Okay, the last time that I was in Las Vegas, three months ago, I took a serious beatdown at the poker tables. In all of my previous trips, I'd only ever won, so my losing had been both surprising and unpleasant.

I hadn't intended to go back this summer. I had told myself that this was the summer that I was going to try to finish my stupid novel, so I had cancelled my five weeks of travel plans. (I'm pretty sure, by the way, that every poet thinks that he or she can write a novel; come on, it can't be that hard. How is the novel going? I don't want to talk about it.) But then one of my homies got comped for three nights at the MGM, and he invited me to catch a ride with him and his special lady.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go, so when I went on Expedia I was semi-hoping that the rooms would be really expensive and that I could decline the offered ride on monetary/I'm-trying-to-be-more-responsible-nowadays grounds. No such luck. The rooms were cheap, which is what happens, I guess, when you book thirty-six hours before you arrive at the hotel.

What’s the point? That, from Sunday through Wednesday, I’ll be spending every waking minute at a poker table, so if you need to get a hold of me or to get a quick response to an e-mail, you will be completely out of luck. If you’re in Las Vegas, though, come by and say hello; I’ll be the guy with regret in his eyes and with a black and broken heart. We’ll chat; it’ll be pleasant. Man, I just love semicolons; I’m not joking.