It's nine thirty in the morning when Aaron finally makes it back to the hotel room. A broad grin is hanging beneath his bloodshot eyes like a hammock left out in the rain and he's walking with a limp that doesn't seem like the result of any injury. 
 
"Guess who just had Pho for breakfast with three strippers," he demands.
 
He's addressing a group of 25-year-old men who are taking reclining to its logical extreme. Recent alums of a brand-name university who headed to Wall Street, Silicon Alley, and a variety of small firms after graduation, we're reuniting for a weekend of debauchery. The fact that most of us -- I'm, unfortunately, the exception -- have a significant disposable income has loomed large and right now a spin cycle of Champagne, Jameson, and the lukewarm beers they serve complimentary at the Excalibur's craps table is audibly straining against our stomachs. 
 
"Wow," says Luis, the half-naked analyst who passed out next to me after vomiting in the hallway. "That is so 1%."....