“This,” Rusty said as he kicked back on his stool, “might just be the greatest week of my life!”
I’m not sure I’m going to go that far—but it was pretty freakin awesome. What a trip.
It started as it always does—with a bunch of us piling into Miles’ truck like a set of crash test dummies. The calendar said we were a month early, but with multiple birthdays, Husky home games and other conflicts to navigate, we ended up with just two choices this year: October 7-11 or the following weekend, October 14-18. The first weekend was UW’s road game against the U of O; the second was the bye.
After a lot of—well, not quite arguing, we settled on the (perceived) high-risk, high-reward scenario: the game against the Ducks. The final, pervading and deciding question—that simply had to be answered—was: what would it be like if the Huskies ended their 12-game losing streak against the upstarts from Eugene while we were in Las Vegas? How much fun would that be?
We found out. Oh, yes. We found out.
The truck was packed with 7 dudes and a lot of nervous laughter and energy. The airport bar we settled into served us our first round of the trip, and in no time at all we were airborne, then on the ground, then in the Plaza lobby, checking into the best rooms we’ve had in many years. Our connecting rooms were down in the South Tower (featuring 6 working elevators!), directly opposite the elevator bay on the 9th floor. Talk about a quick casino-to-room commute! We probably gained a couple hours of gambling time by not having to wait for crawling elevators and plod down endless hallways.
“Many thanks,” Jonny recalled of our wait in the check-in line, “for my first, second, and perhaps third Vegas beer in a single can.” Yep, they were pretty big cans.
After a quick round-trip to the room, we found a nice bank of full-pay video poker just off the sports book bar and proceeded to plug away. What started there was the most troubling trend of the trip: we had, overall, pretty lousy cocktail service at the machines this year. With just one exception, the Plaza, the Fremont, and the Grand provided pretty slow service, despite our standard (and sometimes enhanced) tipping policies. I’m not prepared to call this an epidemic, but I did panic a few times during the trip.
The couple-hour session at the Plaza yielded 4 Jacks and neither profit nor loss. With a few guys down at the Main Street getting served by our old pal Jose, we decided to pull up stakes and get a little bit more serious. Or more tipsy. Your call. I dumped $60 into a combination of main floor 8/5 Bonus and 9/6 bartop with Jose. By now everyone (except our special surprise guest) had arrived, and most of them had cleaned up for dinner. About that cleaning up, though: “Can we institute some sort of dress code?” asked Jonny. “By that, I don’t mean that everyone should dress up like Miles going to a formal chapter meeting, but rather collared shirts. Could we please just make it a thing that we’re all out at a ‘fancy’ dinner and people should wear a fucking collared shirt? It can be a polo shirt, a button down, a short sleeve golf shirt, I don’t care. Just have a collar. Please.”
Point taken.
Just as we sat down to dinner at the Top of Binion’s Steakhouse, our pal Wilner strode in (shorts and a tee shirt, thank you very much) to a chorus of amazed hoots and hollers. I’d reached out to Wilner on the sly a couple months prior, and after a quick email exchange had convinced him to not miss this particular trip. I’d kept that information to myself, and the surprise from the gang was worth it.
Dinner was mostly terrific. My tequila sunrise, wedge salad, and Top Sirloin and Scampi were all terrific. G-$, Miles and Jonny all agreed:
- G-$: “I love that it is like the first take-a-breath moment after landing, car rental, checking in, checking Sims in, etc.”
- Miles: “Steak night good; hard to think we find a better spot.”
- Jonny: “Steak Night was good again. Bummed that they didn’t have the Stags Leap this year, but probably good, given my tumbler of tequila, that I didn’t have a lot more wine. As ever, I think people need to know what Binion’s does well and what they don’t do well. Don’t order the salmon at a steak house. Don’t order a sidecar (or any other drink that might be more complicated than a well drink). If you go with what they do well, that place is a winner.”
A couple guys (those who ordered the fish because they had steak for lunch on Steak Night) reported sub-par dinners. Hell with ‘em.
