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a gambling addiction, or you're a sand lizard. But it was a

far cry from the tranquility and romance of Martha's Vineyard. After five hours

blazing the scorching blacktop, we hit a wall outside Las Vegas. A drop-dead traffic

jam that stopped the interstate cold. When you see semi-truck drivers getting out

of their rigs, pacing the tarmac testily, you know they know something you don't and

you know it's not good.

We finally hit The Strip before midnight and it wasn't pretty. By this time

my new wife just wanted a cool room and a comfortable bed. Getting there was not

easy. There were hordes of sweaty, pushy people jamming the sidewalks. The

temperature felt just north of hell and there were no available rooms. We felt like

Joseph and Mary in the summer. I fought to remain upbeat as Nita's jaws tightened.

The big hotels were booked. The scrappy little motels for a honeymoon? Not

if I didn't want to awaken to divorce papers. There appeared one, once-legendary

hotel with available rooms. We soon knew why. The hotel had been sold. Demo Day

was calendared. I rationalized with Nita that it would be okay for one night. She

was too disgusted and tired to resist.

First impressions can be deadly. The hotel was hip in 1956. Entering the

lobby we passed a Rogue's Gallery of misfits, the underside of the Las Vegas rock.

Elevator doors opened to bare-chested, tattooed men holding beer cans. Younger men

wore Mohawks and nose-and-tongue studs. Orange-haired women appeared with

cigarettes dangling from wrinkled lips, wearing hot pants over bulging bellies. It

was a phantasmagoria. Nita fought tears all the way to the front desk.

Because of my snoring we got adjoining rooms. But when we actually saw

them, we beat a fast track back to the front desk where the shark-eyed clerk

insisted there would be no refunds. More tears. And angry resignation. All I

could think about was that NBC Special where investigators waved a UV

wand over a motel room to highlightwell, bodily fluids. We barely slept. Nita was

miserable. All night I thought of one thing: the next dayand the next. Our

honeymoon was on the rocks. And the marriage?

Morning hit. We checked out like fleeing rats. We couldn't go home. To

what? I had to salvage this nightmare. We drove around looking for breakfast and

happened upon a welcome little restaurant that Nita recognized. Time for me to

think, to recalibrate. Over scrambled eggs and pancakes, I tried to convince Nita

that what we saw wasn't the real Las Vegas. That there were magnificent hotels

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