Having had to disappear to Vegas for work recently, it feels kind of inspiring to write about such a desolate, confusing wasteland of a place.

Part of me loves Las Vegas. I mean Christ, I got tattooed there. The full on, hyper intense psycho social atmosphere appeals to a certain part of me. Then again, so does double fisting tall boys of Red Stripe while I’m walking down the street. But that may just be a Canadian thing.

Having landed at the Palms smack-dab between AVN/CES week and Internext, Vegas was at its best and worst. A preening peacock of buffet tables, sketchy strip clubs and lights bright enough to leave permanent imprints on your corneas, it was hard not to rock the buddy system.

Ghosttbar feels like an effort. 55 stories up and rocking $9 beer, it’s enough to make you puke till you get out on the balcony only to find yourself *that far up*. It’s stunning. It’s also a pleasure to realize that the cat behind the decks is someone you actually know and is someone that your crew has rolled deep with for years. Vegas is like that, pockets of joy in the shadows cast by those bright and scary lights.

The strip is disconsolate. It needs a hug and no amount of alcohol will salve its tired wound, even if it has a bath in the fountains at the Bellagio. Penny slots at New York, New York? Sure, but somewhere near Cheetah’s it all goes Fear and Loathing.

I came out ahead at the end of the day but if there’s a Betty Ford for the soul, I may well need it after Vegas. Come for the Vegas, stay for the Vampires, rock and roll if you dare.