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I was much more interested in seeing Kim, Anne and Kat than anything else, of course. Much talking. Much laughing. You know, doing the stuff girls do when they get together without spouses and kids. It was grand.

We stayed at the Sahara, which is one of the oldest hotel/casinos on the strip. Personally, that suited me just fine. It felt like old Vegas. Walking through the casino to our room, we passed a bandstand, draped in thick red velvet. A band, mostly older men with a younger Sinatra sound-alike vocalist performed, clad in tuxedos. That's what I wanted to see, just a hint of what used to be.

Saturday:Monorail passes purchased, we hit the strip. Spent some time at Paris, which I thoroughly loved. Then we headed for lunch at Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill.

Now, you might recall that I'm not a fan of Mr. Flay. And apparently, neither are you people. But when Kim got us a lunch reservation at Mesa Grill, I didn't balk. In fact, I was excited and interested. Besides, with an abhorant personality like his, the food must be spectacular for him to be so successful, right?

When we finally found the restaurant, located in Ceasars Palace, it formed a circle with the Pussycat Dolls theater and Celine Dion's show.

A circle. Made of Carmen Elektra, Bobby Flay and Celine Dion?

I have entered one of the circles of Hell. It's the third or fouth, I'm not sure which.

(Sarcasm aside, I truly loved the experience. Really. Because my God, where else would that scenario happen, and how fun to be in it!)

Mesa Grill? Holy fuck. One of the best meals of my life. I knew I'd splurge on one excellent meal while in Vegas. I don't care about gambling. I'm not much of a shopper. But when given the opportunity, I have no qualms spending $50 on lunch, but it had better be so good that I need a shower afterwards. This qualified.

We started with an ahi tuna tartar. It was a little torte; a tortilla on the bottom, avocado relish in the middle, piled with dices of buttery raw tuna tossed with peppers. There was a little herb salad accompaniment and wasabi and ancho pepper dipping sauces. Beautiful and divine in every way.

I really put Mr. Flay's skills to the test (not that he was in the kitchen, of course; he probably hasn't been in a professional kitchen in years) by ordering Barbequed Lamb Cobb Salad. I'm not a fan of lamb. To me, it always tastes like feet. Dirty, icky feet. I was either giving him my ultimate test or setting him up to fail. He didn't. Field greens, avocados tossed with peppers, a smoky buttermilk dressing, rare chunks of lamb tenderloin with a spicy rub crisped around the edges and my beloved Cabrales cheese ... only the tomato was a bit mealy. Otherwise, wonderful, especially with an incredibly peppery glass of Zinfandel (vintage I sadly forgot to note).

For dessert we all shared a bit of warm pumpkin cake, topped with a spiced cream, surrounded by slivers of crisp sugared pear and fresh cranberries with a dollop of pear sorbet, and the best cup of coffee that's ever passed my lips.

Touche', Mr. Flay. You have won my fair favor.

Now, why did I go to Vegas again? Wasn't there a reason ... an impetus for this entire trip? Something we were committed to doing? Hmmm ...

Oh, yeah: those Irish lads with the guitars and stuff.

The show? Awesome. My seat for the show? Incredible. That was taken without a zoom lens. The setlist? Mind-blowing. "With or Without You". "One" with Mary J. Blige. "In a Little While" with that cute boy from The Killers. "Mysterious Ways". "The Fly", complete with mindblowing graphics that hit me at my core.

My one big moment was during "Sometimes You Can't Make it On Your Own", the song Bono wrote in tribute of his father. In the middle of the song he hits this soaring note, followed by the line "You're the reason why the opera is in me". It's both crushing in its grief and beautiful in its love. He was standing right in front of me at that point, and I sobbed. I wished Kara could have seen it, but was also glad that she didn't have to deal with the emotions it would have conjured. It was tough. Really tough.