We stumbled out of the elevator, stuffed and ready to really get rolling. The gang headed up to the Go Go Golden Gate, while I detoured over to the slot club counter to pick up our Million Dollar Photos. After a quick trip to the room (working elevators! 8-step walk from elevator to door!), I joined them at a pleasant little $5 table in the middle of the GGGG. Over at third base (a position I occupied many times this year), I had a rough start, because of course my $25 MP coupon saw me dealt an 11 into a bust card that didn’t bust). After losing that double, I managed to eke along for a while. But another crash-and-burn hand left me feeling pretty disgusted, and so I…
…did something I promised myself I was going to do more of. I got up from the table. I hung out behind the other fellas until my beer came, and then I took a little time out to get my head clear. The guys were laughing, standing, joking, hitting, and occasionally scooping up some money, so I took a little stroll down Fremont Street to make sure that when and if I sat back down, I’d do it with fun—not revenge or any other misguided bullshit—on my mind.
I ducked into the D and used my $25 MP coupon. Hey, whaddaya know? A quick win! I cashed, up a quick $50, and was seated back at the GGGG table in no time.
I’d like to say my blackjack sabbatical was the turning point in an amazing evening, but it wasn’t. It certainly did what it needed to do, which was put a temporary restraining order on the losing streak, but it didn’t save the evening. Somehow, it had gotten late on us, so we ducked out of the GGGG to play a little more video poker before calling it a night. Although I hit 4 5’s, I ended the short session down $40. Meanwhile, G-$ hit 4 Aces—twice!—before taking us on a penny slot parade, featuring volcanoes that pooped money and unicorns that peed pennies. He made some money. I’m not sure how much. I’m not even sure how.
Then, it was Saturday. Game Day. I started the day as I always do, in line at Starbucks after calling home to wish everyone good luck in their soccer matches. After I delivered the round of coffees, Miles, G-$, Jonny and I strolled down at the Fremont for some nickel Multi-Strike. Still a classic. I hate that it’s so hard to find.
With only 3 machines in the bank, 3 of us had a relaxing and fun session, trading insults and talking about the game. Miles complained (a lot) about his bottom-row full houses and 4’s of a kind. G-$ and I reminded him not-so-nicely that those were GOOD HANDS but Miles can be a stubborn little git sometimes. By the time my hundy was gone, it was time to get down to the Downtown Grand for lunch at the new Freedom Beat and some more pre-game gambling.
The Beat was pretty okay. I thought my oyster po’ boy was really good. Other burgers and sandwiches got so-so reviews. That’s all right—since getting home, I’ve seen blurbs on soon-to-open sure-fire winners Evel Pizza and Atomic Café.
I ripped out my $10 MP for the Grand, cashed in for $20, and left the table two hands later. Sigh. My pals were massing for the big Duel in the Desert V—an annual video poker competition staged for Jonny’s and my shared birthday. My mighty squad of Sergent, Cranberry, Wilner, Jase, Solie, Rusty and me handled Jonny’s team of himself, Doug, Sims, Jared, Hanley and Mattt, and just like that, I had myself a 4-1 lifetime record in this prestigious competition. But where’s my damn victory shot glass?
It wasn’t quite time to head over to Jacksons for the big Husky Game Viewing Party, where we’d hook up with another group of Seattle guys and of course Mike and his gang of Las Vegas Huskies, so the fellas broke into smaller groups for a bit more low-stakes gambling and moderate-to-heavy nervous drinking. After my $20 loss in my own DitD session, I was happy to sit down between G-$ and Miles in search of more penny slot tomfoolery.
Miles, of course, hit some crazy combination on his Jade Princess machine that took him to a bonus screen for $300. Baffling. Wonderful, but baffling.
I had my first small win of the day: a $15 win on my own penny slot. And with that, we ubered over to Jacksons.
The two TV rooms were already three-quarters full when we arrived. A few appetizers, a few pitchers of Busch and a ton of excited Husky fans clustered around several tables, slurping down the suds and soaking in the pre-game atmosphere. The pre-game show told us we’d see a tough Husky defense try to slow down the U of O’s freshman quarterback, inserted into the lineup to provide a spark. On the other side, they pontificated how the Husky offense might try to move the ball against a porous defense and a raucous crowd.
About 6 plays later, the competitive phase of the game was over. Budda Baker intercepted the first pass of the game and almost took it to the house himself. But Jake ran it in instead, earning his team 6 points and a 15-yard unsportsmanlike conduct penalty in the process. The Point, or whatever you want to call it, was without-a-doubt the best 15-yard unsportsmanlike penalty in the history of Husky Football.
