I’m fascinated by heights. No, not the man-made kind such as the view from the Empire State Building or the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m talking about real heights—like those from the tops of majestic mountains. There’s nothing like looking down on the rest of the world from the summit of Pike’s Peak or the tip of the Matterhorn to get your blood pulsating. Ever since Sir Edmund Hillary scaled the heights of Everest, I’ve heard the beckoning call to climb. When UK Athletics Director Mitch Barnhart successfully summited Mt. Kilimanjaro, the gauntlet was thrown down for me to do something just as dramatic.

You’ve no doubt heard of the Seven Summits challenge, where an adrenaline junkie with a death wish tries to climb to the top of the tallest mountains on all seven continents? Well, for somebody approaching sixty with bad feet, I’m going to try something almost as daunting. Rather than Everest, Denali, Kilimanjaro, Aconcagua, Mont Blanc, Elbrus, Puncak Jaya, and Vinson, I’m going to try and scale 13 summits—the thirteen highest peaks in my home state of Kentucky. Rather than the lack of oxygen in the death zone of Mt. Everest at 30,000 feet, I’ll be dealing with the thistle and bramble of rhododendron on Pine Mountain at 3,000 feet. Instead of frostbite, I’m worried about snakebite. Although there’s no chance of altitude sickness, I’ll still be dodging salmonella, sunburn, and shotguns. After all, we ARE talking about the mountains of Eastern Kentucky.

This is not an expedition you want to undertake alone, so fortunately I’ve found some other brave souls who’ll be sharing in this experience with me. The core group consists of my Saturday morning running buddies. It shouldn’t surprise you that we came up with this harebrained scheme together during one of our group runs when our beer muscles were flexing and our brains were hypoxic. I thought about changing some names in this blog to protect the innocent but decided in the long run that none of these characters are really innocent.

Our expedition leader is Lee Meyer, Ag Economics Professor at UK, who in his sixties, remains an athletic freak. Lee is the only one in our group who can still go shirtless in public without shame. Politically, he’s a bit of a socialist but he had a swimming pool put in his backyard last summer so I always try to remain friendly with him.

We’re joined by Tony English, UK Physical Therapy Program Director, whose countless sidewalk consultations have undoubtedly prolonged the functioning of our geriatric joints over the past decade. Tony will serve as our medic. Although he also leans left on his political views, he’s a Texan at heart who can spin tall and entertaining tales. A bit of a renaissance man, Tony will talk your ear off–a useful addition when traipsing through bear country (or when we’re just plain bored).

Also recruited to join our escapade is Bob Stoops, chief architect of the recent upgrades at Rupp Arena. My hope is that Bob’s technical expertise will make him a modern-day mountain MacGyver, with the ability to turn shoestrings into snares and trail mix into trail magic.

Lee Edgerton, another retired UK faculty member (Do I sense a pattern here?), will also be along on this journey. Lee’s been slowed by a recent leg injury, so he’ll be playing hurt—but his penchant for common sense planning and practical advice will be critical to keeping our remaining testosterone levels in check. A gifted orator, Lee will be our spokesman should we encounter difficulties, delay, or ultimate demise.

Of course I’ll be there also to report on all the action, or to offer assistance should someone accidently break a bicuspid or muck up their molar. You just never know what might happen over the course of the next few weeks, or months, or years–or however long it takes for us to complete this treacherous adventure. Following our first climb, we might already be one and done—but I wouldn’t bet against us. Like Sir Edmond Hillary and Mitch Barnhart, we’re dauntless dudes looking to scale some perilous heights. You’re more than welcome to join us.

John Huang is a retired orthodontist turned wannabe sports journalist and travel writer. You can follow all his adventures on twitter @KYHuangs. He can be reached at www.huangswhinings.com.

I recently attended the wedding of the son of a very close friend of mine. The ceremony was beautiful and the bride and groom were dazzling. Embarrassingly, I found myself crying while sitting awkwardly alone in the pews without Kanisa–my beloved bride for the past 32 years. I thought of our own wedding day as the subsequent events of three decades of matrimony flashed through my brain like a hastily constructed time lapse YouTube video.