It was an epiphany-free show. I made sure of that. I went with the intention of just having fun and feeling good. Mission: accomplished. Not that I turned my brain off. Not in the slightest. But this time around it wasn't about desperately grasping for a glimmer of hope. It was just reminders of just how good life is, how good love is. I spent a lot of the show thinking about B. and Clara Jane, missing them, loving them. Thinking about my friends, many who've been through immense amounts of shit lately, missing them, loving them. The missing wasn't even melancholy. I'm glad I have people in my life that I miss when they aren't there.

But it wasn't a show without a surreal moment, that's for sure. After Damien Marley's opening set, I was gawking around behind me, people-watching, when I spotted what might possibly be the cutest woman I've ever seen sitting four rows behind me. Everything about her exuded cuteness. I don't want to say gorgeous, because she wasn't Vegas gorgeous, which is just scary. She was the hottest girl-next-door in the world. Thoughts of changing teams started flickering through my brain, so sublime was the hotness. And she was wearing the most motherfucking massive diamond on her left hand. I caught myself staring, so I diverted my eyes to the person sitting to her left ... who happened to be ...

Bobby motherfucking Flay.

The cutest girl in the world? His wife, acotr Stephanie March. You know how celebs are rarely as attractive in person as they are on screen or in photos? She looks better in person. He, however, radiates lukewarm arrogance, as expected. I considered approaching him and saying, "Yo, Bastard! Your restaurant's serving mealy-ass tomatoes, and I totally wanna do your wife," but I make a point of not bothering the famous people on the rare occasions when I encounter them.

Edited to add: If there is a heaven and I somehow manage to find myself there someday, I hope to spend eternity on a cloud, with The Edge on the next cloud over, playing "Mysterious Ways" for eternity. Except for maybe a little "Bullet the Blue Sky" on my birthdays. Is it any wonder he married the belly dancer from the "Mysterious Ways" video? I'm sure they just spend their days with him playing that sexy, slinky riff while she shimmies. That, my friends, is love.

Sunday: Breakfast at the hotel with everyone, including Anne's husband and darling five-year-old son, Bean. I remember when Bean was born, weeks after I joined the Stonecutters. He was born about three months early and things were really touch-and-go. Not that any of this is evident now. He's tiny, but sharp, funny, agile and quick. I just wanted to stick my fingers in his long, fluffy hair and give him playful little ruffles all morning. Such a cutey!

Oh, the gambling? I only played (and lost) a dollar the entire time I was in Vegas. After the concert, though, Kat hit the casino. Played $5 and won $100. Not too shabby. After breakfast she cashed in her chips, then met me in the front lobby where I was visiting with one of Anne's friends. Kat held out her cupped hand. "Am I just naive, or is this what I think it is?" She held a chip, marked with the casino's name and $100.

"Looks pretty clear to me," I said, thinking the cashier had given her a chip instead of cash.

"I found it on the floor when I was walking back here."

And no, she wasn't being naive. It really was a $100 chip. Found on the floor. After cashing in $100 in winnings. Kat's had a rough go of it lately and really, if anyone deserves to trip over $100 chips, it's her.

Anne and company and Kat both hit the road for their long drives home, while Kim and I headed to the Bellagio. Gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous! We checked out the conservatory, which were decked out for autumn, complete with enormous blown-glass autumn leaves fluttering from the ceiling. We also took in the The Impressionist Landscape at the Gallery of Fine Art. Nice little exhibit and really, a welcome change of pace from all the lights, noise and make-believe. The more I learn about that era of art, the more I appreciate Renoir.

Finally, it was plane-time. I got to the airport early, caught up on the weekends of my spouse and usual partner in crime. The flight, of course, was a sell-out, full of people like myself who hadn't shifted gears from the intensity of Vegas to the blandness of the real world. It was crowded, loud and restless.

I sat by the window with an older woman beside me. Dressed in green camoflauge pants, an American flag leather jacket and a black felt fedora, she was missing a few teeth and smelled of stale alcohol. For about an hour, she leaned on my left arm, snoring.

As we walked down the jetway, almost 1 a.m. back in our real Midwestern world, a teenage boy caught up with her, shouting, "Mama, I ain't never sitting next to Tequila again! She talked the whole flight!"

It was good to see that at least a smidge of Vegas' surrealness was able to survive the bumpy flight.