Still a strange thing, I find, waking up in one city - say, Chicago - and proceed bleary-eyed to the airport, there to warily board a pressurized tube and be propelled to 35,000 feet in the sky, only to be dropped in another part of the country, another part of the world. All the more strange if that pressurized tube touches down in Las Vegas. But there I landed. And very comfortably ensconced in my black Chevy Impala with all the mod cons. - satellite radio, rearview camera, blind spot warning lights, etc. - I proceeded north from McCarran Airport up Las Vegas Boulevard, essentially experiencing the history of the city in reverse. It says something about where my Las Vegas interest lies, my temporal bias exists, that my first stop - having an hour to kill before checking into my hotel - took me to the Neon Museum. I may well walk right into my death some day, gaping at a neon sign, walking into the middle of some busy street. At least...