Kanisa and I had met through a mutual acquaintance and it was love at first sight. (Well, maybe second sight.) The courtship progressed quickly and we spent the next seven years in wedded bliss, traveling frugally around the world on a military member’s budget. After Katie was born, Kanisa became the perfect doting mother, pouring her heart and soul into raising our only daughter in the most creative and imaginative ways possible. We continued to travel extensively together as a family, making frequent trips to all sorts of exotic destinations far and wide. All the while, my business flourished and life with family and friends was grand. I didn’t quite appreciate how good I had it at the time.

Things are quite different now. Katie has grown into adulthood and is living in California running her own successful small business. When she left for college 7 years ago, Kanisa suffered an emotional breakdown from which she has yet to recover. In fact, she suffers from severe anosognosia, or lack of insight as a primary symptom of her mental illness. Because she doesn’t realize how bad off she is, she is unwilling to see a doctor for treatment, refuses any sort of anti-depressive or anti-psychotic medication, and has basically isolated herself from the rest of the world. This beautiful, vibrant, and loving person who was so passionate about traveling, gardening, and decorating is now a shell of her former self–literally and figuratively. She spends her days camped out in front of the TV or computer, frequently staring off into space or ranting aimlessly about this or that. Her friends and family rarely drop by anymore, understandably frightened by the bizarre behavior of this emaciated stranger they no longer recognize.

My heart is broken. I’m constantly burdened by multiple levels of pain and guilt. I often feel a deep personal sorrow and a sense of utter helplessness and isolation. It’s an agonizing experience to see someone you love perishing right before your eyes and not be able to do anything about it. It’s especially difficult having to bear witness to Kanisa’s own daily anguish and agitation of being trapped in her own sick mind with no escape. Most tragedies in life, including death, offer some opportunity for closure and peace. Unfortunately, the hellish cycle of chronic mental illness does not.

Pain of this intensity is debilitating. It affects my health, my relationship with others, and my faith. It deeply colors my entire outlook on life. For this is the time that Kanisa and I should be enjoying our golden retirement years together, reaping the fruits of a life well lived. Instead, I spend my days planning for a far different future than what we had ever envisioned. My periods of self-pity and grief usually hit me at odd times–like when I see a happy couple enjoying a simple meal together at a restaurant, or when I run across an especially poignant social media anniversary post, or like when I’m watching a young couple at a beautiful wedding ceremony with families intact and the world at their fingertips.

I think frequently about the sanctity of my own marriage vows repeated all those years earlier…. “for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to her, for as long as we both shall live.” It’s especially difficult embracing the “in sickness and in health” part, and I know it’s only through an undying love for Kanisa and God’s loving grace for us that I even stand a chance of upholding those vows. I seem to be surviving for now–proceeding day by day, taking on the immense challenge of caring for myself while also having to provide for all of Kanisa’s essential needs. Often times I feel I’m just one small temptation away from crashing and burning. I covet all your prayers.

But what can you do? Life goes on. Through the relentless support of family and friends, and from organizations like NAMI (National Alliance for Mental Illness), I press on–facing my grief head on by writing and sharing personal thoughts such as these in hopes of exposing the stigma associated with these cruel and unrelenting diseases of the brain. Writing is therapy for me. Whenever I put fingers to keyboard, I feel an overwhelming and unexplainable sense of gratitude as I’m able to openly share my struggles with those who may not fully understand the devastation caused by mental illness. Through my writing, it also suddenly dawns on me that I’m not alone after all, that many others are battling their own personal trials and private demons. Despite our hardships, we all seek the assurance in our hearts that life on earth is still worth living, even as we long to grasp the healing that is sure to eventually come.

The other day, as I was struggling with something as simple as paying a bill that was held over in Kanisa’s name, I realized that our lives are intertwined now more than ever—truly united together as one flesh, in sickness and in health. Most of the time it’s a living hell, and I doubt if this is the way God intended marriages to be. But strangely, I also still get momentary glimpses of joy when I’m taking care of her basic everyday needs. It’s a definite conundrum in my mind–all part of this mystery we call life. I haven’t figured it out yet, but I’m trying to—one “crazy” step at a time.

If you enjoy my writing, please continue to visit me at http://www.huangswhinings.com and follow me on Twitter @KYHuangs.

