I arrived back in Vegas sick as a dog. Sick as a pigdog. I had a bad cough and just felt lousy. My first jazz night back was a duo jam with bass and trombone and I barely had the energy. But, it was still nice to be home. The next day we had a girl's day and got pedicures and manicures and I went to the doctor. My doctor is amazing. She gave me a shopping bag of drugs and . . . . no symptoms. I can tell I'm sick. I don't feel well, but I can't prove it with symptoms. She gave me nose inhalers, cough inhalers, pills, you name it. It takes me 15 minutes every morning and night to sort them out, but, there I am no cough, no sniffing, just secretly sick. If you have to have a cold, this is the way to have it. I love modern medicine I just wish it were the future.

I went to the Gambler's General Store and decided on the brand of cards I'll use for my close-up tricks. I'll be a Tally-Ho Linoid Finish Red Circle Back man, if you're looking for the gift that keeps on giving.

To remind the locals that I was back in town, I ran out of gas in my pink bug with the "PENN" license plate right at the intersection of Trop and Las Vegas Blvd. I'm not sure it's the busiest intersection in Vegas, but there I was pushing my car in traffic to the right turn lane. It's good to be a big strong guy with a little car if you don't have a brain in your goddamn head. To prove it was Vegas, a Richie Vallens clone from "Legends in Concert", and his dancer-neuropsychology-major girlfriend picked me up and drove me to get gas. He was even able to say "if you undo that back hole it'll come out better" without adding "idiot" to the end, and his girlfriend had tissues for me to clean some of the gasoline off me. This was all done in the right turn lane into the MGM. Vegas knows I'm home.

We did our first show in Vegas since 9-11. We didn't know what to expect, but it turns out there was nothing to expect. It was a good size crowd and they were really good. It was our standard opening Thursday at the Rio. I was sick, but I couldn't prove it. Even running around, the cough didn't come back. My voice was even pretty strong. I got out on stage and I felt terrible and sluggish, but I decided to kick it. It was a great show. We were both sick and both really on. We killed. I got off book in the crowd with a woman with a camera and it was a show that was so tight it was really loose. It felt good to be on stage in Vegas. I had been afraid that the city was just dead and we'd be doing shows for no one, but that didn't happen. Even sick, it felt good. It's good to be home and soon I'll be home and healthy.

John Edward, the ghoul who does the worst kind of manipulation to grieving people for money and cheesy Sci-Fi fame, announced (as I had predicted) that during sweeps week he would talk to the dead of 9-11. Even though I knew it would happen, and even though I thought I hated these evil, empty, hateful, manipulators as much as possible, I was wrong. The hate and bile and sadness that rose up in me when I read that he was about to exploit personal and national grief for his own ends made me cry. He certainly goes on the list with the "evil doers" that we need to fight against. They have since cancelled the idea while saying that it was the idea of the relatives of the victims and not the producers (I'm sure they got lots of calls from the grieving saying, "Wouldn't this be great for sweeps?"), but we should remind people that that's the kind of people that are doing this show. I haven't been able to get through yet, but the number of the John Edward Hotline is (800) 962-9960. You'll be told to speak slowly. Please speak slowly and tell the person who's working the phone that they really shouldn't help slime to exploit people who are filled with grief. I just read the last sentence and "slime" and "exploit" read as such empty words. I guess I don't have words for John Edward. I just have tears that he exists.

Penn

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