It would appear that I have finally recovered from Vegas Time.
Ah, good old Vegas Time. It starts the moment you arrive and realize that there's a better than average chance, say 100100101010%, that you will be up for 24+ hours before you actually pass out in your bed.
It continues when your decrepit mind won't let you sleep for 8 hours as that would mean sleeping well into the pm hours of Home Time. So, you get up after a measly few hours of sleep and hit the road running. Gamboling, rambling, dining, drinking until, before you know it, it's once again the wee hours of the am when you crash in your room.
This time you do manage to stay comatose until the pm when you struggle to prop your eyeballs open in the bright sunshine long enough to find the nearest Starbucks which will be either at your right elbow or left elbow... unless there's one in front of your nose. Regardless, you crave some of that sweetness that is Starbucks with a longing heretofore reserved for sex and/or poker.
Then you enjoy yourself some of the best free internets in the world at McCarran before you squeeze yourself into your seat for the snooze home. While you sleep the spittle slowly runs down your chin. Before you know it you are Home.
Home, land of eerie silence. How can you be expected to function without the ding ding ding of the slot machines? What? No one is riffling poker chips? For Shame! And don't even try to convice your progeny to fetch you a drink with the promise of a poker chip in exchange for speedy service. For Shame!!!
Home: where the laundry lies in piles, dishes go unwashed and the sunshine is so dull.
How sad is it that I'm already planning next year's Vegaspalooza?
Not nearly as sad as the fact that I'm already planning Indypalooza and the ever popular Frigidpalooza (aka Chicagopalooza).
Clearly I need a life.