I keep telling myself to cheer up. After all, nobody died, right? That’s the thing—every time my Kentucky Wildcats are eliminated from the NCAA tournament, I feel as if there really is a death in the family. A season that started out with so much hope and promise suddenly ends in a last-second ash heap of disappointment on the hardwood of FedExForum. I know that middle-aged men shouldn’t have their emotional state tied into the athletic prowess of 18-year-old basketball prodigies, but I grew up in Kentucky and that’s how we roll in our state. We all live and die with our Cats.

Only four times in my lifetime have the Wildcats gone on to win the title, so I’ve been through this funk many times before. The season unexpectedly ends and you’re faced with the reality of entering the real world again. No more weekends on the road, cheering your team to tournament wins. No more heartbreaking buzzer beaters or post-game press conferences. No more stories to write or deadlines to meet. No more survive and advance. It’s suddenly over and you’re back to your normal life–paying your bills, walking your dog, and mowing your lawn.

How great would it be if I could just keep living in a fantasy world for a little bit longer? What if after the final buzzer, I just escaped to some Caribbean island to watch sunsets and sip Coronas? What if I could sequester myself away from any sort of post-season basketball analysis–completely isolated from the perils of sports talk radio, newspaper headlines, and the twitter feed? It’d be like a Big Blue detox while supine in the sand, soaking up the sun, and swimming in the surf.

What’s keeping me from doing that? Absolutely nothing. I’m packed with airline tickets and passport in hand. My skin is pasty pale from the lack of winter sun. I’ve got a pot belly, love handles, and boobs to match. Too much bad food at media buffets over the course of a long season has turned me into my brother. I know I’ll stand out like a British tourist on the Costa del Sol, but I don’t care.  I’ll do anything to avoid watching Carolina win it all.

So where am I headed? Turks and Caicos! Their tourism website tells me it’s the home of “breathtaking hues from inviting waters, and legendary diving, snorkeling and fishing.” It’s also TripAdvisor’s latest pick for the world’s top island. I’ll be staying on Grace Bay Beach, voted as the 2016 best beach in the world. The skeptic in me can’t wait to find out what that’s all about, hehe.

But it’s not all about going to “the best” to escape “the worst.” I really picked Turks and Caicos because I’m meeting my daughter Katie and her boyfriend there. You remember Nick, the deejay, from my previous post?

https://huangswhinings.com/2016/12/16/meet-the-boyfriend

He’s playing a musical set on the beach at the five-star Shore Club resort on Saturday night, and I’ve been invited along as a VIP guest. The timing’s perfect. Just as Carolina takes the court, I’ll be busting out my moves on the dance floor, cutting a rug, getting my groove on as the ignominious memories of a Luke Maye buzzer beater fade into the glorious Caribbean sunset.

If you enjoy my writing, please continue to visit me at http://www.huangswhinings.com and follow me on Twitter @KYHuangs.

No man is an island,

Entire of itself,

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

With apologies to John Donne, I’ve always enjoyed my time alone. There’s something uniquely comforting about being totally isolated with only your own thoughts, feelings, and actions to guide you. I actively seek out those precious moments in my life when I AM an island. Given the choice between a good book or dinner with the neighbors, I’ll choose the good book any day of the week. In fact, I’ll probably choose a bad book over any sort of idle chitchat with people I don’t know all that well. I like going to movies by myself and vacationing with my dog. It’s not that I’m anti-social. It’s just that sometimes, as the Southwest Airlines commercial says, you “wanna get away.”

So with that introduction in mind, I’ve decided to attend the annual Centenary Church Men’s Retreat. In the interest of full disclosure, this won’t be my first rodeo. I’ve been to these before—even led a couple of recent sessions. I’ve also been to other similar Promise Keeper type of events with tens of thousands of men in attendance. Just so you know, a stadium packed full of strangers singing, hugging, crying, and washing each other’s feet isn’t necessarily my cup of tea. I prefer a more low key personal approach, like that of the Trappist monks in the Gethsemane Abbey near Bardstown, living out their vows of silence. I’m hoping the Centenary retreat will be more like that experience. Some quiet spiritual renewal without too much interpersonal contact or hugging.

The event basically consists of a couple of days of being sequestered together with guys—some you know and some you don’t. You spend much of your time in worship together, learning about and discussing various spiritual topics supposedly relevant to men. The food during the retreat is pretty good—provided you’re not worried about cholesterol or A1c levels. The sleeping arrangements are four to a room in bunk beds for most of the participants. There’s the ubiquitous snoring, grunting, and rhythmic wheezing of the occasional CPAP machine to keep even the most hardened sleeper awake throughout the night. I guess I’ve become a creature of comfort in my old age. I don’t relish being greeted by strange bedfellows or random toilet seats upon waking in the morning.

