Around this time last year, I took a trip to Vegas with some of my late-30-something pals.
For reasons that are still unclear to me, we decided to hit a bunch of the ‘hip’ dance clubs the night we flew in.
Maybe I’m too old for this stuff, but I felt like the experience was kind of like being in the Abu Ghraib prison: I was kept awake for 36 hours; they kept playing loud, piercing, throbbing music; I was forced to stand in awkward positions the entire time; and I’ve got a strange feeling that someone, somewhere, has a photo of me naked, wearing a leash.