Over 25 trips to Nevada in 23 years, with a group of dudes that shifts only ever-so-slightly from year to year, it’s hard to come up with something completely new, something we’ve never done. Our formula, for the most part, is to repeat those things we love, scrap and replace those things that bomb, and make tweaks to the things in the middle. Last year, of course, we immersed ourselves in that rare “never before” territory by hosting a Husky Victory Party on the Big Wheel. There would be no Big Wheel trip this year (and sadly, no HVP either).
But we did make some slight tweaks and shifts to ensure this trip would stay well away from the dreaded territory of “been there, done that.”
Our story begins, as it usually does, with 7 of us packing ourselves tightly into the two rows of Miles’ truck. This is always an enjoyable start to the trip, because we get to make fun of each other—and when we get to the valet, we get to be made fun of by the attendants. Every day should really start with 1,500 pounds of giggles. The ride from McCarran to the Main Street Station was far less sardine-packed, but far slower, as our Alaska arrival (one hour later than usual) delivered us into some nasty rush-hour traffic.
After ditching the car, picking up a 6-pack of check-in beers, and dropping our crap into two connecting rooms, the 4-some of Miles, G-$, Jonny Reno and I found most of the rest of the gang down at the Boar’s Head Bar. With no more seats available, Jonny and I decided to park it for a bit at the old coin-dropping 8/5 Bonus quarter machines. We put our legs up, relaxed and began anew our age-old quest for beers and scratch tickets.
By 6:15 or so, it was time to mosey down to Binion’s to check two things off the annual must-do list: huddle around a million smackers for a group photo, and follow it up with a delicious dinner on the top floor. Love that room, love the ambiance, love the service. The food, unfortunately, was a bit of a mixed bag this year. My iceberg wedge and prime rib were terrific, but Jonny’s lamb was way off:
“After switching to the lamb two years ago, this is the first year that I’ve been disappointed in the outcome. The lamb was overdone and not that tasty. I think they’ve moved to a different style of preparation and perhaps supplier too. Wine was good until Jason spilled a whole glass all over the table.”
Yep, he did.
Our pattern for the last few years has been to exit Binion’s sometime after dinner, take a right, and head straight on ‘til morning—or the Go Go Golden Gate, whichever comes first. This year, after reading about the terrific blackjack rules, the generous comping, and the card pits stocked with coolers of ice-cold beer, we turned left instead, and found ourselves at the El Cortez. After a quick orbit, G-$ and I parked it at a card table with Hanley, while others flocked to other tables or down to one of the video poker bars.
Only a few hands into our second mostly crappy shoe, Jonny sent me a text: “Mattt: BOOM!”
Aw yeah, boyeee: Mattt had lined up the Ace-through-10 of clubs (in sequential order, no less) at the bar. What a great start to the gambling for the trip—and what a great opportunity for us to make this the first multiple-royal trip since 2003!
The boys at the bar enjoyed a few shots in celebration, while I continued to flounder at the table. Needing a break, I wandered down to the excitement. “I was just playin’ my game,” Miles described, “When Mattt started pounding on my shoulder! He didn’t say a word, he just kept pounding on me!” Unfortunately for yours truly, Miles felt it necessary to demonstrate. Ow.
Extending my blackjack break, I turned my El Cortez $10 in free play into $40 using a combination of 50-cent video poker and The Simpsons video slot. Apu provided a tasty bonus, but I skipped having a Squishie. (If you need to know why, you need to read some of our other reports.)
The call of those tables was too strong, though, and I convinced G-$ to sit down with Jared, Wilner, Sims and Jase at a new table. And although Bo continued to provide stellar beer service, I couldn’t get on a roll.
On the way home, every single one of us made a better decision than Wilner. Poor, poor Dave. Craving, wanting, needing soast, he broke to the right while we continued up Fremont Street.
We did not see him again.
Whatever dive provided the soast ticketed a few million unwanted passengers with it, and his case of owie tummy necessitated a return home a day early.
For most of the boys, Saturday dawned late that morning, but I jumped out of bed early to get some postcards written and some souvenirs purchased. I hate waiting to the last minute (unlike Miles, who buys his souvenirs at the trip’s last stop every year), so the late start to Saturday’s schedule of events gave me an opportunity I took full advantage of. By the time I returned to our 2-bedroom suite (as we had now started to call our connecting rooms) with the coffee, the other 3 clowns were starting to get ready for the day, with Miles stumbling into the shower.