There’s just something about the experience, however, that keeps me returning year after year. The retreat this year is held out at Aldersgate Camp near Ravenna in Estill County. Those of you familiar with the area know that it’s pretty isolated. There’s no phone service, no internet, and no GPS guidance. Like many other rural areas in the commonwealth, you may not be able to get there from here.

This year there are around 40 men, ranging in age from 18-82, from all different occupations, backgrounds, and stages in our spiritual journey. As radical evangelicals, however, the one thing we all have in common is how we all cling to our guns and our religion. Upon arrival the first evening, we decide to forego our religion and go straight for the guns. We divide into teams and engage in fierce competition—shooting BB guns at aerosol cans, hitting flaming tennis balls with golf clubs, and smashing ceramic tiles with rocks. As the competition winds down, my spectacular, Willie Mays, over-the-shoulder dive and attempted catch (and crash and burn) of the projectile fired out of the homemade air bazooka heroically vaults our Team Foxtrot out of last place. With my bruised shoulder and ego barely intact, shivering in 20-degree temperature, I start wondering if this is how Jesus and his disciples initially bonded together.

After a rejuvenating run and breakfast the next morning, we’re ready to get back to our religion. The lesson this weekend is from the “33 series”—appropriately named for Jesus’ 33 years before his death and resurrection. During that time, he roamed the earth–sharing his ministry and leaving a legacy that would shape the history of mankind for the next couple of millennia. He forged relationships with 12 other men that would forever model life in community. Sure, he occasionally retreated into solitude as one of his necessary spiritual disciplines, but I remind myself constantly that he was no Ted Kaczynski, living alone in the Montana wilderness.

As we’re sitting in one of our breakout sessions, it dawns on me why I keep returning year after year. God created human beings to live in community. As much as I want to deny it, this truth keeps surfacing throughout my own life story. I can give you a thousand examples of how being “in touch” saved me from imminent self-destruction. It’s through my relationship with my nurturing biological family, my supportive church family, my intimate men’s small group, my teachers and mentors, my professional colleagues, my dear friends and neighbors—and yes, with my new acquaintances at a men’s retreat– that my earthly life takes on meaning.

Just as I wallow in my own self-pity, I draw inspiration from someone else who has been down that same path of suffering. Just as I learn to overcome my own shortcomings, I develop the necessary compassion to comfort others who are hurting. Just as I feel a need to boast about my own accomplishments, I’m humbled by the generosity exhibited by the two dudes sitting next to me.

Through my interaction with my Christian brothers, I realize that we all struggle with the same temptations, fears, hardships, and persecution that life throws our way. We’re all easily susceptible to the idolatry of control, recognition, and comfort that often plagues us as men. Life isn’t about accumulating things, or gathering awards, or visiting exotic places. Rather it’s all about storing up treasures for heaven through the relationships developed here on earth. We can’t do that through dinner and a movie with ourselves, or long walks through the woods with our dog, or even a loving marriage with our spouse. No, our issues as Christian men—as spiritual leaders and as high-priests of our families—can only be unpacked through genuine relationships and fellowship with other like-minded Christian men.

As we closed out the retreat in communion together, I realized that John Donne had it right after all. No man is an island, entire of itself. We’re all a part of something much bigger than our individual selves. In Romans 12:5, the Apostle Paul put it another way— “so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.” To all my other body parts—see you at next year’s retreat.

If you enjoy my writing, please continue to visit me at http://www.huangswhinings.com and follow me on Twitter @KYHuangs

I love the city of Louisville. I worked in the River City for several years so I’m somewhat familiar with its spirited vitality. I love the variety of cultural opportunities and the bustling restaurant scene. I love the vibrant downtown energy and the area by the waterfront. I love the museums and the parks and the people. I love Churchill Downs and Thunder Over Louisville. What I can’t seem to love are the Louisville Cardinals sports teams.

