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On What Ifs?

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

During law school, I had about a one-half mile walk between the parking lot and the classroom building. I made that walk countless times, and, from those walks, I have one memory: winning the lottery. Frequently, with my backpack weighed down by heavy (and over-priced) casebooks, I daydreamed about my life if I won the lottery as I walked.

I wasn’t greedy; my daydream usually entailed winning a modest jackpot, say 25,000,000 or so. Forbes magazine would not put me on the cover, but the winnings were always enough, after tax of course, to live a life of leisure. Work would be optional, and every wish and whim would be attainable. By the time I got around to the smaller details, I would arrive at the school and begin my studies. I’m pretty sure I never was able to lay out the floor plan for my fourth house, unfortunately.

My lottery winning daydream was odd, given that I didn’t play the lottery, but it was, of course, not about actually winning. Rather, it was the escapism of the “what if?” Law school is a particularly stressful time, and I’m certain my daydream was one way I left the stress behind, even if for just a few minutes.

Daydreaming about winning the lottery isn’t unique, and, for the most part, it seems a harmless diversion. I’ve noticed, though, that many people get wrapped up in “what ifs?” that aren’t as benign. You see folks become unglued or permanently sidetracked by bigger life “what ifs?” like “What if I hadn’t lost that job?” or “What if that relationship hadn’t failed?” or “What if he hadn’t died?” The list is endless. The questions aren’t just thought experiments on the alternative paths our lives could have traveled, but, rather, the questions often become indictments of the present, expressions of displeasure on the current state of affairs.

The danger of “What ifs?” is that we don’t take complete ownership over our own lives. We blame events or other people from the past for our current situation. Maybe chance events or other people did in fact play a part in bringing us to this moment in time, but focusing on that absolves us of our responsibility for leading our own lives. In the process, it also robs from us the power to change our lives.

You can dream about winning the lottery, wish for different things, or ruminate over events that happened in the past, as long as you understand that those activities don’t move your life forward. They don’t address the present, they don’t control the now, and they only have the power you grant them.

I spend a lot of time inside my own head. I guess most people do. But I find that, as I get a little older, I spend less time there. There’s too much to do in the present, and I think that’s a good thing. Thinking is great, but, often, doing is better. Being in the moment and focusing on the here and now. Setting aside the what ifs and understanding that the biggest reason our lives are what they are is staring back at us in the mirror.

On First Words

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Today, there was another mass shooting. The details don’t matter. They really don’t. We can throw the details on the pile with all the rest. All the tragedy, the loss, the families torn apart, the lives forever, wickedly altered. To supposedly be the most powerful country on the planet, we sure seem to be at the mercy of any sicko with his hands on a gun.

The politics of the problem are hard, but so was going to the moon, curing diseases, and recovering from natural disasters. We don’t shrink from hard. Rather, we’ve been paralyzed by a relentless campaign of fear-mongering that tirelessly works to convince people that any — any — attempt of the state or federal governments to address the admittedly complex problem is a threat to freedom and liberty. You know what’s also a threat to liberty and freedom? A bullet to the head.

The history of the Second Amendment is hotly contested, but it’s very, very fair to point out that the original intent of the amendment was not a personal right to carry a handgun. But, I don’t want to talk about that, because, ultimately, whatever the correct or current interpretation of the amendment, there are higher principles to consider. Consider the opening words of the Constitution:

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

I don’t know about you, but several phrases jump out at me: “a more perfect Union,” “insure domestic Tranquility,” “promote the general Welfare,” and “secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity.” How perfect is your Union feeling lately? Digging the domestic tranquility? Does almost no gun regulation promote the general welfare? And, as you nervously glance around the movie theater, the train station, the city park, your child’s school, how secure are the blessings of liberty?

I think people should be able to hunt. I think people should be able to enjoy sport shooting. And I have no problem with someone who wants to keep a gun in their home for protection, even if they do so if the face of overwhelming research that establishes they are far more likely to harm themselves or someone they love than stopping an intruder. But none of that should stop us from acknowledging what is a deadly obvious problem with gun violence in this country and, more importantly, actually doing something about it. In some states you need a fishing license to bob a line in the local pond, but background checks and other reasonable gun safety measures threaten the liberty of the Republic? Give me a break.

