For lack of a better word ...

Everyone seems to leave Las Vegas with a money story. (As in, a story about money, not a story that 90s Vince Vaughn might find particularly delightful.) Maybe the most remarkable part of this money story is that I probably won't tell it anymore.

To this point, I've told two tales about Las Vegas, both of which took place during the now-obligatory 'We're the first friends ever to go to Vegas after we turned 21' trip I took two summers ago. The first involves me losing a lot of money in a short amount of time. The second involves me giving money to a shady guy in a bathroom to get into a club. Either story, I lose.

So naturally, when I returned to Vegas two full years later, I figured I'd give winning a try. The trip, actually, was a victory in itself, because I didn't pay anything to be there, flying under the guise of business. And make no mistake, I came to do work. Vegas, baby. ... Right? Right.

And that's the thing. When you go to Vegas, you get these crazy ideas. As soon as I touch down, I imagine hitting a million-plus dollar jackpot on one of the slots near the baggage claim at McCarren, then essentially running the town for a week -- big bets, guests lists, VIP ropes, casually makin' it rain, the works. Now, I daydream just like anyone else any day of the week when I'm not in Las Vegas. I don't need suffocating heat to get to fantasizing. Problem is, there's a chance Vegas could actually make it happen. 'What if I do get lucky,' you think. 'What if ... just this once. Just this one time. What if it happens.' Even though you know it won't.

But because there actually is a chance you could not only win, but win big, you forget that the odds of you winning anything are the same as you nailin' Brooklyn Decker. Just because Brooklyn Decker shows up to the ESPYs without Andy Roddick, it doesn't mean she divorced him for you. Even though it may seem that way. Vegas is exactly like that. It's Brooklyn Decker alone on the red carpet, and you forget Roddick was ever involved in the first place. Vegas ... it gets in your head.

Regardless of why you're in Las Vegas, it isn't long before you're on vacation. Everything is so expensive, you think, 'Hey, I might as well indulge. I'm in Vegas!' And that goes for gambling, too, even if you can't tell craps from baccarat (It's OK, I know you can't). You gamble because it's there. It feels like you should. It's 'When in Rome,' used properly. I mean, think about coming home and having this conversation:

Friend: Hey man! How was Vegas?
You: So money, dude. Totally bitchin'. I kicked that town's ass.
Friend: Yeah? You win a lot?
You: You know what? I didn't even gamble, really.
Friend: You didn't?
You: Nah, no.
Friend: Huh. So ... what did you do?
You: I, uh, I don't know.

Embarassing. The only thing worse than going home broke is going home broke without a story. So if you're goin' down, might as well take your cuts, huh?

(For some background, I wasn't nearly this fatalistic during my fresh-meat Vegas trip. This led to the first story I used to tell, the one where I lost a lot of money in a short amount of time. This story actually begins with me winning a small amount of money over a long period of time, after which I got up and decided to raise the stakes. 'Let's f***in' gamble!' So I doubled the minimum and put down my maximum: 100 dollars, and promptly lost it all in 10 minutes. Spent the rest of the afternoon in the shower ... without the water on.)

I'm four days into this trip, now, and I haven't gambled at all, for good reason. You can't lose what you don't put in the middle, and I need to pay rent. But as my company all went their separate ways on this fateful night, I decided to go full-on Matt Damon, Mikey McD. But you can't win much, either. Two years ago, I would have parked at one of the penny slot machines and started to bother the waitresses for free drinks. But I'm not interested in gettin' tanked in front of professionals. Wouldn't be professional. With the 'bloon, bloon' of the slot machines reminding me that I can't get a whole lot more broke than I already am, I hawked around the casino like a vulture (or a hawk, I guess) looking for the lowest stakes possible. Sure enough ... a 10-dollar blackjack table turned belly up with an open seat. I swooped in, like a sparrow diving beak-first into a streak-free glass window. "Ten dollars, huh?" I said to nobody, so nobody responded. "Don't mind if I have a seat."