Up 35-7 at halftime, we insisted to each other that “It’s not over!” and “We need to focus!” But the ugly, beautiful truth was, this U of O team stinks. When it was over, and we’d hung 70 (70!) on ‘em, we had victory shots, we hugged strangers, we smoked victory cigars, we hugged Jacksons, we drank victory beers, and finally, gloriously, hugged each other.
The Husky Post Game Celebration was planned to start at Battista’s, with a shot and photo with Gordy, but upon calling Battista’s and finding out that Gordy was leaving in 5 minutes, we went straight to the second phase of the bash: The High Roller. This was a slightly risky move on the part of the planners: we had the rush and high emotion of the victory going for us—so anything was in play—but on the other hand, the gang has a few fellas who are more inclined to cheapskatery. Paying thirty smackers to ride a giant Ferris Wheel might have generated a few grumbles.
Thankfully, the ride itself generated no grumbles whatsoever. Waiting for Hanley’s carload of dudes, however, generated more than a few. Hanley finally arrived a full 30 minutes later than even the slowest-arriving car—what the hell was that guy doing?
Oh, well. To pass the time, Miles and I ducked up to a nearby gift shop to purchase a fifth of Fireball and a couple shot glasses. And when the ride operators herded my group of 14 into our own compartment on the wheel, I had a feeling we’d have a good time. Not having Grandma & Grandpa Scuttle or Mom, Dad, Little Joey and Littler Maggie to deal with in our car? Awesome. We had shots, we took photos, we reveled, we relived the game’s best plays (chief among them, The Point), and by the time we disembarked, we’d emptied the fifth and emerged somehow more victorious than when we’d entered.
About half the gang departed for downtown. The rest of us stayed on the Strip, with my group of Miles, G-$ and Rusty heading for the Flamingo while Jonny, Hanley, Wilner and a couple others hit the IP—er, I mean, the Linq.
We caught ourselves a pretty awesome table. Of our three dealers through the evening, Olga was my fave. She was fairly unemotional at first, but I warmed her up by pitching her a bunch of shit. After a couple decent shoes, I needed to hit the head, so I asked her for directions. She said, “Go this way and then that way,” pointing that way and then another way. I wandered off in the direction of her first point, taking a Billy-from-Family-Circus route through the casino before finally arriving at a bathroom about 50 yards straight down the main hallway from our table. When I got back, I called the pit boss over and complained about the lousy directions. At first, I think Olga took me seriously. She watched anxiously as I animatedly made my points. Then, in the middle of my diatribe, I winked at her. She laughed, and after that all was well. Until I needed to go to the restroom again, that is. Or until anyone at the table needed to go. Every time that happened, I would give Olga the “This way and that way” treatment, wildly pointing in all directions, save the direction of the nearest bathroom. Even late that night, when Olga was at another table, I stopped briefly for more directions, eliciting another laugh. I’m not sure she was truly amused, but I sure as heck was.
Eventually, it was time to stop playing blackjack. Our third dealer, Mulu, was the rowdiest of the bunch, quick with a high five and a smile. But it was time to go. The marathon session had been a blast, during the middle of which, Rusty made his famous pronouncement (detailed at the beginning of this narrative). I made a grand total of $1. I think G-$ and Miles made out slightly better. But when it was time to cash, Rusty pushed his pile of red chips to the center with a hearty grin. I eyeballed the stacks, estimating he was anywhere from $50 to $80 up—a nice session for Rusty, who’s not an aggressive bettor.
But he reached into his pockets, and started to bring up even more reds, and more and more. He’d been rat-holing for hours! Nicely done, Rusty.
The next morning was another lazy affair. The Angel Park golf shuttle wouldn’t arrive until about 10:45 for our quick ride out to the course. On our way out, we took a hard left over to the sports book to cash some winning tickets. Most were in the $40 to $100 range. Mine was worth $50.
I must say, golfing in October is much more pleasant than golfing just 4 weeks later, as we usually do. It was about 80 degrees as we teed off, and it stayed pleasantly warm all day long. Giving a half-stroke per side, Jonny, Miles, G-$ and I lost the front side to Sims, Hanley, Mattt and Cranberry, but took the back (+1, +3 vs +1, +5) so there was no money exchanged. Shots were exchanged, but no money.
Some more detail from Jonny: “The van to the course from Angel Park is a huge, huge perk and we need to remember how awesome it is. Big golf was fun and beautiful. And warm. I think I like the Mountain course better than the Palm course. But we don’t need to bring/drink our own shots on the course. Three shots was one more than I needed.
