I landed in Las Vegas in 1984, a 25-year-old from the suburbs of Buffalo, convinced I would only stay a couple of years as I chased a hopeful path toward the New York Times. It seemed like a fine spot to cover the night-cop beat, perhaps, but hardly a place to plant roots.
I was raised in a cultured milieu, with a father who was a professor, who listened to opera and read relentlessly, and a well-educated mother who stayed home and volunteered at the local art museum. There was a constant emphasis on erudition and learning; my dad even attempted (albeit imperfectly) to curb how much television we watched.