Over the years, I’ve tried to support the dirty birds. After all, I’m a Kentuckian and I’m quite proud whenever in state schools do well. I love it when Eastern or Western or Murray or Morehead win and advance against other teams, but I just could never get myself to cheer ever honestly for that grating shade of red and black. The closest I ever got to rooting for the Cardinals was a mindset of tepid neutrality. There was polite applause for Darrell Griffith, Bobby Turner, and the Doctors of Dunk, maybe a nod of acknowledgement for Never Nervous Pervis, a tip of the hat to the gentlemanly Denny Crum—but nothing ever bordering on any type of full fan support.

When Rick Pitino became Louisville’s coach back in 2001, the floodgates opened, replacing my lukewarm neutrality with outright contempt. I’m a “loyalty” kind of guy and what Rick did was unforgivable. I appreciate what he accomplished at UK but I’ll never understand anyone turning Benedict Arnold. You don’t sleep with the enemy, stab your former employer in the back, or marry your ex-wife’s best friend. Once a Wildcat, always a Wildcat. I think that’s the problem with Rick—he was never really a Wildcat. Even when Little Ricky was leading Kentucky to the ’96 national championship, I always felt he was just a displaced big city dude thinking he was doing us hayseeds a giant favor. Maybe that says more about my own personal insecurities regarding my Kentucky roots than anything else, so who am I to judge?

But animosity toward Pitino is the one major reason UL’s 73-70 win over UK hurts so much. It’s like your enemy twisting the knife and gloating—as if this one solitary victory somehow validates Rick’s entire decision to leave my beloved university. I see him and UL athletic director Tom Zurich pounding down ribeye steaks in celebration, endlessly reliving Quentin Snider’s game-of-his-life performance over premium shots of Woodford Reserve.

Even with the loss, I must say that the atmosphere in the YUM Center was predictably electric, as it always is when these bitter rivals meet together for their yearly Armageddon showdown. As John Calipari aptly stated, “Everyone makes it life and death and it’s not life and death. It’s worse than that.” Louisville fans decked out in nerdy red Christmas sweaters and carrying Kim Jong-un and Donald Trump Fatheads were out for more blood than usual this evening, trying desperately to root their team on while grasping for recollection of what it actually felt like to win one of these season-defining games. At one point, their ear-splitting screams became guttural, transcending the humanity of a mere basketball game and plunging the entire experience into a cesspool of vitriol and venom. With the game tied at 57 and the arena ready to explode, I realized that this rivalry was indeed something very special. These fans wanted not only to win, but to humiliate their hated oppressors. I could literally sense evil permeating the arena air as they sought my head on a platter. For a sports lover like me, there was no other place I would rather be.

Afterwards, I asked Rick why he thought this rivalry was the best in all of college basketball–from his unique perspective of having been the head coach at both of these elite programs. This is what he said. “The Yankees don’t like the Red Sox and the Red Sox don’t like the Yankees, but they take it to a new level. The reason I think it’s the best rivalry is because of the fanbases and not the teams. Everybody lives for this game. Everybody in Carolina and Duke doesn’t live for that game because you also have Wake Forest when they’re good. You also have N.C. State. This is it for us. We have no professional teams so this is it. And they’ve dominated us for a while now, so it’s good to get a victory.”

As I listened to his answer I realized a change in my own perspective. Maybe I’m just mellowing with age but it suddenly dawned on me that my love for UK Basketball has nothing to do with Rick Pitino. Rick Pitino, or any one person for that matter, isn’t bigger than the program and shouldn’t influence my emotional state or Wildcat passion as a fan. Kentucky didn’t lose tonight because of Rick Pitino. The Wildcats simply lost because they missed crucial free throws, didn’t play solid defense when the game was on the line, and responded in typical youthful fashion in front of a hostile crowd. Unless the Cats learn their lessons, it’s exactly the type of game that can end your season come March.

It’s the Christmas season, so I’ll go ahead and forgive Rick Pitino for jilting UK over two decades ago, but that doesn’t mean I can’t ever cheer against his loathsome Louisville Cardinals. As we saw tonight, a dash of venomous vitriol adds a bit of spice to any such rivalry regardless of who’s coaching. L’s Down! We’ll see the Cards in the tournament.

This blog posting was originally submitted as a UK Basketball Column for Nolan Group Media publications.

If you enjoy my writing, please continue to visit me at http://www.huangswhinings.com and follow me on Twitter @KYHuangs.