No law, no regulation, no rule can stop all bad things from happening. But we all know that, and the impossibility of a perfect solution does not weigh against trying to find a solution, albeit imperfect. There has to be a better way because, at the end of the day, your right to buy dozens of automatic weapons for your personal stockpile is not as important as the right 20 beautiful children had to not lie dead on the floor of Sandy Hook Elementary school. It’s just not.

On 20% Off

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

I love my Gmail account. I like how it organizes my e-mail, groups my messages together, and allows me to quickly and conveniently search for that random e-mail I sent six years ago. My Gmail account works effortlessly on my desktop, laptop, iPad, iPhone, and Apple Watch. It’s ubiquitous and priceless at the same time!

One of the more recent awesome iterations of Gmail separates your e-mails into three categories: Primary, Social, and Promotions. By separating the e-mail related to social media and promotions, Gmail allows you to focus on your “real” e-mail. Still, every day, because I am fairly OCD about my “inbox zero” status, I check my Social and Promotions tabs. I estimate I receive 10 promotional e-mails daily. Often, they’re from the same handful of companies, offering me a “special discount,” a “valued customer” deal, and sneak peek at the latest and the greatest. I can’t deny: these companies want my business. I mean, surely they aren’t giving anyone else these amazing, mind-blowing, time-limited deals. That would be madness!

The constant bombardment from companies with deal after deal got me to thinking — always dangerous. What if we approached the relationships in our lives like the companies that e-mail me every day? What if we awoke one random morning and informed our spouse that, that day, that very day, we were going to be 20% more loving with 10% less nagging? What if we told our friend that, hey, you give me one hug, you’re getting a second hug completely free! But, wait, there’s more! Hug me now, and I’ll throw in a high-5, no shipping and just a little handling required! Walk into the office and tell your coworker that, this week only, I’m being 10% more patient. [Note: patience cannot be redeemed for other discounted qualities and has no cash value]. Go next door and tell your neighbor that you’re having a clearance sale on this batch of cookies; they are 100% off. All bites final.

Companies are willing to wheel and deal to get your business, or at least make it look like they’re wheeling and dealing. They’ll sweeten the pot just a bit. Maybe a little bit of this approach would be a good thing in our personal lives. Maybe if we had to work a little more, show the value in ourselves, even to our loved ones, we’d actually get more out of our relationships. You’ve got to get out there and sell yourself, legally of course! It’s not about being transactional; the point is to not take your relationships for granted. To go the extra mile, even when you don’t have to, because you want to close that deal, make that proverbial sale, day after day.

We can all do a little more, go out of our way, cut someone some slack, and, fortunately, there’s no expiration date on that.

On Getting Over Yourself

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 2 Comments

One of my (many) quirks is that, for years, I would have random bouts of embarrassment over events years in the past. I would stop and shudder at the memory of an exchange two decades earlier, or I would turn red in the face thinking about something I did or said as a teenager. It’s not unusual to be self-conscious or regret something dorky you’ve done, but I always found it odd that my bouts of embarrassment were not contemporary but focused squarely and solely on the distant past.

I still experience the occasional chagrin over something long ago, but a realization a few years back significantly scaled back this problem for me. I realized no one else cares. No one else remembers the embarrassing thing I said in 1989. No one else shudders when they think about that weird remark I made in 1992. No one wonders how big a dork one needs to be to say or do something like that thing I did in 1994. No one else remembers these things. No one else is bothered. No one cares. At all.

I reached this achingly obvious realization with the help of a little thought experiment. After one of my moments of embarrassment over something long, long ago, I challenged myself to think of an example of something embarrassing someone else did, recent or in the past. I honestly tried to come up with one example, and I couldn’t. Family, friend, or foe, I could not identify a single example. I could think of funny things, sad things, and even some mean things, but nothing embarrassing. Nothing mortifying or scandalously uncool. I even widened my thought experiment to total strangers. Surely I had seen someone fall down an escalator at some point. Walk out of a bathroom with their pants unzipped or a skirt tucked into pantyhose. Still, nothing. Nada. Nyet.

So much of our selves, our identities, exists between our ears. We walk around in our own little worlds, fighting battles no one else knows about. I’m starting to think life is just the process by which we move from one issue to the next in our brains, the outside physical world playing a tiny, albeit meaningful, role. It’s truly freeing when we realize and accept this. When we can accept the fact that, while we are the superstar in our own movie, we are but a bit player in everyone else’s. We can let go of the worries and anxieties about what other’s think, because they’re fighting their own battles, not our own.

