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Chick Wit: Another kind of jackpot

I just got back from a book tour through 10 cities - including Las Vegas. Jackpot! Remarkably, I had never been to Vegas before.

I just got back from a book tour through 10 cities - including Las Vegas.

Jackpot!

Remarkably, I had never been to Vegas before.

I was a Vegas virgin.

How did I get to go to Las Vegas on book tour?

I'm lucky.

Did I test this on my trip?

No. I didn't even set foot in a casino. But I did get crazy in a Barnes & Noble.

So why didn't I lose my Vegas virginity?

Let me give you some background. The reason I got to go to Vegas was because I asked. I get a lot of e-mail from fans who live there, and in 20 years of touring, I had never been to their town. They were beginning to feel dissed. One wrote me, "People don't think we read in Las Vegas."

So I went, signed at the bookstore, and am here to tell you that people read in Las Vegas. Better yet, they read me, and that's all that really matters.

I was psyched. I had seen The Hangover three times, not just because Bradley Cooper is so crazy hot.

Oops. Did I say that out loud?

Anyway, to stay on point, if you've never been to Vegas, the fun begins on the plane. Everybody going to Vegas is in a great mood. I flew there from Minneapolis at 10 in the morning, and everybody ordered a drink as soon as we had liftoff.

Or some did.

The hard core didn't party on the plane. They studied magazines about card-playing.

See, Vegas reads!

Anyway, I was ready to gamble. Anybody who knows my marital history knows this already.

And I could have started as soon as I got off the plane, because there were slot machines in the terminal. And near the ladies room. And at baggage claim. (So efficient! You can lose your luggage and your retirement fund at the same time.)

I figured I could gamble at my hotel, but when I checked in, I found out it didn't have a casino.

Evidently my publisher knows my marital history, too.

So I ate dinner and did the signing at the bookstore. It ended at 9 o'clock, which left plenty of time to gamble. So why didn't I?

In my own defense, I tried.

I walked to the Bellagio, because a neon sign said that they had an exhibition of Andy Warhol paintings, and I figured that art would be a palate cleanser after all that commerce.

But when I saw how big the Bellagio was, I got intimidated. It was like Wegman's, only without the fun.

People were flooding in the big doors, which was when I also realized I don't know how to play poker. I don't know how you get the coins for the slot machines. I can't push my way to a roulette table; I can barely push my way to the deli counter.

I realized my gambling days were over.

Before they had even begun.

I work hard for my money, and I'd rather invest my earnings.

In shoes.

So I went back to the hotel, feeling vaguely like a loser.

But when I got to my room, I had the time of my life.

In fact, I had the most fun you could have in Vegas, or anywhere else.

How?

I read a book.

The End.

lisa@scottoline.com.