About this time tomorrow, I’ll be careening my way westward toward “the cracked, foul ingress into the inferno,” otherwise known as Las Vegas. For all of my dread, I’m actually remarkably calm. Anyone who has ever read this column knows that I equate the idea of going to Las Vegas for any reason to be about on par with eating a bag of broken glass. This is of course contrasted by the fact that nearly every male of the human species that is old enough to achieve an ere...
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