Dear Rob and Joe,

Because Dan Lurie and I were assigned to write dueling columns based on our rip-roaring whirlwind trip through the classic city of Las Vegas, we would like to be considered for accommodation and travel compensation for our trip, as it could be thought of as a “working vacation.” Thank you.

Tiffany

P.S. Just kidding, guys, just kidding.

There is a reason I went to bed at 11:45 p.m. March 10.

I just didn’t want it to end.

With thoughts of racing neon lights, palm trees and all the 2-for-1 happy hour drinks in every casino, it was hard to fall asleep after a weekend of Las Vegas.

What started as an extended birthday event for me and a friend, the 10 of us got into more than we expected.

Prior to last December, I never really had any desire to make it to Vegas. It sounded like it was just all about the money. Given that long ago I accepted the fact that I would not make a lot of money as a journalist and just save up for wild trips abroad, I wasn’t really interested in gambling. But I’m a big fan of Frank and his Rat Pack crew. The night life and glitter hooked me.

I was determined to do several things while there — see a Vegas-style show (ahem, no Celine Dion), see the old school buildings of Vegas casinos and stay up until the early wee hours of the morning, dressed to the nines.

I saw my Vegas show — “The Best of Bottoms Up.” My friend Brad and I were handed comp tickets for an afternoon show, with a ticket for what we thought was a free drink. Ah, no. While the show was free, the drink ticket cost $8. I could have just paid $4 by myself at the bar.

The show itself… hmmm. Well, my drink, a gimlet, was good.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went into this show, other than a lot of skin, feathers and glitter. I just didn’t expect the ugly jokes that were older than my grandparents. I don’t care if it was voted “The best topless afternoon show in Vegas.”

Following our disappointing show, we went on a photographic exploration of the town, starting at the Flamingo and heading north, almost reaching the Stratosphere at the end of the strip. The further north we perused, the brighter, bigger and older the signs were with racing lights and low ceiling, open-air entrances. That’s what was intriguing about the city — these old signs and buildings that have been witnessing good times since, well, probably since Bugsy opened the Flamingo Hotel.

I didn’t realize how many people actually went to Vegas for a full-fledged wedding with large parties and such. I saw many a bride in meringue dresses with fresh flower bouquets. There were more marriage parties than I expected actually, especially when I found out we were going to be part of one — two of our friends announced they were getting hitched, Vegas-style. And Elvis was invited.

The young couple showed us their Nevada marriage license and silver rings they bought a pawn shop on Saturday afternoon, announcing 10:15 p.m. that night would be their moment of truth. Her in a maroon party dress. Him in a crimson crushed velvet smoking jacket and black pants. The chapel? Viva Las Vegas.

A tanned and waxed bare-chested Elvis in a white pantsuit, studded with colorful rhinestones and a blue scarf with a thick pompadour of greased black hair serenaded the young couple before performing the ceremony. Ten minutes later and two friends hitched, we were out the door and waiting for the cab that never came before we started walking back to the strip. Never thought I’d witness something like that.

Oh, yes we stayed up until the wee hours of the a.m.

I was told by a friend to bet $10 on red in roulette. I lost it 20 minutes later. But I did feed $1 in a nickel slot and won $5 in nickels at the MGM. I carried them back to the hotel in a martini glass. But that was the end of the gambling for me. I got tired and bored of gambling very quickly.

The irony of the trip? Our last big hurrah was at the Bellagio’s water ballet to the tune of “Hey, Big Spender.”

Next time. Maybe.