A city such as Las Vegas brings out the suppressed foodie in all of us. Ever since the wheels of our plane touched down, I’ve been craving everything under the desert sun. In a futile effort to battle the calories, I went for an early morning run right on the Vegas Strip. My well-worn Nikes brushed past the asphalt sidewalks and concrete walkways of this slumbering megalopolis, still littered with the leftover carnality of the night before—a broken liquor bottle, a pile of vomitus and the litany of abandoned business cards from the various escort services. What a great way to start your day!

Yesterday didn’t start too great for our party. It’s never a good day when you get the dreaded “fraud alert” warning from American Express, and that’s exactly what happened with my brother Michael. Call it a Vegas coincidence, but someone, somewhere, somehow comprised his account. Whether legally or illegally, some shady huckster in this city is going to find a way to take your money. Everyone here has their own particular shtick, whether it’s “Serengeti” our cab driver promoting his Kenyan Safari tours, or “Gator” scrolling through seductive photos of his various girlfriends on his iPhone to show us pictures of his alligator farm. Although I didn’t just roll off a turnip truck, it does take a bit of effort to keep your money in your wallet in this town.

We closed out the evening last night in typical Vegas style with dueling pianos at the Times Square Bar in New York, New York. The scene was just as you might picture it. A couple of once talented “has-beens” tickling the ivories while playing long forgotten requests from over-the-hill patrons nursing overpriced drinks served by weathered, balloon chested waitresses. Honestly though, it’s not quite as sad and pathetic as I just described. My grandmother would have enjoyed the rousing rendition of Young Girl by Gary Puckett & the Union Gap.

Today is shaping up to be a bit better. It’s Spago in Caesar’s Palace for lunch and this evening we’re dining at Nobu in the Hard Rock. World renowned chef Nobu Matsuhisa has brought his critically acclaimed signature fare from New York and we’re here to partake. We’re joined by my daughter Katie and her boyfriend Nick from Los Angeles. I’m meeting Nick for the first time so it could get kind of awkward. He’s a freelance music producer/Deejay by trade, but I’ve gotten over that by now. I’m used to the fact that no one in LA ever has a real nine-to-five job anyway, so I’m not holding that against him. In all the pictures Katie has shown me, Nick looks the part—unshaven, ripped jeans and hat on backwards—not exactly the kind of possible future son-in-law you’ve been praying for. I guess one man’s “cool” is another man’s “loser” look. Katie claims Nick treats her exactly how a husband should treat a wife as described in the fifth chapter of Ephesians. I don’t like any boyfriends in general, but if that’s true, then I told her it’s good enough for me.

I resist the urge to start the conversation by asking Nick to give me his theological discourse on predestination versus free will. Instead, we chit-chat about such mundane topics as Kentucky basketball and Katie’s business venture. At one point our discussions drift to spoken world languages. Get this—this homeboy from Nashville speaks Mandarin Chinese. We immediately start scripting out how we’re going to freak my brother out by speaking in our native tongue. Katie is the one that’s freaking though as we hammer out our imbecilic plot. It’s really surreal—kind of like Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels in a scene from Dumb and Dumber. Like many moments in my life so far, things don’t quite go exactly as I had rehearsed them in my mind. Man plans while God laughs.

Our awkward moments together are only mollified by the scrumptious fare of our eight-course sushi tasting dinner. Our palates are tantalized with an initial serving of yellowtail jalapeno sashimi followed up by a delectable scallop and octopus sushi. In between courses of tuna sashimi salad and Chilean Seabass Pomodoro, I fantasize about Nick being served some exotic pufferfish, improperly prepared so that the poison seeps under his hairy chest, sending him into frightful convulsions before the paramedics arrive—a bit too late. I’m jolted out of my revelry with the arrival of the Wagyu Ribeye—one of the finest cuts of meat I’ve ever tasted. The aromatic mushroom soup and the apricot filled beignets ala mode made for the perfect climax to our food porn encounter.

There’s just something about a good food experience that speaks to us in ways that nothing else can. It’s not just what we are eating, it’s also who, where, and when we’re eating it with. How many of our most memorable life moments have been crafted around the communal dinner table. Take some great food, add some friends and family, throw in a pinch of Las Vegas and the unpredictability of meeting your daughter’s boyfriend and you’ve got the ingredients for a captivating narrative. I can’t say for sure where Nick will fit into the scheme of Katie’s future life, but as my taste buds were gently caressing and massaging that wagyu beef earlier in the evening, I just knew everything was going to work out fine.

