Monday, April 25, 2005

Road Trip!

Saturday morning, 7 a.m. The phone rings and the "Conejo Valley Shuttle" (aka Marty and Ann) reports it will arrive at my door in an hour for departure to Harrah’s Rincon near San Diego. Woo Hoo! Goin’ on a road trip in the new Denali!

I pry my eyes open and drag myself out of bed. Shower, dress, throw stuff into an overnighter…and wait. And wait some more. In fact, I wait so long, I accidentally write a pivotal scene in my current manuscript, so I forgive them for being late.

Eventually, the "Shuttle" arrives at 9:30 and we set off. Twenty minutes later, Ann says, “Honey, can we stop for something to eat?” Grrr. I love my friend dearly, but sometimes her hunger is inconvenient. We pull off the freeway (in downtown Hollywood, no less) and circle the streets until we find a McDonald’s.

Back on the road around eleven, the 101 is now a parking lot. (Note to non-Angelinos: if you wanna get across the City on a Saturday, do it by nine or you’re screwed.) Anyway, sitting in the back seat, I pay little attention to our route. 101, 76, 15—a series of numbers fly by, but I can’t tell you in what order. Suffice to say, about one o’clock (after a stop for lunch) we reach what I call “The P Area.” As in Pechanga, Pala, and Pauma, which are names of Indian casinos. (Don’t ask about their affinity for “P”—I can’t explain it….maybe: Pay till you’re a Pauper??)

I don’t even know which P we stopped at….Pala, I think. Luck with 3-5-7 poker on a previous trip leads us to try it again. Bad decision.

Moving on, we reach Harrah’s around three-thirty and check in. Inexplicably, my reservation has been cancelled. Oops. Marty had made the reservation through the casino boss so it’s not guaranteed with a credit card. No problem. They have rooms available. Whew! Plus, I concoct a story about a Citibank problem (which is true, but not the cause of the cancellation).

We head for the casino and I manage to add to the loss column I started at Pala (Pauma?). I reach the point where I can’t believe I’ve ever thought gambling is fun. It’s the most stupid, hideous torture known to humankind and I’m an idiot for indulging in it. Finally, tired of the self-abuse, I go hide in my room. The longer I stay, the more I feel like a winner. I even miss the arrival of Ann’s son and daughter-in-law (girlfriend?) and dinner.

Eventually, I decide I can’t put off going downstairs. After all, gambling is what we’re here for, right? (Actually, we’re supposedly here for Ann’s son to copy the design of the hotel closets—boy, those are gonna be some expensive closets!)

I find Ann and we decide to try our luck at craps. Now, Indian craps look a little different. By law (which probably means the powers-that-be-in-Vegas), they’re not allowed to use dice in the traditional way. Ah, but never fear. Where there’s a will there’s a way, right? Each casino has its own method, but I like Harrah’s best: they lay out two rows each (one red, one green) of six cards. After you roll a pair of dice (one red, one green) they turn over a card in each row in the position that corresponds to the number on the dice. Pretty crafty, huh? Anyway, Ann and I recoup some of our losses at the crap table thanks to a young Persian woman’s successful run.

By the time I go to bed, I’m feeling a little less sad and a tad more optimistic about tomorrow. See, here’s the thing about gambling with other people; you’re never on the same schedule. So, I know, without a doubt, there’ll be more gambling tomorrow—I’m just happy to have enough money left to do it with.

In the morning, while waiting for the others to check out, I kill time at the bar with a screwdriver and video poker. Yippee! Harrah’s ends up paying me $110 for my drink (in other words, I hit four aces).

We stop at Pechanga on the way home and play some weird game we’ve never seen before called Sikbo…? Sickbo? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was just a sick game. Anyway, picture Chinese craps. Only you’re sitting at a computer monitor and the dice are dramatically revealed by an animated woman on a video screen. (Interesting note: although the game supposedly appeals to Asians, this video woman is as Anglo as they come. Contrast this with the fact that most human blackjack dealers are Asian—go figure.) Bottom line, Sicko, er, Sickbo, turns out to be another way to lose money quickly. Disenchanted when we don’t win millions of $, we head for the bar where Ann and I are famous for making ten bucks last an hour. Unfortunately, we meet a man who shows us how to REALLY play, which means we lose forty instead. Oh, well. Price of entertainment, I always say.

We stop for lunch, following which, each of us declares our new diets have officially begun….that is, until we detour past the Cantina twenty minutes from home and drink a pitcher of margaritas and eat a plate of Nachos. Okay, NOW…NOW, our diets have begun. Really.

So, goes another gambling trip. Here are additional random observations:

How come it's Native Americans, but Indian gaming? I'm so confused on the PC of it all.

The Indian casino in Santa Ynez (yes, near Neverland!) doesn’t allow liquor. (Hey, maybe they’re afraid all those kids running around Michael’s place will sneak in for Jesus Juice and get corrupted. Oops. Too late.) The official explanation? The gambling age is 18!! Supposedly, mixing minors and alcohol is bad, but letting them piss away their meager earnings is fine.

I’m a little foggy on the rules, here. It’s okay to gamble, because you’re on Indian land. But the restaurants don’t allow smoking because of California state law. Must make for some complicated maps.

Indian casinos are owned by Indians, er, Native Americans. So what’s up with Trumps’ in Palm Springs? Oh, I get it. Donald must be ¼ Cherokee or something. Ha. As if. I'm pretty sure no self-respecting Native American would be caught dead with a comb-over.




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