Geneological Field Research: Not a Pretty Picture

Brother Greg Pabst writes from Las Vegas, where he is attending an American Advertising Federation meeting.

This is the most pointless place I've ever been in. What happens here stays here, and should.

However, there is one interesting event. I'm at the pay phone (yes, they still have them here - I suspect that's the only way they pry your last fifty cents out of your desperate fingers) calling my loyal spouse, complaining about my sorry lot. When appears a wedding party. The impressively large bride is all in white with some modern reflective material sewed on (or glued to) her snowy raiment.

Trailing behind, two witnesses clearly fully in their cups and following is a knave in full Scottish rig and kit, shoes laced to his calves, kilt and a cloth rakishly flung over his shoulder, puffy white shirt and a jaunty tam.

Their accents all betray tongues trained to speak English as the English, or their nearby neighbors. do.

I describe this scene to my wife. Which clan, ask she? Black Watch says I. That's not a clan it's a color! offers my life helpmate.

So, as they stop to weave a bit and mumble to each other near me I ask, what's the clan?

Robertson, says the wee man (newly married to the twinkling giant) as they make a right turn to the elevators, and vanish.

My live-and-in-person private CNN report to my consort crosses the desert at the speed of light, arriving on the Pacific coast in a half-trice, and the moment passes with the same flickering velocity.

How can I ask for more than that? I, like Simeon, can now die a happy man.

I've seen The Robertson Clan colors paraded with pride in the Riviera Hotel, Las Vegas Nevada, 89109, AD 2006!

Almost makes the damn trip worth it. I sense the ghost of Hunter Thompson nearby, promising another trick or two. Too bad I'm beyond the drug thing...
Greg