I recently heard a fantastic quote: when you’re 20, you’re worried about what others think of you; when you’re 40, you don’t care what others think of you, and when you’re 60, you realize no one else is thinking about you.

I like the idea of getting over yourself. Getting out of your own way. Forgiving yourself for being a silly, crazy, dumb, imperfect person…just like everyone else.

On Not So Great Expectations

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

My grandmother called me today. Just to say hello, just to say she missed me. It made my day.

It’s said that expectations are just resentments under construction, and I think that’s true. We expect too much from people, especially our families. Our loved ones should be super heroes. Without flaws. Without limitations. Always there. Always dependable. Always loving, caring, and kind.

The problem is that people have flaws and limitations. We all admit this, but I think it’s more difficult to accept than we let on. We expect parents to always do the right thing, always be there. They’re not people, they’re parents! We’re almost as tough on everyone else, siblings, children, grandparents, etc., and, honestly, we aren’t too much easier on friends.

Over time, our expectations do turn into resentments. She didn’t do this. He won’t do this. She never said this. He can’t be like this. During this slow accretion, our loved ones become caricatures or, maybe, just characters that populate the stories inside our heads. We return again and again to the shortcomings. We dwell on how they let us down. We put up walls. We build barriers. We hunker down. We wallow. We take a perverted comfort in the predictability of disappointment.

Unfortunately, our expectations blind us. We get wrapped around the axle about all that our loved ones don’t do, that we can’t see all the things they actually do. All the kindness, care, and love that is there. The wonderfully imperfect and imperfectly wonderful person right in front of us. I think the trick is to stop putting people in the boxes we’ve assigned to them along the way and trying to meet them halfway, in good faith.  I imagine, in the final examination, we’ll all look back and ask, “Why did I punish myself?” as we realize we were the only ones affected by our disappointments, our letdowns, our impossible expectations.

My grandmother calls a few times a year. She has no agenda, she just wants to hear my voice. Know how I’m doing. It’s uncomplicated. She can’t relate to my life, my career, all that I’ve done, but that doesn’t matter. She’s just calling because she cares.

Maybe we’d all be a bit better if we took the time just to hear our loved one’s voices. Sure, they’re odd, imperfect souls. So are we. We can let go of the unfulfilled expectations, and just focus on loving someone.

I have a few calls to make.

On Not Seeing the Pope

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Yesterday, Pope Francis visited my neighborhood. Well, to be accurate, he drove up in the alley behind my neighborhood in his Fiat, jumped into the Pope-mobile, and drove back down the alley from whence he came. I and about 50 other neighbors gathered on a nearby lawn and were treated to close up, “backstage” access to His Holiness. I’m not Catholic, but seeing the head of any state  is pretty cool. The problem? I didn’t really see him.

As I stood waiting for the pontiff to arrive, I could hear the cheers of the crowd gathered on the nearby street. When I saw his Fiat coming down the alley, I, along with every other neighbor, had my camera ready. Given that I was surrounded by folks, I had to hold my camera aloft just a bit to get a decent angle. As he drove by in the Fiat, and, when he came by in the Pope-mobile, I held the camera button down, taking approximately 60 photographs in the span of 5 seconds, combined. From those, I’m sure I’ll cull a decent shot. I haven’t really looked yet, a bit out of disgust. You see, as the Pope-mobile pulled away, I realized that I had looked at my phone the entire time. Never once did I see the Pope, straight on, with my own eyes. Even a dying Darth Vader had the sense to tell Luke to take his mask off to look upon him with his own eyes!

As I walked away from my Pope encounter, I was struck by the realization that it had been more important for me to get a photograph of the Pope than to actually see him myself. My entire encounter was literally through the lens of technology. Perhaps even more disheartening was the realization that my complete engrossment in technology was subconscious. I didn’t weigh the pros and cons; I instinctively resorted to experiencing the Pope through technology. I never thought to put the phone away and just be in the moment. Soak it in. Take a picture in your brain.

It’s just another reminder that technology isn’t the unqualified good we seem to want it to be. Sometimes, more data, more pixels, more bytes, more whatever is just more. Not better. Just more. It doesn’t always enhance life; it can take you out of your life. Out of the moment. Technology can enhance some moments, for sure. It just shouldn’t be the moment.