“And ya know what? Fuck Sims and his bitching about the number of strokes he gets. We played about as good a round of golf as we can pull together as a team. And with that, we still lost the front. So, I’m not inclined to give him an extra stroke on both front and back. We should go for an overall score as well and that’s where I’d be willing to give a little bit more. Key words: a little bit.”
We got back home around 5 or so, and met down at La Comida for dinner. I seem to recall the opening reviews of the place praised the food but not the prices, but we thought that although the drinks were kind of outrageously priced, the food was reasonable. It was pretty decent chow—imaginative and tasty. The portions looked pretty darn small, but did the job. I felt pleasantly full as we pushed away from the table and strolled over to The Bling.
People were pretty eager to leave The Bling as soon as they entered it, though. A few guys sat down to the $5, single-deck game, but everyone else just wanted to go. I made them wait until I used up my free play coupon (+$20 on some weird Alien penny slot), then we walked back up to the Grand.
We tried to find some video poker games side-by-side, but the pickings were kind of slim. A few guys played here, a few over there. Me, I sat down a few yards away from the guys at an Ultimate X Bonus machine. The cocktail service was swell—probably the swellest cocktail service we had during the trip, so I stayed longer than maybe I would have otherwise. Good thing too—I was dealt 4 4’s! Hoping for a kicker, I held the 4’s on all 4 lines…but got no kickers. Drat. Still, it was a $60 profit on the session, after which we got some walkin beers for our trip back up to the Plaza.
We decided to try out the Plaza Party Pit. Were we successful? I’ll let Miles tell you: “The Reverse psychology pit is henceforth known as an Indian burial ground with Indians killed by Doug or Jason ancestors' or both. Genocide definitely doesn’t pay.”
In short, although we enjoyed ourselves immensely, it was not a profitable area. An obvious regular from a neighboring table gave our dealer his “Evil Eye” several times, which worked fewer times than it should’ve, given that in order to deliver his wicked gaze he had to lean in over my shoulder and weirdly impinge on my personal space.
G-$ enjoyed the time there: “I still enjoy the Party Pit. It’s been a fun time and great story two out of two times.”
After I lost $95, I got up from the table, with Malmoe and Jase taking my spot. When those guys took a bathroom break, G-$ and Miles discovered the table’s greatest secret: it hated Malmoe and Jase. When they were gone, the table turned red hot. As they got back and sat down, the table cooled as if infused with liquid nitrogen. G-$ and Miles shooed them away, and they complied, if only to stem their own losses. The table heated quickly, but if either of them even made a move toward his chips, the dealer would complete an impossible 21 and scoop the bets.
Under threat of death, Jase and Malmoe stopped touching their chips. And the Party Pit’s final shoe of the night almost brought G-$ and Miles all the way back! They found me about $10 down at a video poker machine and convinced me to cash out so G-$ could have a McGriddle and Miles could have two of something.
We woke up later Monday morning, because it was time to move out to the Suncoast. Chug ‘N Putt Gamblepalooza 8 would tee off on Angel Park’s Cloud 9 at noon sharp, and we had lots to do. Including, we found out, an unplanned trip to Jacksons. As I walked into their room with the morning round of coffee, Miles showed me an uncashed Jacksons slot ticket for a hundy. Whoops.
We did find out, pleasantly enough, that Jacksons serves a darn tasty breakfast!
The Suncoast accommodated our request for an early check in, and even had side-by-side rooms available for us, an advantage we need to remember for future trips. And we got everything done so fast that we had some time for pre-game games. After dumping $40 into an 8/5 Bonus machine, I channeled Mr. T and found his new favorite game: Triple Wheel Poker, which pays you wheel multiplier bonuses if you’re dealt a 3 of-a-kind or higher. I managed to get a couple of dealt full houses for some sweet bonuses and left the machine up a cool $80.
With that, the lucky group of 14 crossed the street for the Chug ‘N’ Putt. Check in was a snap, and before long we were choking down Fireball shots and teeing off. I would end up playing my head-to-head holes on #1 (against Jonny, a win) and #11 (a draw vs. Malmoe), and playing a pretty solid round. I didn’t have my best stuff, but as I told my captain, Sergent (who said before the round, “No pressure, but I think it’s obvious I have a lot riding on you today”), I battled as hard as I could. I have no regrets on the round. I finished two shots off the lead, and those two shots were out there for me to get: a chunked extra chip on #1 and a snapped-off little 4-footer that I missed for par on maybe #7 or #8 or so.