They couldn't have minded, because I was as courteous to the casino as freakin' Mr. Magoo. Like the bottom of the Pirates' batting order, I went down quietly, before I even really knew what happened. (Still referring to the Pirates there.) Only this time, I didn't sulk upstairs to drown myself in the bathtub. I drowned myself at the hotel bar, courtesy of a few free beers. (EVERYONE ELSE WAS DOING IT!!!!)

Normally, that's where my story would end. But that's where this one begins.

After a little, I began eyeing the casino floor again. And a tractor beam-like force pulled me toward a blackjack table with a 100-dollar minimum bet, where a guy I kind-of knew was playing. I stood there watching, quietly, for a little while, when I glanced over at the table minimum. It was no longer 100, but 1000. I blinked a few times, recounted how many beers I'd had, then noticed the guy in the colored suit who'd just sat down on the far left. (I say the suit was colored because I don't know what color it was, exactly. It was something between tan, yellow and cream, but I don't know what they call that color. I have one suit. It's black.)

Black, coincidentally, is the color of the $100 dollar chips at the Wynn casino. This man's chips were yellow. All eight stacks of them. On the first hand, he threw out 10 of these chips.

On the first hand, of blackjack, this man bet $10,000. Ten thousand dollars. And he lost it. And it didn't even phase him.

It startled me to hell, and I stared at him. Jaw dropped ever-so lightly, I stared long and good, very much like the Squints kiss of Wendy Peffercorn. In 10 or so minutes, the time it takes me to lose 100 bucks, this guy had won $44,000. I know this because I counted. I was captivated. Then he got up and walked away.

That's how you win in Vegas. When you have as much money as the casino, the odds even out a little. And make no mistake, this guy was no movie star or professional athlete. He had one woman on his arm, not an army of bodyguards and flocks of hoodrats surrounding his table (Like someone else did that evening. ... Not me.) Still, he took 44,000 dollars from the Wynn that evening, and I'll remember it for the rest of my life. Thing is, I didn't do anything. I just watched it happen.

Years from now, I probably won't tell the story about this guy winning 44 thou as much as I will about me losing 100 (the first time). And I think that's a good thing.

If you leave Vegas with nothing but a story, then I think you win. Doesn't matter if that story involves you marching into the casino and offering up your hard-earned cash to the already filthy rich owner or you accepting a shady dude's proposal to escort you past the ridiculous line into a club and paying him 100 dollars in a bathroom to do so. Just as long as it involves you.

- The best game to play in Las Vegas, actually, doesn't cost any money at all ... up to a certain point. The game is called 'Yes or No,' and the premise is simple: identify a passing young lady and, based on her best night attire, declare whether or not you believe she's a hooker. 'Yes' means yes and 'no' means no. It is NOT easy.

- Not sure how I felt about the season 2 opener of Jersey Shore, but I know this much: I didn't get near enough of Mike The Situation, who is close to becoming my favorite character on television. See, I didn't like him initially, probably like most people. But then I started to realize that 'situation' is a perfect word to describe a lot of things, and every time I used 'situation' or though of it, it reminded me of The Situation. (I tried using 'position,' 'status,' even 'spot' in everyday conversation, and they just sound like you're trying to not use 'situation.') So, since he's unavoidable, I accepted him as I prepared for Season 2 by re-watching Season 1. And guess what? I loved him! I initially pegged him as a delusional creep, but I think he's very aware of who he is. And he's just goin' with it. That's awesome. Now it's like I have a new friend, and I'll take all the friends I can get in freakin' Colorado.

Problem is, I don't know if we'll get to see the Situation at full strength in Miami, where the chicks (one would assume) aren't as trashy and desperate as those at the actual Jersey Shore. (No offense to anyone, but I'm fairly certain that's an accurate assessment.) In Miami, Sitch loses some of that 'Big Fish, Little Pond' appeal that allowed him to thrive in Seaside. Will it be all 'grenades' and 'landmines' in Miami? I don't know, but I'm willing to find out now that Situation and I are on good terms.

- When asked about the possibility of getting booed at Heinz Field, Ben Roethlisberger said, 'It would tear me apart if it happened at home.' Somewhere, Billy Stull is scoffing.

- Notice how I've just smoothed right over the 80-plus day gap in posts? Didn't even realize it was that long, did ya? Yeah, it was, though.