They say a picture is worth 1,000 words. You know what it’s not worth? One really good glance.

On Staying in Touch

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 2 Comments

During my high school graduation ceremony, the principal on multiple occasions remarked that the graduating class would never be in the same room together again. It was an odd statement. It was not only the last time we would be in a room together, but it was the first time we had ever been in a room together! Moreover, when your graduating class has over 500 students in it, it’s not as if it’s a close-knit family. I’m sure there was a sizable percentage of students I graduated with that I did not know, or recognize for that matter.

I’m sure not a single classmate has bemoaned the fact that the entire graduating class can’t be back together again.  Then again, I guess I need to give my high school principal a little slack; surely he could not have envisioned how easy it would become, in just a few years, to stay in touch with almost everyone you’ve ever met in your life.

Staying in touch has never been easier. Sitting on your couch wondering what happened to your pal from 4th grade? You can probably find out in less than 5 minutes. Technology allows us to stay in touch with speed and ease, but that very ease begs the question: why stay in touch? Once our voyeuristic curiosity is settled and we learn that our 4th grade pal sells insurance in Kansas City, we’re quickly reminded there’s a reason we needed Facebook to learn about his life now: we are not close. We haven’t been close for decades. We will never be close again. Our lives stopped intersecting in elementary school. Sure, you can send that awkward “hello” message, but what will you talk about? What’s going to rekindle this relationship that barely existed in the first place?

The ease of social media to stay in touch has a bigger pitfall: it’s not a real relationship. To a very large extent, social media (like writing one’s own blog) is an exercise in vanity. We want to be seen by people. We crave the acknowledgment. The validation. The acceptance. The Likes. It’s one thing to share that cute photo with your great-aunt, it’s another to think all 289 Facebook friends really care. (Hint: they don’t) (Double hint: you don’t have 289 friends). It’s not an equal footing, a dialogue, a shared experience. Sure, you can “Like” or comment, but, at bottom, it’s bits and bytes and really not much more.

Relationships, no matter the relationship, aren’t easy. You can’t “friend and forget” — a phrase I’m definitely trademarking. They take time, energy, and intention. It takes the willingness to listen, to care, to make something not about you. To genuinely invest in and care about a life experience other than your own for no other reason than love. We shouldn’t confuse the ease of social media for the real thing.

Our inner circles are delicate, intimate things, and whom we choose to inhabit that space is no small question.  And, the more time we spend tending those real relationships, the less time we have for social media…and the less interest we have in it too.

On Lost Throwing Stars

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

When I was nine years old, my dad gave me three Japanese shurikens (throwing stars). Stored in a leather pouch, the throwing stars were black, and one throwing star had two dragons chasing each other around the middle. These weren’t pretend toys; they were the real deal. Armed and dangerous, I was.

Kept carefully stored (or concealed, depending on how much of a ninja a nine year old can be) in my dresser, I loved to take them out and look at them. One day, Dad and I took them out to the back yard. Behind the detached garage, there was a pile of wood. Safe away from the house or anything else I could hurt with an errant throw, he let me practice throwing my shurikens. I couldn’t have been standing too far away, but I’m sure some embedded in the wood logs, while others embedded in the side of the garage. It didn’t matter to me. At that point, you’re pure ninja. My classmates’ Little League was laughably “little” compared to throwing throwing stars. Soon, I’d be scaling walls, fighting baddies, and starring in my own martial arts action-adventure films.

A funny thing happened, though. After throwing a round, we could only find two of the three shurikens. We searched high and low, around the wood pile, up and down the garage, but it was not meant to be. A shuriken had been lost, most surely the result of an errant throw. And it would never be found.

What’s interesting to me is not that a nine year old boy threw something and lost it, but that, three decades later, I recall the event with a high degree of clarity. I wish I knew why. I can recall trying to find the throwing star, and I’m sure I wasn’t thrilled about losing one, but it is not as if the loss caused great emotional tumult. My mom likes to say that we take our childhoods with us, and that’s surely true. It seems, however, we take not only the big emotional moments, the successes and the failures, the love and the hurt, but also the quiet and the unremarkable.

