Leaving New York (Not Easy)

24 hours in Vegas. How psyched am I … sigh.

My colleague (and Cockfight bandmate) Robert Mancini is getting married tonight. At the Ballagio. In Las Vegas. How ‘Ocean’s Eleven,’ right? I’ll be the Brad Pitt character. It was a tuxedo, or my black circa ’99 Banana Republic three button. I went with the suit. “Ted Nugent called. He wants his shirt back.” I’ll let Mancini be Clooney. It’s his day.

Thing is, I’m over — and I mean in a Big Way — Las Vegas. I didn’t even stop thorugh as I raced westward on Highway 25 during my collegiate cross country trek in ’90. Heck, I was over it then. I ended up there years later for my cousing triple bachelor party. Chris and I mountain biked all day while the rest of the guys hatched some roulette scheme that lost them a cool grand collectively.

Every time I find myself there, I think, ‘I’ll never be back.’ A year later, there I am, staring down The Strip at all the is Plastic and Fake. Which ain’t my bag. Give me real, give me genuine, give me brick and mortar, silver and gold, honesty and truth. Spare me the piped-in air, the atmospheric control, the constant daylight. And most of all, spare me the cash hemorage. I have my music career for that.

And so it is, I’m on a 7:10 Jet Blue flight. I arrive at 10 a.m. I wed Mancini, then board a 10 a.m. flight Sunday morning.

Did I mention that I’m too old for this shit?

Las Vegas is further illustration that New York is neither a Red or Blue state. It’s just this island floating free of the rest of the world. It is contented in its diversity. I relishes the absence of Big Box Stores. It moves at an unprecedented pace. And it throws its money away on sushi, not slots.

So how psyched am I? Well, the Xanax is working. I’ve got that going for me.