Columnist Tom Gorman: Trying to fit in as a Las Vegas newcomer

By Tom Gorman

Saturday, Oct. 1, 2005 | 11:53 a.m.

The stress of writing my first column for the Sun has been palpable. My editor has been holding his breath because I need to make a big splash; my colleagues wonder who this upstart is from Southern California; and my wife is wondering if I can use words with more than three syllables.

Ireceived lots of unsolicited advice. "Introduce yourself," someone said. So I could mention that Jeanne and I lived in Vegas for three years when I was a national correspondent during my 32-year career with the Los Angeles Times. But that sounds rather pompous.

"Reveal something about yourself and your family," someone else said. "Share your private side so readers can empathize."

So I could mention that when my son and his wife moved to Vegas, his first job was in the soft-porn industry, doing computer stuff so customers could chat on the Internet with young women. And that my daughter was married at the same wedding chapel on the Strip as Joan Collins.

Gotta love your kids, and we're very proud of ours.

Or I could poke fun at local subjects. I mean, how fitting was it that last week several hundred attorneys who defend drunken drivers gathered at Caesars Palace, and were welcomed by a criminal defense attorney-turned-mayor who loves gin martinis. I mean, they got three guest speakers in one.

But I decided to show that I have juice in this town, that I've got access to the rich and famous. That's what Vegas is all about. Who wants my thoughts about the Manhattanization of the Strip? Who really cares if Yucca Mountain leaks radiation in a zillion years? What the heck if a popular local pastor is accused of ripping off the feds? So what if we're in drought country, it's not my fault that the previous owner put in a pool.

Issues smishues. There are better things to write about, things that matter to the residents of the valley. I'm going to write about celebrity. So I reached for the telephone to tap my sources.

"411."

"Hi, the number please for Wayne Newton."

"Please hold. ... Here is your number."

(Hmmm, easier than I thought.)

The phone is answered immediately, and I try to act nonchalant.

"Wayne?"

"Yes."

"You don't sound like Wayne Newton."

"Well," he said. "I sound like the Wayne who I am, but I'm probably not the Wayne you want," Wayne said. "I constantly get calls for him."

Turns out I'm talking to a 50-year-old in Fallon, a civilian employee at the Top Gun Navy airfield up there.

"I get his fan mail, and take it to work. I've gotten boxes of persimmons, all kinds of stuff," Wayne said. "One day a woman showed up from New Jersey, asking me for the donation I promised. I told her that she's probably looking for the Wayne Newton who lives in Las Vegas."

Because Wayne was such a nice guy, I told him that if I ever run into the other one, I'll ask for an autographed picture.

And I'm thinking there may be another column here.

"411? Number, please, for Elvis Presley."