I’ve returned from Vegas a new man, both physically and spiritually. And by “new,” I mean depleted and a tad smelly. What I learned out there is that I am no longer compelled by Sin City, a place where NASCAR hooligans and metrosexuals cavort in equal numbers, and where it costs $2.75 for a 16 oz. bottle of water. Of course, none of that is very surprising. What is strange to me is that I was unenthused about gambling for the first time, and it’s not because I lost $235 in the amount of time it would take to boot a French mime in the groin. For whatever reason (i.e. I’m lame), I didn’t get the rush I would get from playing blackjack even 18 months ago, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get the taste back. I’m like a cat that’s soured on Tender Vittles.


Arrested Development is watched by approximately one fourth the number of people who tune in to Desperate Housewives every week. I weep for our nation.