In Las Vegas with my sister, Sherry. Her company rented out the Hard Rock Casino's club, Body English. With deep leather booths, ornate chandeliers, and hallways so dark you can't read the signs on the restroom doors, the place was sort of what I imagine Morrisey's house is like.

Since it was a corporate holiday party, you were more likely to see middle aged businessmen and their wives on the dance floor than, say, Paris Hilton. Which was just fine with me. (The closest I came to a celebrity spotting was later, when a incredibly drunk guy kept insisting that he'd just seen the Iron Sheik playing blackjack at the $10 tables) I tried my best to get dressed up enough for the party, but realized, with a shirt that was exactly the same purple as the Hard Rock employees, I looked like I worked there.

Sherry's co-workers seemed nice. A few of them awkwardly tried to figure out if I was Sherry's husband. "No. No. Just her brother. We have the same last name because we're siblings. Not married."