Mr. Lucky

Life is not unlike a football game -- sometimes you're up, sometimes you're down and eventually you're out of quarters. Speaking of slot machines . . .

I have a number of friends who go to Las Vegas, Atlantic City and Wilkes-Barre a lot. You know, all of the meccas for gambling. (That was a little ballot referendum humor there, folks.) But I rarely go to those places. This is because I have no luck at all. Zero, zip, nada, zilch, none.

When we go to Atlantic City I give myself a budget for how much I am willing to lose per day. It is usually $50 a day. I never even consider the possibility of winning. I go to the cashier's booth and get $50 in quarters and I play the slot machines until it is all gone. This sometimes takes several hours during which time some asshole in my little party will have won $20,000 picking their nose or something.

I, on the other hand have an intimate knowledge of the full mid-range of experiences that gambling has to offer. Sometimes I am up. Sometimes I am way up (maybe $120). Sometimes I am down to my last few quarters and my luck turns and I'm suddenly back up to $30 or so. But eventually and inevitably the last quarter is played and I shuffle back to my little group with my hands in my empty pockets. But at least I never lose big-time.

I have played other games like roulette and craps and blackjack. But the money goes faster and I end up having to spend more time watching someone else win. So I try to stick to gambling devices that bleed me slowly. It gives me time to think about how long I had to actually work for that money in the first place.

Besides, I'm not allowed to play blackjack in most of the casinos on The Strip. They tell me I hold up the game. Apparently, it is supposed to be a fast moving, visceral experience, but I have a little trouble doing all that math in my head. I do not instantly know how many more I need to stay at or under twenty-one when I have seventeen. Hell, it takes me a while to even realize I have seventeen, unless I have a ten and a seven. So, I tend to slow things down a little.

So much so, that I am the only person I know of who has been kicked out of Las Vegas for counting fingers.

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An Ode To Football

Ah, football!
The glorious sport.
Jocks and their straps,
And all that sort.

Satellite dish,
And 60 inch screens.
The mortgage to bookies,
The death of our dreams.

The dash for the 40,
The 30, the 10,
Dance in the end zone,
Then start it again.

The wife's in the kitchen,
To get some more beer.
Back she comes naked,
The better to cheer.

And now its forgotten,
The score and the game.
Till 9 o'clock Monday,
And more of the same.

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(Is ode French for smelly poem?)

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