Almost immediately, he started complaining about the low-flow showerhead. A man of action, he took it upon himself to fix the problem. That he had no tools was overshadowed by his lack of patience. He simply unscrewed the showerhead, leaving his shower with a hose-like flow straight from the pipe. He called the solution “genius.” I’m not sure I agree.
“The hose shower harkened back to my days as a young hillbilly on the farm,” said his roommate G-$.
Two hillbilly showers later, Miles and Gav joined the rest of us in the line for the MSS champagne brunch. Along came Mr. Royal Flush, who took his customary place at the cash register. In no time at all we were shoving made-to-order omelets and other assorted chow into our food holes. With nowhere to be for a couple hours, I led an expedition back to the 8/5 Bonus quarter-droppers. With David on my left and Miles on my right and G-$ on his right, I steered one $20, then another $20, up and down the waves of the game.
Most of us pause for a moment when we’re dealt 4 to the royal. So when the 10-Jack-Ace-Queen of clubs appeared in front of me, I shifted in my seat, then gave a nod to the players next to me. “I just need a quick visit from my old friend the King of Clubs,” I intoned. “C’mon, Buddy!”
Okay.
There he was. Just like that. Hooting and hollering followed his appearance by only a couple of seconds, and I pounded David on the shoulder, high-fived Miles a few times, and stood for a big high-five and hug with G-$. The man to his right, at the end of our row, even leaned in to see the fuss.
“I want to see what one looks like,” he said somewhat morosely.
Because we were playing those coin-droppers, a slot attendant hustled over for the hand-pay. A grand in my hand later she departed, and I asked, only the slightest bit jokingly, if I was entitled to a scratch ticket. She did not turn around. Our cocktailer swung by and seemed baffled by my $20 toke for the round of celebratory shots. With the excitement abating, I sat back down in front of the machine. The Royal, still there, entranced me like “The Shawshank Redemption.” So I sat, re-living the thrill and texting photos to a few interested folks.
The next part of our day was ready to begin, so while my friends collected buckets of quarters from their machines, I gave mine a nice, big hug. “You be good, big fella,” I told him. “I’ll see you around.”
We hiked on down to the Downtown Grand for the exciting 5th installment of the “Duel in the Desert” video poker tournament. After selecting our section and dividing us into 2 squads, Miles and G-$ announced the changes: This year, teams would play head-to-head battles on either side of the bank, simultaneously and blind, perhaps making you think twice about slowing your tempo or playing not to lose. This would be a coaching challenge—but I was up for the task. After visiting the bar to buy them a round, I gathered my personnel and assigned them their opponents: Mattt would face off against Sergent, Pat would face Jase, and I would take on Jonny, leaving Sims to square off against G-$. After inserting our twenties into the machines, we kicked off.
Each combatant had to play at least 30 hands, so I instructed my team to play the 30 hands, then pause for an assessment. 30 hands in, Sims was down about $10, as was Pat. Mattt and I were about finished off, with less than $5 or so left. I decided that Mattt and I should go for broke…almost broke, that is. We’d play a few more hands of 5-coin, and assuming we didn’t hit lightning in a bottle, we would downshift to a single coin, playing down to a 25-cent balance. We’d hold there.
Sims, meanwhile, would play a bit more, but not go below $10. Pat would do the same. And then we added a trick play: we waited a few more hands, then celebrated Pat’s machine as if he’d hit something. We ran the play to perfection, and then time ran out.
G-$ and Sims were measured first, and G-$ beat him by a couple bucks. Pat ended up not really hitting anything of note, but his false celebration had worked: Jase had fired his machine back up, and Pat had outlasted him. The match play score was tied, 1-1. We’d presently find out if Jonny or Sergent had hit anything, or played to zero. If they had played to zero, we’d beat them. Any other balance would sink us.
But both Jonny and Sergent had played all the way to zero, giving us two wins by a combined fitty cent. “We were out-coached!” exclaimed Jase.
We hung at the DTG for a little while longer, and then we played Multi-strike at the Cal. Either way, I lost $70 on the afternoon, while also placing a hundy on Washington to cover the spread.
With some more afternoon to kill before the game, we had planned to check out an Escape Room, so the 6-some of me, Miles, G-$, Jonny, Sergent and Pat headed to Lock Down Room to take on the Pharoah’s Curse. It was a two-room, locked-room challenge; we’d have an hour to solve the clues and escape the room. We needed only about a half-hour, exiting the room just 35 seconds off the Pharoah’s Curse record! We are so smart. S-M-R-T.
