The only time I’ve been to Vegas was when my soon-to-be in-laws took Kyle and me there in January 1997. It was loud and smoky and bright. In every single casino. Even the ones that were high-end. Total overstimulation, just like with babies. But I couldn’t scream my head off until someone took me into a dark room and rocked me until I fell asleep. So I enjoyed what I could – the shows, the food, the people-watching. But that wasn’t enough to entice me to return.

Since then, we’ve visited Atlantic City twice, as well as a few Indian-run casinos in Oregon while visiting my in-laws. The trips to AC were birthday presents for Kyle, who enjoyed playing poker at the Trump Taj Mahal. Kyle also played poker at the casinos in Oregon, while I searched for the nickel slots. I did play poker myself one evening in AC, which is probably the most entertaining game for me. If you understand the game, can control your reactions, and can read other people relatively well, you can spend an evening playing low-stakes poker without losing your shirt (if you lose anything at all). But I certainly don’t enjoy it the way that Kyle does.

I can understand the appeal of playing poker with a group of buddies, as many guys like to do. It’s male bonding – a guy’s version of Ladies’ Night Out. I encourage Kyle to go to poker games with his friends (especially if they’re being held at someone else’s house), and I truly don’t mind hosting a poker game now and then at our house, even when we were back in our teeny tiny apartment.

But why is it fun to sit alone in front of a slot machine for hours and hours? Or to sit at a blackjack table? Or a roulette table? Or even a poker table where you don’t know anyone? I just don’t get it.

Kyle tells me that there’s an adrenaline rush to gambling. I can’t quite get there. All I can think about is how I’m pissing away hard-earned money. I’m not having fun. I DO have fun when I join in the poker games we’ve hosted, but I’ve done that because it was at a table full of friends. I don’t seek out opportunities to gamble. I’d much rather read a book, buy a new outfit, enjoy a lavish dinner out, go to a museum or a show. And I understand that other people may see those pursuits as pointless and wasteful.

I also don’t understand the supposed visual appeal of casinos. I think they are downright gaudy, not elegant. Then again, Donald Trump thinks his apartment is spectacular, and I think it is a monument to bad taste. There’s more to decorating than gold leaf.

But beyond the glitz, I think it’s a bit sad that people would rather visit facsimiles of famous places that the actual locations. Casinos such as New York New York, Paris, Venetian, and so forth. Yes, not everyone can afford to travel to all of these actual locations. But why not READ about them? I understand that these resorts take great pains to replicate as much as possible the locations on which they’re based, but I simply can’t get past the fact that they are FAKES. I suppose this is why I never bought a fake Fendi on the street either.

Do I sound like an insufferable snob? I suppose I am one. But that’s not the reason I don’t enjoy casinos or gambling. After all this time, I still don’t understand why it’s supposed to be fun. I can’t figure out how to enjoy it. I’m sure there are people who can’t understand why I enjoy what I do – books, shopping (for just about anything), unique restaurants, museums, theatre. Different strokes, as they say.

So I’ll make a deal with the casino aficionados – I’ll stay out of your casinos and let you have that last seat at the blackjack table if you’ll let me have those tickets to that Tony award-winning show and that corner banquette at Sardi’s. Fair enough?