A newspaper columnist from Orange County visits Las Vegas, notes the seemingly high prostitution traffic and is ... clear-eyed and sober in accepting it as a fact of life? Yeah. He almost EVEN TALKED TO ONE.

I very much wanted to, uh, get to the bottom of this issue, but I declined for a couple of reasons. First, there’s always the chance she was just a pretty young woman who likes to hang out by herself in the same bar night after night—and how awkward would that be? And, second, there’s no way we would see eye-to-eye … she was about 6-3 in her stocking feet and was wearing like nine-inch stiletto heels.  (It would’ve been one of those times when you’re trying desperately not to look at a woman’s chest and you end up with a crick in your neck for the trouble.)

Not the usual bourgie outrage. Give that man a Lucite heel trophy!

It’s hard to be in Las Vegas, at least on The Strip, and not ponder prostitution. Even when you go for a morning walk—when the prostitutes are presumably sleeping—there are folks walking the street handing out coupons for the streetwalkers. (They’re sort of baseball cards for prostitutes … with no need for a statistic about strikeouts.)