Escaping the Pharoah so quickly, though, left us with a bit more time, so we headed down the road to the Palms to play a bit. Holy cow, is the Palms a mess right now. Construction walls line the casino floor on both sides and in the middle, making navigation a real challenge. I managed to find a pair of nickel Multi Strike machines up front near the Sports Book, but couldn’t talk anyone into joining me. I played nevertheless, enjoying superb cocktail service while losing another $30.
Later, there was a football game. We watched it at Jacksons. Game, food and service were shitty.
“I’m definitely ready for a change,” lamented G-$. “Granted that server will probably be fired by Halloween, but that was pathetic. I had never gotten the French dip before, but it was terrible. The onion rings, when they finally arrived (thanks Miles) were good. I think this opens the day up for next year. A different venue, a different strategy.”
After the (fucking) football game, we high-tailed it out of Jacksons, seeking an attitude adjustment that the Plaza Party Pit could potentially provide. Carmen sure did the trick! Our animated dealer spilled pretty decent cards out of a few shoes, and by the time the Party Pit closed up for the night, I was up a cool $95 and we’d inherited a brand-new joke.
The cocktail service had been decent enough, but at one point we were all empty. My pal Miles, sitting in the middle of the table, thus facing Carmen and Main Street, whined, “Can we get a cocktail?” Carmen, seeing the cocktailer coming up behind him, replied in a deadpan: “Sure, she’s right there…I’ll ask her to bring you a box of tissues too.”
G-$ and I erupted into gales of laughter at his expense. We also ordered another round, and the tissue gag became a routine for the rest of the trip—and I just bet we’ll hear it a few more times next year (and the year after that, and the year after that…).
One shoe and an “extra shoe” later, Carmen was told to close up shop. Our extra shoe was potentially controversial. Apparently the pit boss had told Carmen the previous shoe was supposed to be her last, but she misunderstood. Or liked getting tipped. Either way, we got an extra shoe. Despite my calls over to the pit boss of “last shoe!”, and even a last-ditch effort with “Rolling!” (which got a giggle from Carmen), we didn’t get an extra-extra shoe and she shooed us away. We took our chips to the cashier, and then took our drunken selves to McD’s for a few McGriddles.
The Sunday hangover was probably somewhat milder due to my burgers, or maybe it was exacerbated. Either way, after I made the coffee run, we called for an Uber over to Arroyo for Sunday golf.
When I made the reservation, I was pretty optimistic that we’d have a great day at a nice course. And while Scott in the clubhouse and the attendants outside were all really cool, the course sucked. It was like a longer Lake Wilderness, with houses right on top of the course. We’d purchased drink tickets along with our golf, and having them was cool—we didn’t save any money but it was sure convenient to just tip the cocktailer and be done. But several fairways had been recently doctored, the tee boxes were beat to shit, and the course had a serious shortage of yard markers, with most holes marked only with blue, white and red stripes across the cart paths.
On the betting side of things, we broke even, crushing the 3-some of Pat, Sims and Mattt on the front, but getting crushed ourselves on the back. Their sneak assault with shots delivered on #9 and #10 was, I must admit, a devious thing of beauty: the shots had an impact that lasted through about hole #12 or 13. Jonny Reno thought it was a dick move.
“I don't remember them being dicks,” countered Miles, “although they did cheat and not take their shots when received. We did drink more than our share of the 28 drinks…but I doubt they would have anyway.”
We made a quick stop at the Main Street before zipping over to Bar Segundo on the Strip for happy hour eats and drinks. Great choice! All the grub was tasty, from the selection of salsas to the nachos to the street tacos. Making the customary offering to the gambling gods, I subsidized our tab, so the fellas got a swell dinner and a few drinks for $15 apiece.
Gambling-wise, we’d decided to hit the TI and the Cromwell, both of which had some good choices, but were ultimately too far apart. The walk down the Strip, even on a Sunday evening, was long and crowded. So after losing $40 at the TI playing Simpsons slots, I was tuckered out by the time we sat down at a Cromwell blackjack table. Naturals were paying 3/2 at all tables, but I hit dozens more 17s than blackjacks. At one point, our dealer Shawn even remarked on my penchant for getting the weakest standing hand in the game.
I decided I could do one of a few things:
- Sulk and be a drain on the table
- Get my ass up, buy a beer, and watch the action
- Get my ass up and play something else
- Suck it up, have some fun, and make it a thing
I settled on #4, so when Shawn dealt me a 16 against a face card, I took a hit. And when he dumped that sorry Ace on my hand to give me another 17, I offered up a high-five. He clearly didn’t want to high-give that sorry shit, but he couldn’t resist. He slapped my palm even as he shook his head, flipped a ten and scooped my cash.
