Introduction
I Skipped the Banquet for Donny & Marie — and 15 Years Later, That Little Flamingo Photo Still Feels Like a Miracle
There are trips we take for work—schedules, trainings, polite dinners, name tags, the usual routine. And then there are the trips that quietly become part of our personal history, not because we planned them that way, but because music (and a little bit of impulse) stepped in and rewrote the evening.
In September 2009, I was in Las Vegas for a business trip. Our company happened to have all our trainings and banquet at the Flamingo. I skipped the banquet to go see D&M, lol. The show was great! That one decision—small on paper, harmless in the grand scheme—actually says so much. It’s the kind of choice many adults understand deeply: the moment you step out of the “responsible” lane for a night and let yourself be a fan again. Not reckless. Not dramatic. Just quietly honest.
Donny & Marie weren’t just a show—you felt the years of craftsmanship in every beat. Their timing, their warmth, their ability to make a massive room feel personal… it wasn’t accidental. It was the result of decades spent learning how to hold an audience without forcing anything. For older listeners, there’s a special comfort in that kind of entertainment: it doesn’t beg for attention; it earns it. It respects the crowd. It trusts the songs. It lets joy unfold naturally.
And then comes the emotional twist that makes the memory stick: Unfortunately, Donny was not at the meet and greet. I was so disappointed, but thankful for the chance to say hello to Marie. That sentence is almost a life lesson in miniature—disappointment and gratitude sharing the same breath. You didn’t get the exact moment you hoped for, yet you still walked away with something real: a greeting, a smile, a human connection. Sometimes that’s what makes a night feel genuine instead of staged.
Then there’s the detail that turns a memory into a keepsake: They gave wallet-size photos for free at that time, so I am grateful to have this memento from the evening. A small photograph shouldn’t carry much weight—yet it does. Because it holds proof that you were there, that you chose joy, that you stepped out of the banquet hall and into a room where music reminded you who you’ve always been.
Years later, that little photo isn’t just paper. It’s a timestamp of happiness—Las Vegas lights, Flamingo corridors, and the feeling that for one night, the “business trip” became your story.