Every American family has a wedding story. They range from the groom tripping over the threshold to the acolyte lighting the priest's robe on fire, and, of course, to the obligatory tipsy uncle rambling through an off-color honeymoon toast.

With all due respect to the rest of America, however, these are "normal" wedding stories. We Las Vegans live in one of the great cities of Western civilization. Because of that, we not only have "normal" wedding stories, we also have "Vegas" wedding stories.

I would not begin to guess at the breadth and depth of these stories. For example, in Las Vegas, if the acolyte sets a Liberace impersonator on fire, that's normal. If it were a gender-bender Little Richard on the left side and Celine on the right side, assisted by a 4-foot Elvis playing the organ, that would be a Vegas wedding story.

I'll bet Review-Journal readers have a thousand Vegas wedding stories. If you are interested in sharing them, feel free to e-mail me at the address at the end of this column. I'd love to read them. Might even publish them, if they can be retold.

I've seen three daughters and one son married in Las Vegas. Although all of the ceremonies were wonderful from mom and dad's standpoint, there is very little about them that would make a memorable story.

People who haven't lived in Las Vegas don't understand this. They think all Las Vegas residents live on the Strip. They see our world as a combination of "CSI," "The Godfather" and "Vegas Vacation." Whenever I describe my kids' weddings, listeners appear both puzzled and surprised at how hopelessly normal they seem.

Las Vegans are pretty much everyday folks indistinguishable from citizens in other American cities and suburbs. In fact, in most cases, we're boring.

That said, there does come a time when Real Las Vegas collides with Glitter Las Vegas.

One of those times came for me when my youngest brother rang me up to announce he was getting married. It was going to be in Las Vegas and it was going to be the following week.

"Great ... wow," I said. "That's pretty quick. Is there anything I can do?"

"No," he replied. Baby brother said he had taken care of all the arrangements. Just be there, he told me.

So, the wedding evening arrived and a small group of family found themselves outside the door of a wedding chapel in downtown Las Vegas. I know that tens of thousands of people get married in Las Vegas wedding chapels each year, but this was my first time in such an establishment.

We entered the chapel. In the hallway on the right sat a guy who looked like a cross between '60s radio personality Wolfman Jack and Elvis. He was devouring a Mexican TV dinner. Cheese enchiladas, if memory serves.

This was, in fact, the priest ... or the officiator ... or whatever is the proper wedding-chapel term. (We later just referred to him as the Rev. Mr. Wolfman.)

Anyway, the Rev. Mr. Wolfman stood up, dabbed a little red sauce from the corner of his mouth and shook my hand.

"Frederick wedding?"

"Yes."

"Go in and we'll start right away," he said, gulping the last bite.

We filed into the chapel. My brother and his financee sat in front.

No sooner than the last person in the party sat down, the taped music began. Soon thereafter, the Rev. Mr. Wolfman delivered what turned out to be a very good homily on the blessings of good relationships and marriage. I was impressed. Later, however, I realized he should be good. He probably does it 100 times a day.

When the moment of truth arrived, the Rev. Mr. Wolfman turned to the bride and said: "Do you, Margaret, take Wallace to be your husband?"

She said, "I do."

Then he turned to my brother and said: "Do you, Wallace, take Margaret to be your wife?"

He said, "I do."

They were then pronounced man and wife. They smooched.

And the crowd, well, the crowd just sat there in stunned silence. My mother and father, God rest their souls, turned to me, their oldest son. Mom looked hurt. Dad raised his eyebrows. I looked back at them, shrugged my shoulders and mouthed: "What do you want me to do?"

Sensing something was amiss, the Rev. Mr. Wolfman looked down at his paperwork and said, "Oh, I married you under the wrong names, didn't I? Margaret and Wallace are the next wedding party. But don't worry," he said without so much as a hem or a haw, "it's still good." He then cued the music and shooed us out into the warm night air.

We passed Margaret and Wallace on the way out.

Afterward, I asked my brother John how he could possibly sit there and say "I do" to marrying "Margaret" when he knew her name was Carolyn and his was not Wallace.

"I don't know," he said. "I just don't know."

That's about as honest an answer as any groom can provide. It's been 35 years since I said "I do" to my wife, Christina. When I think back on it, if something like a Margaret-and-Wallace moment had happened to me, I most likely would have done the same.

In the long run, it's of no consequence. Marriage begins way before the wedding day, anyway. It's been several years now, and Carolyn and John remain happily married.

I wonder, though, in those quiet moments that only a husband and wife share, whether they look each other in the eyes and giggle.

"I love you, Margaret."

"I love you, too, Wallace."

"Good night."

-- -- --

This is a quibbling point, but for the sake of accuracy, it must be noted:

I suggested in my Friday column that the Las Vegas Sun failed to report the drunken driving arrest of one of its writers. That was wrong. At some point, the Sun gave columnist Jon Ralston's arrest brief mention, which I (and most of the world) missed.

However, the primary point of the piece -- that the Las Vegas Sun committed a serious ethical breach by writing about the Tax and Spending Control initiative without disclosing that the newspaper's owners are helping finance a campaign to defeat the measure -- was foursquare right.

Sherman Frederick is publisher of the Las Vegas Review-Journal and president of Stephens Media. Readers may write him at sfrederick@reviewjournal.com.