Rock-n-Roll, gambling and such

Although last Wednesday's Fleetwood Mac concert was something of a middle-aged paunch fest, the crew rocked the house. At some point during the show, I came to realize that in spite of the graying pony-tails, high-waisted jeans, fanny packs and dirt-squirrels, a regular old rock concert is infinitely cooler than a casino. In fact, casinos are about as cool as NBC's 30 Rock, or a Friday night meeting of The Young Republicans for America. That is to say, not cool at all. A cool factor of absolute zero. The level at which any cool gene ceases to exist. The entity is incapable of producing or supporting cool. Which is weird, because I find the transference of money from the stupid to the house (as in Blake-Jake, or 21) quite fun. I also find the transference of money from the stupid to me (as in limit hold' em) thrilling. Maybe the sum (of idiots and ace-holes) is greater than its parts (the parts being made up of idiots and ace-holes).

Two weeks ago. I'm playing 2-4 limit hold 'em. I'm up about eighty bucks. A woman, mid-forties sits down. Drunk. Her breasts were enormous. Not measured in cup sizes, but length from stem to stern (which by my estimate was around two and one-half nautical miles). She is drinking wine out of a high ball glass, which basically looks like a juice glass. Since no cup holder was available, she kept the glass, swear-to-God, between her sin sacks. She was a horrible player, going through fifty in chips every ten minutes or so. She kept her cash-you guessed it-, in her bra. But not in the way sassy older ladies do, bills all rolled up and under the strap. No, no. She had loose bills, coins, matches and a bus pass in there, all haphazard like. She would fish around in there for a few minutes, and the come up with a twenty attached to an old boot. "That's where I put it!", she would shout each time.

There was a time casinos were cool. For a few years in the fifties. You remember the rat pack? Tailored suits and classy dames. Single malt scotch. But those days are long gone. The custodians dress better than the players nowadays. It's no wonder Sinatra took his life. And Sammy gouged out his own eye.