I was born without the gift of being amazed by stardom. We all came into the world under similar biological circumstances. Life and attitude happened to give some people a little more luck in the limelight than others. As a teenager, I felt quite left out when my friends were gaga over the latest heartthrob or band. Not to belabor the point, it would just take more than rodeo gentry and the Wrangler National Finals Rodeo to make me feel gobsmacked.

My expectations for working at the WNFR in Las Vegas were simple. I knew work was not going to go as planned, and sleep would probably take priority over any other activity besides work. The experience met my expectations, but it was not without its colorful side shows.

The first four days were a mixture of fatigue and industrious panic. After day five, the surreal irony of living in a casino and going to the rodeo every night solidly set in. Time passed in a different rhythm. Breakfast was at 1 p.m., lunch 5 p.m. and dinner 1 a.m.

Day five also brought the only trip down to the new Las Vegas strip. A co-worker and I took the shuttle bus to Mandalay Bay, then went walking to New York, New York.

At New York, New York, we met up with a large number of Englishmen at the Irish Pub inside the hotel. There was a prize fight in town, and a number of them were out having victory drinks. An inebriated and heavily accented Scottish guy asked me if I was from Tennessee. Obviously, I had to be from Tennessee because I wore cowboy boots, jeans, a western shirt.

Following some Guinness and dancing, we ducked out the door trying to avoid any more sweaty Englishmen. A few more intoxicated Brits approached us and asked if we could kindly judge a "booty shaking" contest.

Watching two drunken Englishmen shaking like hip-hop stars on the street in Las Vegas reminded me of my college years and walking down fraternity row around 2 a.m. The point of hilarity came when one of the girlfriends joined in and she, of the female persuasion, instantly won the contest.

Dancing in an Irish Pub with drunken Englishmen, in New York, New York, eating breakfast in the hotel Paris, all while in Nevada, U.S.A.. ... I guess it's all in the true spirit of Las Vegas.

The next five days brought the return to a normal rodeo work routine. Between organized cowboy chaos and cabin fever, I was ready to go home.

The flight home was not exciting. However, after landing in Colorado Springs and picking up my luggage, I had a rude surprise waiting for me.

My brand new large suitcase had the wheel casing completely ripped off and the canvas material on the side was torn. It looked like it had a knife fight and then was dropped from a two-story building.

While my belongings were intact, the suitcase was rendered useless. The airline said wheels were not protected, the store wouldn't take it back after 30 days. The manufacturer's guarantee only covered manufacturing defects, not wear and tear.

Disgusted after unpacking, I tossed the suitcase out on the floor.

What happened over the next few days proved one simple fact. Anything, if given the time, can become a dog bed. A few rearranged dog blankets and VOILA! The dogs all take turns squeezing into the suitcase now dog bed. It was an expensive dog bed, but at least someone is getting use out of it.