Instead of awarding the cash at the 19th hole at Angel Park, I had the guys depart immediately after finishing up for The Game, the Suncoast’s goofy little sports bar. G-$ and I totaled the scores, and hustled downstairs to find pitchers and plates waiting for us.
Miles won the tourney. His handicap-adjusted score tied Cranberry, but by virtue of his birdie he won the tiebreaker. Cranberry, in just his second CNPGP, became our runner-up. Congratulations!
After a few burgers, we spilled onto the casino floor for our last night in town. We played some cards to start. I hadn’t bothered changing out of my Washington golf shirt, a laziness rewarded handsomely when a guy sat down at first base, looked at me, and said, “What’s Chris Petersen doing at our table?” We had a laugh, and he called me “Chris Petersen” all night, putting the capper on this amazing weekend.
Another capper—I left that table up $50, and dragged some guys over to play some Super Times Pay. And I hit some real doozies on the machine! While neither of these memorable hands was bonused, they still paid a bunch of nickels:
- Dealt 3 Aces, I hit the 4th Ace on 2 different lines!
- And dealt 4 to the Royal, I hit a Royal on the first line!
Those weren’t the only great hands on that game, only the most memorable, and I left the machine up more than $300. We downshifted to (guess what!) more penny slots, and I once again served as G-$’s loser wingman as he profited on pennies pooped from a volcano god.
Sufficiently hammered, it was time for Miles and I to win a few million, so we found the Megabucks bank. Unfortunately, Miles’ foolproof system worked again, and after doubling my half of our stake, I was forced to quit while Miles worked to similarly double his half of the stake, or go broke. He went broke, so I begged him for another chance. He didn’t budge, so we left the bank each up $7 (our respective halves of the profit I made). After some late video poker, it was finally time to turn in, so while Friday and Saturday were not great gambling days, Sunday and Monday netted me nearly $400.
Tuesday morning, I got in trouble for taking the rental car over to Starbucks for the morning joe. Miles was hot to get checked out and over to the Hard Rock for breakfast and our last gambling sessions of the trip. Breakfast was great, but I took a flier on some $.50 Bonus Poker and blew through a hundy pretty quick.
But oh, what a weekend.
I’m not sure I’m going to go that far—but it was pretty freakin awesome. What a trip.
It started as it always does—with a bunch of us piling into Miles’ truck like a set of crash test dummies. The calendar said we were a month early, but with multiple birthdays, Husky home games and other conflicts to navigate, we ended up with just two choices this year: October 7-11 or the following weekend, October 14-18. The first weekend was UW’s road game against the U of O; the second was the bye.
After a lot of—well, not quite arguing, we settled on the (perceived) high-risk, high-reward scenario: the game against the Ducks. The final, pervading and deciding question—that simply had to be answered—was: what would it be like if the Huskies ended their 12-game losing streak against the upstarts from Eugene while we were in Las Vegas? How much fun would that be?
We found out. Oh, yes. We found out.
The truck was packed with 7 dudes and a lot of nervous laughter and energy. The airport bar we settled into served us our first round of the trip, and in no time at all we were airborne, then on the ground, then in the Plaza lobby, checking into the best rooms we’ve had in many years. Our connecting rooms were down in the South Tower (featuring 6 working elevators!), directly opposite the elevator bay on the 9th floor. Talk about a quick casino-to-room commute! We probably gained a couple hours of gambling time by not having to wait for crawling elevators and plod down endless hallways.
“Many thanks,” Jonny recalled of our wait in the check-in line, “for my first, second, and perhaps third Vegas beer in a single can.” Yep, they were pretty big cans.
After a quick round-trip to the room, we found a nice bank of full-pay video poker just off the sports book bar and proceeded to plug away. What started there was the most troubling trend of the trip: we had, overall, pretty lousy cocktail service at the machines this year. With just one exception, the Plaza, the Fremont, and the Grand provided pretty slow service, despite our standard (and sometimes enhanced) tipping policies. I’m not prepared to call this an epidemic, but I did panic a few times during the trip.