If you enjoy my writing, please continue to visit me at http://www.huangswhinings.com and follow me on Twitter @KYHuangs.

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. If that were true, I certainly wouldn’t be writing this blog—would I? I’m here in Sin City primarily to report on the CBS Sports Classic UK versus UNC basketball showdown, but I hope to get in a little pre-Christmas rest and relaxation along the way too. Accompanying me on this adventure are my brother Michael, the renowned sports photographer, his wife Michelle and friend Natalie. We’re all part of the blue mist enveloping this city of “lost wages,” just a foursome of Kentucky country bumpkins mesmerized by the lure of our basketball Wildcats in the bright neon lights of the Nevada desert.

I’ve always been fascinated by the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas, but I’m just not quite sure why. I don’t enjoy gambling away my hard-earned money and wouldn’t know how to go about it if I wanted. I’ve never played blackjack, shot craps or spun a roulette wheel. The closest I’ve gotten to playing cards are Go Fish or Old Maid. In my entire lifetime, I’ve put in less than a dozen quarters in the one arm bandits.

Big name shows, concert performances and hot shot celebrities aren’t my cup of tea either. Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., and the rest of the Rat Pack? They were before my time. Tark the Shark? Sorry, he coached the wrong team, and he’s dead. Wayne Newton? I think he’s still alive, but I’ve never seen him perform.

I’m not much into the party or club scene either. Perhaps I’ll have a sip of red wine with a good steak or down a cold beer every decade or so, but I’m certainly no liquor connoisseur. I wouldn’t know the difference between Dom Perignon or Pabst Blue Ribbon. I may have a few dance moves left in me, but they’re as old as my polyester disco outfits. You might say that at my stage in life, I’m the most uninteresting guy on the face of the earth. No Dos Equis for me.

I don’t like crowds of people either, although I do enjoy people watching—and Vegas affords plenty of opportunities for that. It’s amusing to observe others in a totally relaxed environment–away from the rigors and stresses of their dead-end jobs, unburdened and unencumbered by life’s worries–making total fools of themselves in front of people they don’t care about and probably won’t ever see again.

I do also like gaudy hotels and hokey amusements, and Vegas provides plenty of each. The Strip is like a Disneyland of deluxe accommodations. Being in The Venetian is just like going to Venice—only closer and cleaner. You don’t have to speak Italian either and most of the people there take showers regularly. Why fork out a boatload of cash to visit the Sphinx and Pyramids in Egypt when the Hotel Luxor is just down the street? You don’t even need a passport and chances of encountering Jihad are slim. Of course, we’re staying at the luxurious establishment with the very best attraction of all. It’s the Aria—the team hotel to our very own University of Kentucky Wildcats. I love waking up to the smell of De’Aaron Fox’s sneakers in the morning.

I also like to eat, and Vegas is a virtual smorgasbord of both fine dining and bargain buffets. Back in my younger days, I could out eat most people twice my size. I remember camping out at the buffet at the Bellagio for two or three hours endlessly sampling the ethnic fare from all the different food stations. It was heavenly and disgusting at the same time, but those days are behind me. Now both my palate and wallet have matriculated to cuisine from chefs such as Wolfgang Puck, Scott Conant, and Bobby Flay—my food network heroes turned Vegas superstars. Ironically, now that I supposedly have the means, I’ll pay more to eat less. It’s the quality, not the quantity, right? I hate to say it, but sometimes it’s still the quantity and there’s plenty of quantity in Vegas.

I guess Vegas is just special because it’s so unique. We all want what we can’t have and a lot of what we can’t have in our humdrum lives can be found in Las Vegas—at least for a day or two. There’s a distinct energy, a unique buzz, a certain palpable pulse radiating from its inner core like a wayward heartbeat in search of the human soul. I’ve seen it before in places like New York, or Bangkok, or Hong Kong, or Sydney. It’s no surprise that I’m enamored with all those cities too. I’m still not quite sure what the allure is, but I know it when I feel it and I’m beginning to feel it now. I’ll try to describe it to you the best way I can. Stay tuned.

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