After taking my act on the road for two long months, I was finally ready for the big time. That's right, I'm in Las Vegas. What a place! The glitz and glitter are almost blinding. It's so...so...well, so Vegas!

I left Kingman this morning and headed north on Highway 93. This is a really scenic desert drive, through the mountains and over Hoover Dam.

Immediately upon arriving in Vegas, I felt an urge to don a polyester shirt, some bermuda shorts and a pair of sandals with socks. Fortunately, I had come armed with none of the above and eventually, the feeling passed. I wanted to stay at one of the old hotels, one with a little history to it. This was my first night in Las Vegas; I wanted to feel like one of the Rat Pack. The Dunes had a deal going: a single room for 25 bucks. That fit the bill.

I had planned on splurging a bit and using my Optima card to enjoy the city's nightlife and a little gambling, too. Bad move. I assumed that, in this town, it would be a breeze to get a cash advance. Heck, I figured flashing an Exxon card would get me some green, but I was mistaken. It took me an two or three hours to find a machine that would accept an American Express card. Three valuable hours wasted. Three full hours I could have spent gripping the arm of a nickel slot machine, eyes glazed, heart a-pounding, my forehead beaded with perspiration. Instead I walked up and down the Strip, cursing my luck.

Finally, though, I managed to use that gold card to acquire some greenbacks. That done, I motored downtown to the Four Queens Casino. After all, when one is in Vegas, one has to take in a show, right? Right, and I intended to catch one that captured the spirit of Vegas's golden age. Unfortunately, Sammy and Elvis are no longer performing, Wayne Newton wasn't in town and I missed Frank by a week. No problem; if I couldn't see Ol' Blue Eyes perform, I'd catch Ol' Blue Eyes, Jr. That's right, Frank Sinatra, Jr. was playing the French Quarter Lounge at the Four Queens.

The French Quarter was something less than full at showtime; 25 or 30 people were scattered about a room that probably holds 125 or so. I sat front and center, fully ready to be mesmerized. Buddy Childers and his Big Band opened the show with a couple of instrumentals. It's a fine band, actually. The arrangements were imaginative, the harmonies smooth and the rhythm section swinging. Before long, Jr. made his entrance, with a decided lack of fanfare.

It's amazing how closely Jr. resembles Sr. His formerly-thin face has filled out just like his father's. He wears that same short haircut favored by his old man and, as always, his singing style remains strikingly similar to his dad's. He opened his set with a few non-descript saloon ballads, covered the classic Billie Holiday favorite, More Than You Know; threw in a show tune (How to Handle a Woman from Camelot), railed a bit against the music these kids listen to today ("this rap music or, as I call it, crap music") and closed with his version of Route 66 (no, I didn't request it). Toss in some cheezy saloon humor, a few show biz anecdotes and a number of bouquets thrown our way ("You folks are a great audience!") and I think you've got the quintessential Las Vegas experience, no cover, two drink minimum. But No Summer Wind, no My Way, not even New York, New York. I soon understood why.

After the show, Mr. Sinatra stood by the exit, signing postcards with a picture of himself that must have been at least ten (if not 20) years old. A woman rushed up to him, exclaiming, "I fell in love with your father 40 years ago! You look just like him and you sing just like him. He's the greatest!" Gee, thanks a lot! How difficult it must have been, all these years, to hear remarks like that. Imagine if Babe Ruth had had a son who played baseball, or if Michael Jordan's son decides to follow in his footsteps, the comparisons they would face.

Returning to the Dunes, I cruised down Las Vegas Blvd., marveling at the glitz and the glitter. It's a scene we've all witnessed, on television and in movies, but it can't be properly captured on film or tape. Las Vegas really is like another world. Standing at a gaming table with a stack of chips, watching the wheel go round or the dice tumble is not an experience from real life; this is the movies. Every visitor to this city is starring in their own film.The garish colors, the odd-looking people, these rooms filled with odd machines and game boards. Old women walking around with small plastic pails filled with nickels. Old men with a scotch in one hand and a pair of dice in the other, trying their best to be Bogart.

And the rituals. One doesn't ask for another card at the blackjack table; instead you just scratch the felt. The wave of the hand that ends each round of betting at the roulette wheel. The crisp and precise movements of the dealers. Those colorful and exotic chips, waitresses in togas offering free cocktails, making everyone feel like a big shot. My only regret is that I wasn't wearing a tuxedo.

I started on the quarter slots. I won a few, lost a few more then began to watch the gamers at the tables. Craps, roulette, bacarrat, and keno all leave me bewildered. The only game I really understand is blackjack, and even there I wanted to watch a while to observe how the game is played out - what to do, what not to do. I also played a little fantasy 21, picking a player, standing behind them and silently playing their hands, to test my luck and skill.

Finally, I felt ready to take the plunge. I bought 50 dollars in $5 chips and managed to make it last a while. Eventually, though, my 50 dollars dwindled to five. I bought 50 dollars more in $5 chips, tried a couple of plays at the roulette wheel (I played the black and lost) and found my way back to the blackjack tables. The dealers are required, no doubt, to put on a certain no-nonsense attitude, a poker face, if you will, but some of them manage to make one feel at ease in spite of it. I found a dealer I liked and stuck with her when I could. Heidi was pleasant and showed patience in answering my occasional beginner's questions. Nonetheless, it wasn't long before that 50 dollars disappeared, too.

Finally, I decided to take one last plunge. I bought 20 dollars in $1 chips and headed for the dollar slots. When this was gone, I was through and I meant it! The chips were chomping at the bit to get into that slot; one followed the other in rapid succession into the one-armed bandit. I decided, at one point, to raise the stakes and put in two chips. I did this as a lark, without even giving it a thought. It wasn't a strategy on my part; there was no hunch urging me on.

By now, you must have guessed. Three sevens came up and I won one hundred and 50 dollars. If I had put in only one chip, as I had been doing all evening long, three sevens wouldn't have won me a dime. Now, I understand how people get hooked. It was the kind of lucky break that the perennial losers are always waiting for. Obviously, they do occur but you'll go broke waiting for one.

Now 20 or 30 dollars ahead, I bought 20 dollars in $5 chips, found Heidi again and slowly but surely turned that 20 into 100. I took my winnings (my winnings - I like the sound of that) upstairs to my room, called the front desk to inform them I'd be staying another night and slept the sleep of the lucky.

Continue on the American Odyssey.
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