The couple-hour session at the Plaza yielded 4 Jacks and neither profit nor loss. With a few guys down at the Main Street getting served by our old pal Jose, we decided to pull up stakes and get a little bit more serious. Or more tipsy. Your call. I dumped $60 into a combination of main floor 8/5 Bonus and 9/6 bartop with Jose. By now everyone (except our special surprise guest) had arrived, and most of them had cleaned up for dinner. About that cleaning up, though: “Can we institute some sort of dress code?” asked Jonny. “By that, I don’t mean that everyone should dress up like Miles going to a formal chapter meeting, but rather collared shirts. Could we please just make it a thing that we’re all out at a ‘fancy’ dinner and people should wear a fucking collared shirt? It can be a polo shirt, a button down, a short sleeve golf shirt, I don’t care. Just have a collar. Please.”
Point taken.
Just as we sat down to dinner at the Top of Binion’s Steakhouse, our pal Wilner strode in (shorts and a tee shirt, thank you very much) to a chorus of amazed hoots and hollers. I’d reached out to Wilner on the sly a couple months prior, and after a quick email exchange had convinced him to not miss this particular trip. I’d kept that information to myself, and the surprise from the gang was worth it.
Dinner was mostly terrific. My tequila sunrise, wedge salad, and Top Sirloin and Scampi were all terrific. G-$, Miles and Jonny all agreed:
- G-$: “I love that it is like the first take-a-breath moment after landing, car rental, checking in, checking Sims in, etc.”
- Miles: “Steak night good; hard to think we find a better spot.”
- Jonny: “Steak Night was good again. Bummed that they didn’t have the Stags Leap this year, but probably good, given my tumbler of tequila, that I didn’t have a lot more wine. As ever, I think people need to know what Binion’s does well and what they don’t do well. Don’t order the salmon at a steak house. Don’t order a sidecar (or any other drink that might be more complicated than a well drink). If you go with what they do well, that place is a winner.”
A couple guys (those who ordered the fish because they had steak for lunch on Steak Night) reported sub-par dinners. Hell with ‘em.
We stumbled out of the elevator, stuffed and ready to really get rolling. The gang headed up to the Go Go Golden Gate, while I detoured over to the slot club counter to pick up our Million Dollar Photos. After a quick trip to the room (working elevators! 8-step walk from elevator to door!), I joined them at a pleasant little $5 table in the middle of the GGGG. Over at third base (a position I occupied many times this year), I had a rough start, because of course my $25 MP coupon saw me dealt an 11 into a bust card that didn’t bust). After losing that double, I managed to eke along for a while. But another crash-and-burn hand left me feeling pretty disgusted, and so I…
…did something I promised myself I was going to do more of. I got up from the table. I hung out behind the other fellas until my beer came, and then I took a little time out to get my head clear. The guys were laughing, standing, joking, hitting, and occasionally scooping up some money, so I took a little stroll down Fremont Street to make sure that when and if I sat back down, I’d do it with fun—not revenge or any other misguided bullshit—on my mind.
I ducked into the D and used my $25 MP coupon. Hey, whaddaya know? A quick win! I cashed, up a quick $50, and was seated back at the GGGG table in no time.
I’d like to say my blackjack sabbatical was the turning point in an amazing evening, but it wasn’t. It certainly did what it needed to do, which was put a temporary restraining order on the losing streak, but it didn’t save the evening. Somehow, it had gotten late on us, so we ducked out of the GGGG to play a little more video poker before calling it a night. Although I hit 4 5’s, I ended the short session down $40. Meanwhile, G-$ hit 4 Aces—twice!—before taking us on a penny slot parade, featuring volcanoes that pooped money and unicorns that peed pennies. He made some money. I’m not sure how much. I’m not even sure how.
Then, it was Saturday. Game Day. I started the day as I always do, in line at Starbucks after calling home to wish everyone good luck in their soccer matches. After I delivered the round of coffees, Miles, G-$, Jonny and I strolled down at the Fremont for some nickel Multi-Strike. Still a classic. I hate that it’s so hard to find.
With only 3 machines in the bank, 3 of us had a relaxing and fun session, trading insults and talking about the game. Miles complained (a lot) about his bottom-row full houses and 4’s of a kind. G-$ and I reminded him not-so-nicely that those were GOOD HANDS but Miles can be a stubborn little git sometimes. By the time my hundy was gone, it was time to get down to the Downtown Grand for lunch at the new Freedom Beat and some more pre-game gambling.
