I spent $30 on this column. So if you like it, give me some
money, because my Daily Bruin reimbursement request is still
pending. I don’t think the newspaper honors gambling
debts.
I’ve never really understood gambling. In 2001 I got
addicted to those scratcher cards like I did back in the summer of
1974 on smack.
It was a dry Los Angeles summer two years ago, and as I
anxiously waited for my first year of university to start, I found
that August passed ever so slowly without the company of my high
school cohorts, who had already left town for their schooling.
So I started playing scratchers at the local Rite-Aid, and
here’s the tragedy. One day, I was scratching a card in my
car as I drove away from the store (looking down at the card, not
the road), and hit a black Mercedes with an old lady in tow. She
had stopped the car in the road as a valet helped her out of the
automobile. The valet practically begged her to press charges, but
she was kind and let me go. Since the incident, I hadn’t
touched a scratcher ““ until last week.
Last week I flipped on ESPN hoping to catch the European
Lumberjack World Championship, but much to my dismay the network
was broadcasting some important poker match. Obviously, I had
nothing better to do than watch it for five hours, and as I was
thoroughly disturbed by the wackos who were playing, I decided to
fall hopelessly in love with gambling all over again.
Going to a casino is one of those life experiences you need in
order to be a successful human being ““ you know, like going
to a Dodgers summer night game, or watching the birth of your
children. Having never been before, I knew what I needed to do.
I made my gambling expert friend Aaron take me to a casino. I
basically wanted the sleaziest place I could find. We wound up at
Hollywood Park Casino ““ a licensed California casino, meaning
the place does not feature slots or Vegas style card games; it
deals in games of skill, not chance, apparently.
As this expedition occurred over spring break and I was back at
home, I had to check in with my parents to tell them where I was
going and ask for a curfew extension. Luckily my parents let me
stay out pretty late, but not before my mother and I exchanged some
derisive banter.
Mom: Where are you going out in that jacket?
DM: Looking for trouble.
Mom: Well you are going to find it wearing that.
Dude, she was totally right because we saw a prostitute on the
way home.
The people in the casino on that Friday night looked like they
had just gotten their paychecks, and were prepared to lose all
their earnings trying to turn them into some extra money for a case
of Miller Lite and maybe the new Linkin Park CD. You know, it was
kind of funny-slash-sad.
In fact, I’ve never seen so many bearded men and women in
my life, nor have I seen so many colorful personalities. But I
didn’t actually talk to any of the colorful people because
they were intimidating and smelled like cabbage.
Anyways, I decided to play blackjack and walked up to a table
and chalantly (read: the opposite of nonchalantly) purchased some
chips just like an accomplished gambler would. Since the blackjack
at this casino, dubbed “21st century blackjack,” was a
“game of skill,” it had some convoluted rules that made
it impossible to understand what was happening.
Basically, I placed my bet, and then the dealer told me whether
I had won. At one point I was up $2.50 and wanted to cash out, the
imagery of spending my winnings on cotton candy and chewing gum
excited my heart and soul.
But Aaron the seasoned gambler wouldn’t let me stop. I
pushed on only to burn $20 in an instant. We then decided to leave
the joint and go play some scratchers, the only logical remedy to a
poor gambling performance. This time I didn’t nail any old
ladies, but I also didn’t manage to win $10,000. Instead, I
spent $10 and won two bucks and two free cards.
A few summers ago I was wandering around the south of France
with some friends. All my buddies wanted to go to some fancy casino
in Monte Carlo that has some billion dollar gold toilet ““
ridiculous. Fancy toilets don’t really do it for me, and
besides I wanted to go to the Marc Chagall museum or something like
that.
But it was closed because it was a Monday, and everyone knows
that museums are closed on Mondays. So I just went to the beach
instead.
And to think, up until last Friday, I had always wondered
whether I made the right decision to bail out on the golden
toilet.
E-mail Miller at dmiller@media.ucla.edu if you think Westwood
needs a bowling alley.