What Stays in Las Vegas

Realizing far too late that not just any mentally-handicapped man can help you count cards in blackjack.

Screaming into casino security cameras, "For christsakes, give a fellow Italian a fuckin’ break!”

Any memories of seeing “Equus” performed nude and on ice.

Taking a vow of “pizzazz” after your visit to the Liberace Museum, only to later learn that “bejeweled cravat” and “Senior VP of PriceWaterhouseCoopers” do not necessarily mix.

Slowly sensing your “sure-fire” gambling system relied on far too many factors, one of them being that God had your back.

Hurling your room keys, then your panties, and then your 56-year-old fat-ass self on stage during a Tom Jones concert.

Bitch-slapping a grandmother for rolling snake eyes.

Spending the first two hours of your vacation playing high-stakes poker and the next five days playing nickel slots.

Getting shit-faced, finding yourself at a 24-hour wedding chapel and waking up the next afternoon married to your sister.

Wandering aimlessly down the Las Vegas Strip desperately looking for a genie, a leprechaun or any other supernatural being known for their largesse.

Enrolling in the University of Nevada at Las Vegas with plans to pursue a career in business management, only to graduate with a degree in “Performing Reveler/Rio’s Masquerade Village.”

Asking the pit boss why the roulette wheel hates you so.

Doubting every decision you’ve ever made as you wait three hours to view the largest golden nugget ever displayed in front of a California Pizza Kitchen.

Meekly inquiring if the blackjack dealer can return the tip chips you gave him two days ago.

Dropping to your knees and praying to a 40’-high neon cowboy that the last six hours of baccarat never happened.

Having your family spend their last night in Vegas in the hotel room, carefully writing the word “Bellagio” on a set of casino chips you just bought at Wal-Mart.

Picking up a hooker simply because if anyone knows how to suck the coins out of a pay phone it would be her.

The fact that you attended a theatrical ode to “America’s proud pioneering experience” that began with the plaintive howl of an animatronic wolf and concluded with fountains shooting water eight-stories high in time to Queen’s “We Are the Champions.”