my books.