We all have seemingly benign moments from our childhoods that have dropped deep psychic anchor. Are the memories simply outliers, haphazard, nihilistic synaptic connections in our brains, or do they represent something deeper, some meaningful emblem of ourselves? If we could pull back enough, pull back at a psychic distance of miles and miles, would the pattern reveal itself? Would we see ourselves in the random assortment of memories, the lost mitten, the beautiful flower, the unusual cloud, the splat of rain on the window? Is it possible that the random aren’t so random and reveal more than we think?

Why do these memories come to us? These interstitial thoughts, a background chorus to our music. Neither sad nor happy, but present. Real. Softened over years, but still tangible. Is our psyche trying to find the pattern in the patternless, connecting the unconnected, the disconnected? Or, does our personality, maybe even our soul, reveal itself in this way? Revealing a sum of parts, including the random, the meaningless, the merely extant.

I still have the black leather pouch and two remaining throwing stars my dad gave me, and, from time to time, I take them out and look at them. I daydream about returning to the home of my childhood, walking into the backyard, past the grapevines and garden, circling around to the back of the blue garage, and looking down to find my lost throwing star. Waiting for me, all the time.

On Sitting Six Rows Back

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I’m in an airplane, sitting six rows back from first class. Just six small rows separate me and first class. Well, six rows and a sheer curtain that does nothing to obstruct one’s view of the fantasyland that is first class life but does everything to communicate the message that you are definitely not living the first class life.

Right now, the flight attendant appears to be serving the first class passengers meals on real china with actual utensils. I got to pay eight bucks for a plastic box of cheese and crackers. Well, I’m exaggerating; I also got walnuts and peanuts. My bad. Oh wait, now she’s passing around the bread basket in first class. I can only assume the meals have been paired with an appropriate wine straight from Napa Valley.

All is not lost, though. Hubby procured exit row seats for us. What this Faustian bargain entails is that, for a few extra (precious) inches of legroom, you agree to aid the crew in an emergency by opening the exit door and helping passengers out. So, yes, once everyone else has safely cleared the plane after it has crash landed, you will lag behind and be engulfed in the flames of the explosion. But, as tragic as that is, your knees will feel better at that moment of immolation, and that will bring a peace as you cross over the River Styx.

Okay, there are the hot towels. Bet that feels great. My small cocktail napkin probably doesn’t feel as good against my grimy skin. Okay, let me test that out.

Yep, I was right. That is totally uncomfortable.

So, Kim (that’s the name I’ve given the first class flight attendant — it just sounds nice) just had a really warm interaction with a passenger. Smiles were exchanged, a soft hand on a shoulder, direct eye contact, genuine sincerity. That was really nice to watch. Thus far, Ursula (that’s the name I’ve given my flight attendant) has hit my elbow four times with the beverage cart. I’m pretty sure she backed the cart up one time just to hit me again. That’s okay, the half glass of water I got was worth it. I wasn’t planning on using my elbow anytime soon, and the three days left in my vacation should give it ample time to heal.

Wow, Kim just surprised everyone in first class with giant chocolate chip cookies. Hold on. Yes, she is definitely explaining to the first class passengers that she personally baked the cookies in the galley kitchen. Oh, it’s her personal recipe. Handed down for four generations by her family. Okay, must be a French first class passenger, because Kim effortlessly switched to French, explaining the intricacies of the recipe, simultaneously, in both languages. The cookies do look amazing.

I have’t seen Ursula in at least half an hour.

Wait, another flight attendant just slid open the curtain separating first class and the rest of us. Could the first class lifestyle waft back to us? Okay, I see now. No, the first class lifestyle is not wafting back to us. What is wafting back, though, is the trash bag the flight attendant is carrying. Apparently, the trash first class generates cannot be stored in first class but must travel in coach. Seems only fair. As she passed, I do think I got a whiff of those delicious cookies.

So, a passenger three rows ahead of me just got up and opened the sheer curtain, attempting to walk up to the first class bathroom. At that moment, Kim was helping one of the first class passengers sharpen her resume for a job opening at the United Nations, but, when she saw the dude from coach cross into the promise land, she leapt up like a ninja, spinning over two rows like an Olympic gymnast does a pommel horse, landing in front of him. She was incredibly sweet but firm, explaining that the first class bathroom has special technology that only responds to passengers in first class. Should he attempt to use the lavatory, it would result in a mess appropriate for coach, not first class. Kim’s blue apron blocked his way, a silent guardian, a clear message to him that his bladder would find no solace at this end of the plane. From his posture, I could tell the passenger had to come to grips with his place on the plane, his place in life. Ultimately, though, he accepted the uncomfortable truth.

