We rolled up to the casino in a stretch limo. We wore sunglasses at night and dressed up in little dresses and heels, full suits for the men. Sipping unpronounceable cocktails, we chatted skeptically with "international businessmen" most likely involved in the mob and threw down plastic coins that represented the thousands of dollars we had just laid down on the table for the dealer to fold into a little slot filled with thousands, maybe millions, more. Pretty women wrapped in fur hung on the arms of men with cigars in their mouths, men whose poker faces hid their adrenaline?dulled fears about bets that would keep or lose their airfare and hotel rooms and at the bigger tables, their jets and hotels. If you looked at the bouncers too much, they'd pay close attention to your table; if you looked at each other too much, several of them would walk you out of the back entrance, buoyant until out of view of the other chain?smoking, designer?wearing, rich, tipsy, ballsy beautiful guests.
Except, if that were what actually happened, then I would love gambling.
Instead it went more like this: We did roll up to the casino in a stretch limo, which only served to build up the thrilling casino fairytale in my mind before ripping it to shreds. We wore a mixture of little dresses, heels, suit parts, tee shirts, shorts, khakis, flip?flops, etc. and sadly, we were not out of place in that respect. The respect in which we were out of place was that most people were above the age of 70 and looked as though they might fall asleep at the slot machines or else keel over and die as a result of the constant flow of cigarette and cigar and cigarillo smoke that they puffed between hacking, chronic coughs that must have begun developing at birth, or latest, at puberty.
No magic. No mafia. No Bond. No Zach Galifianakis, even. Nothing cool at all. The casinos of today are no Monte Carlo. Nor, really, is Monte Carlo. Because without the dressing up and the mystery and the sexy scoundrels, (or perhaps, sadly, the movie screen), the only cool thing that CAN happen at a casino is that you might - but probably won't - win a bunch of money, which I've realized probably won't happen to me.
Most buy?ins in Scottsdale, Ariz.'s Talking Stick's main room range between $5 and $30, which was fine with me because A), I don't have all that much money to be gambling away and B), with the money I do have, I'm pretty risk averse. But the point is that casinos just aren't "casinos."
There are no men in white suits casually sipping Martinis, waiting to bed super villains in ball gowns and then combat them the next day. There is no glamour or mystery surrounding the green felt tables. Instead, there are just a ton of television screens advertising drinks and food and other things to people in jeans weaving through tables, trying to get lucky in any sense of the word and, in most cases, failing.
Suffice it to say, although I was killing at the slots when compared to my primeval neighbors, unless the Talking Stick casino changes its dress code and hikes its buy?in to something I can't afford, I think I'll just stay in the limo next time.
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