I battled adversity for 4 or maybe 5 shoes, but when Shawn was done and we cashed out, I’d actually made $36. Good for me. I think G-$ and Miles did a bit better, another reason I’d decided to stick it out.
Hearing that there were still some guys on the Strip, we headed back to the TI to check in with them and play some 50-cent 8/5 Bonus. Turns out Pat was the lone straggler, glued to a craps table that “was just about to get hot.” (It actually did. Good for him.)
Just outside the high-limit slots room, we found our bank of machines and began to play. What seemed like an eternity later, a cocktailer wandered by and we attempted to flag her down. She replied that we weren’t in her section, but she’d get our girl. This went on for 2 cocktailers. Miles bought a round at the bar, and only then did we see a cocktailer to call our own.
But when she returned, she refused to drop the beers until we’d finished the last ones. A painful chug later, we had brand-new cold beers.
We continued to complain to each other about the cocktail service. In fact, when she “finally” came around again, we had to repeat the chug-and-drop routine! And when it happened a third time, we realized that we were really drinking far too slowly to be complaining about the speed of the cocktail service! Yes, we’re stupid, but trust me, we’re the funniest people in Las Vegas.
I would love to tell you that I hit another Royal while playing that 50-cent beauty. I’d love further still to tell you that G-$ hit his first Royal there. But neither happened, nor did Miles hit one. In fact, I think only one of us hit a 4 of-a-kind, so by the time we stumbled away from our machines, I was down $140.
We found Pat, who had finally pulled the plug on his $300 craps run, but we didn’t manage to keep Craps Cooler Miles far enough away from the table. As we wandered by, we heard the dealer say, “Seven out, line away,” just as Miles got within range. Sorry folks. But at least our pal Pat had pulled off the table.
Twenty minutes later we were in White Castle. No, seriously. Freaking delicious.
Just a few hours and a hotel change later, we were standing on the first tee of Angel Park’s glorious Cloud Nine short course, ready to rock the 9th installment of the Chug ‘N’ Putt Gamblepalooza. This year would also feature an enhancement or two: the first was that there’d be head-to-head competition on every hole, a genius move if I do say so myself. Most other enhancements had to do with inserting new language into the shotgunning rules, a change that would burn me later in the round.
It was a beautiful day out on the Cloud Nine, and Team Sergent’s squad of me, Jonny, Miles and Pat put a whuppin’ on Team Mattt’s squad of Mattt, Sims, G-$ and Jase. While he wasn’t a factor in the individual scoring, Jonny proved his worth by taking his first head-to-head hole, which by virtue of 2 previous pushes was worth 3 holes. He also took his other two head-to-head holes, thus being solely responsible for 5 of Sergent’s 8 wins.
Jase became our second two-time winner by having a pretty brilliant day. I ended up just two strokes off the lead, one of which was a three-jack on the 12th green, spoiling what could have been my second shotgun-free round. But by winning a KP to go along with my team win, I actually headed away from the CNPGP a $30 winner.
I parlayed the winning streak into the Suncoast, after a short detour to dump $80 or so into a combination of Super Times Pay and 8/5 Bonus. After the video poker, a group of us joined Pat and Jase on one of the card tables. The hot table cooled as we sat, but warmed back up again like a soup with new ingredients. When Oleg The Cooler (that’s what it said on his badge, I swear) relieved our dealer, I closed up shop, up $104 for the table.
I peeled back over to the 8/5 Bonus machines, complaining to Mattt that I needed a slice. One of our 3 cocktailers (seriously, the service was bomb-diggity) told him he’s outta luck unless he wanted to eat at DuPar’s. So he took on the challenge, dialing up some Uber Eats. Just a short nap later, I had my slice! But the video evidence of me crashing at my machine indicated that it was probably time for me to go beddie bye boobers. So I slunk away from the machine, terrified my friends would discover me and pour more booze into me.
Our Tuesday ritual features breakfast at Mr. Lucky’s and a brief visit to the Hard Rock gambling floor. This year, Miles and I still needed to take our customary pot shot at the Megabucks machine, and for the third year in a row, our strategy worked and we made some dough, each pocketing $40 on Miles’s stellar play. For the first time over that period, I was the net loser on our little team, which saved Miles the requisite begging that I do when I end up winning and wanting to keep rolling for the jackpot.
I rolled home on Tuesday night, ready with those souvenirs. So SMRT.