Speaking of uncomfortable, my chair, with its dearth of lumbar support, paucity of breathable fabric, and pinching sides, is positioned just so, allowing me to observe that the first class chairs are significantly more padded and ample. On the bright side, trying to sit with my back not touching the exposed springs of my chair does appear to lead to better posture. I guess the airline really does care.

The head flight attendant has come over the speaker, announcing a credit card offer. It seems that if you get the airline’s credit card, you can earn extra frequent flyer miles. Apparently, if you fly all the time, always using the same airline, in about 20-25 years, you can accumulate enough miles for a free flight. Domestic only. No holidays. No weekends. No summer trips. Fine print says it only applies to flights in and out of Topeka, Kansas. On Wednesdays. In January. Seems fair. During the announcement, I watched Kim hand out bundles of cash from a Brinks bag to the first class passengers. Again, seems fair.

So I’m not in first class. I can accept that. Hubby and I will get home. Eventually. Sure, we’ll feel gross, be exhausted, and ache all over, but we’ll get there. I don’t need to be fawned and fussed over, my every whim attended to. I can just sit here, admittedly uncomfortably, and wait it out. Wait out this misery. Wait out this endurance test, this crucible, this trial worthy of Odysseus. I’ll accept this as a challenge to my inner strength. My perseverance. I don’t need anything or anyone. I’m a self-made man. A rugged individual. Watch me find inner peace in this storm.

Wait, is Kim giving everyone in first class massages? Where the hell is Ursula?

On Borrowed Luxury

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Beyond my laptop monitor, at this very moment, is a gilded mirror, in which I can see the reflection of an impressive bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the windows, a desert stretches for miles after you survey the lush golf course, high rise casinos, and barren mountains. Yep, I’m in Las Vegas.

I just left the casino floor. I went down to get a Diet Coke to drink and figured the casino would bring me one if I played at a machine long enough. I was right. I enjoyed a small glass of Diet Coke, and it only cost me $100.

It’s not an original thought to say that Las Vegas is an oasis of contradictions. You find yourself surrounded by luxury — opulent casinos, pricey restaurants, and the allure of potential riches — and poverty — financial, emotional, and moral. For every luxurious casino promenade, there’s a meth addict huddled under a flight of concrete stairs, in a hundred degree heat, sleeping. Maybe passed out. Maybe dead. It’s quite the tapestry.

Trying your hand at blackjack or the slots can be fun, if not rewarding, but you’re always guaranteed a win when you people watch. You do see elegance and, here and there, some obvious wealth. But, on the whole, you see a lot more ordinary crude, rude, blunt, unsophisticated, uneducated, foul, and superficial. All here for the fun, the excitement, the action. And maybe the promise of that one pull of the lever that will change their life forever. Then again, you don’t build palaces like the modern day casino on winners.

As you walk amongst the hoi polloi, you gaze upon massive billboards, advertising the hottest musical acts, ventriloquists, impersonators, and magicians. At street level, it’s decidedly less magical. The street performers crowd the hot sidewalks, some mildly interesting, most incredibly bad. Barkers voice every tour and service imaginable, and gangs of sad looking folks in colored t-shirts flick cards at you advertising escort services with little emphasis on the escort part of the operation. Still, the bright lights, towering buildings, and air of excitement drown out the animated and unanimated detritus, at least to some extent.

It’s difficult to reconcile the Las Vegas experience with anything else in your life. There’s simply too much of everything. It’s all out of proportion. Your normal boundaries, parameters, and guidelines — simply obliterated. Pancakes at 4am? Why not. Bungee jump off a skyscraper over a roller coaster. I’m game. Pedicure while you pet a white jaguar born inside an active volcano with rubies for eyes? Sure. There are no rules (as long as you pay), no deadlines, no expectations. Just the throbbing orb of indulgence.

The casinos stand as a testament to our love of excess, of riches, of luxury. But, for most of us, we just borrow the luxury. We slip on the Emperor’s clothes, parade around for a bit, and, then, return home to laundry, bills, and responsibility. Maybe Vegas is the break from the mundane that lots of folks seem to need. In the end, though, there’s a reason Las Vegas is home to America’s magic scene. Sure, it’s a little bit magical, but it’s really one great big illusion.