Vegas recap

Every year I write a little less about the Vegas gatherings. I no longer feel the desire to craft the four part recap. Actually at the rate I am going, next year’s might be one sentence. I am reluctant to throw out a lot of details, there are others who have done that better. The phrase discretion is the better part of valour * pops into my head but that’s not quite it either. Lazy? Perhaps. Probably.

Truth be told, I wasn’t going to write one of these at all. But it keeps tugging at me, like a little kid sitting in the grocery cart tugging at a mother’s shirt, pestering her for the sugary cereal. Sometimes it’s best just to give in and move on.

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I drank a lot, but not as much as in past years.

My first WPBT hug was the longest, the hardest, the best, and was accompanied by a very sweet and completely unnecessary apology.

I talked to everyone I wanted to talk to, but not nearly long enough in some most cases.

I kissed some people. And didn’t kiss others.

I tried to hug everyone.

I had a number of delicious meals with good friends accompanied by conversation, banter and laughter.

I revised my opinion of a number of people. Upwards.

I took a tour of the Neon Boneyard, something I had put off for years. It was more than I’d expected and the accompanying friends made it even better.

I took very few photographs beyond the ones taken during this outing. Luckily, other people did. I have two favourites out of all that I have seen, that describe my weekend without words. In one, I am been hugged by a strangely familiar man in a fake fur hat and purple-tinted sunglasses and we are both grinning like crazy people. The other is a group shot taken in a bathroom with a mirrored ceiling. The folks staring up are among my favourite people in the world.

By not going to Steel Panther, I missed out on an opportunity for a heavy metal bacchanalia. And while I regret that it cut into my hang-out time with those I cherish and see too infrequently, I don’t regret not going. Deeper connections were made at the MGM sports book. And metal makes me break out in hives and gives me eye strain from rolling my eyes so much.

I played poker in the WPBT tournament far better than I have ever done, coming in 19th overall. I do not remember any hands, won no bounties nor tournament cash. But it did help my Luckbox Last Longer team, the Hammer Girls, come in second for some sweet, sweet PokerStars money.

I learned the value of a rage solo. And wrote a poem to a cowboy in the process.

I forgot to Dial-A-Shot friends who could not make it.

I found I didn’t have to pretend to like/know/understand football in order to enjoy Sunday at Lagasse Stadium. Thank you to CJ for setting that up. IMHO, it was the best part of the weekend. It was like being at a house party where you can mingle and talk. And talk. And talk. There was girl talk, book talk, flirty talk, friendly talk, motorcycle talk, travel talk. There was sports talk, I’m sure, but it floated right on through me. The only bit I remember is being asked if I want to bet. “Sure. I’ll put a loonie on the purple guys. And maybe another on the orange ones.” I wasn’t asked again.

I remembered how nice it is to find that you can still surprise people. And yourself.

I let some things go, and was given other gifts in return.

And came home knowing that the impulse to sign up for the Saturdays with Dr. Pauly on that long-distant day has proven to be a good one.

Thank you, my friends. You have bolstered me beyond your knowing.

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* being curious, I went and looked up the origins of this saying. It pleases me no end that it came from Falstaff.