The Beat was pretty okay. I thought my oyster po’ boy was really good. Other burgers and sandwiches got so-so reviews. That’s all right—since getting home, I’ve seen blurbs on soon-to-open sure-fire winners Evel Pizza and Atomic Café.
I ripped out my $10 MP for the Grand, cashed in for $20, and left the table two hands later. Sigh. My pals were massing for the big Duel in the Desert V—an annual video poker competition staged for Jonny’s and my shared birthday. My mighty squad of Sergent, Cranberry, Wilner, Jase, Solie, Rusty and me handled Jonny’s team of himself, Doug, Sims, Jared, Hanley and Mattt, and just like that, I had myself a 4-1 lifetime record in this prestigious competition. But where’s my damn victory shot glass?
It wasn’t quite time to head over to Jacksons for the big Husky Game Viewing Party, where we’d hook up with another group of Seattle guys and of course Mike and his gang of Las Vegas Huskies, so the fellas broke into smaller groups for a bit more low-stakes gambling and moderate-to-heavy nervous drinking. After my $20 loss in my own DitD session, I was happy to sit down between G-$ and Miles in search of more penny slot tomfoolery.
Miles, of course, hit some crazy combination on his Jade Princess machine that took him to a bonus screen for $300. Baffling. Wonderful, but baffling.
I had my first small win of the day: a $15 win on my own penny slot. And with that, we ubered over to Jacksons.
The two TV rooms were already three-quarters full when we arrived. A few appetizers, a few pitchers of Busch and a ton of excited Husky fans clustered around several tables, slurping down the suds and soaking in the pre-game atmosphere. The pre-game show told us we’d see a tough Husky defense try to slow down the U of O’s freshman quarterback, inserted into the lineup to provide a spark. On the other side, they pontificated how the Husky offense might try to move the ball against a porous defense and a raucous crowd.
About 6 plays later, the competitive phase of the game was over. Budda Baker intercepted the first pass of the game and almost took it to the house himself. But Jake ran it in instead, earning his team 6 points and a 15-yard unsportsmanlike conduct penalty in the process. The Point, or whatever you want to call it, was without-a-doubt the best 15-yard unsportsmanlike penalty in the history of Husky Football.
Up 35-7 at halftime, we insisted to each other that “It’s not over!” and “We need to focus!” But the ugly, beautiful truth was, this U of O team stinks. When it was over, and we’d hung 70 (70!) on ‘em, we had victory shots, we hugged strangers, we smoked victory cigars, we hugged Jacksons, we drank victory beers, and finally, gloriously, hugged each other.
The Husky Post Game Celebration was planned to start at Battista’s, with a shot and photo with Gordy, but upon calling Battista’s and finding out that Gordy was leaving in 5 minutes, we went straight to the second phase of the bash: The High Roller. This was a slightly risky move on the part of the planners: we had the rush and high emotion of the victory going for us—so anything was in play—but on the other hand, the gang has a few fellas who are more inclined to cheapskatery. Paying thirty smackers to ride a giant Ferris Wheel might have generated a few grumbles.
Thankfully, the ride itself generated no grumbles whatsoever. Waiting for Hanley’s carload of dudes, however, generated more than a few. Hanley finally arrived a full 30 minutes later than even the slowest-arriving car—what the hell was that guy doing?
Oh, well. To pass the time, Miles and I ducked up to a nearby gift shop to purchase a fifth of Fireball and a couple shot glasses. And when the ride operators herded my group of 14 into our own compartment on the wheel, I had a feeling we’d have a good time. Not having Grandma & Grandpa Scuttle or Mom, Dad, Little Joey and Littler Maggie to deal with in our car? Awesome. We had shots, we took photos, we reveled, we relived the game’s best plays (chief among them, The Point), and by the time we disembarked, we’d emptied the fifth and emerged somehow more victorious than when we’d entered.
About half the gang departed for downtown. The rest of us stayed on the Strip, with my group of Miles, G-$ and Rusty heading for the Flamingo while Jonny, Hanley, Wilner and a couple others hit the IP—er, I mean, the Linq.
We caught ourselves a pretty awesome table. Of our three dealers through the evening, Olga was my fave. She was fairly unemotional at first, but I warmed her up by pitching her a bunch of shit. After a couple decent shoes, I needed to hit the head, so I asked her for directions. She said, “Go this way and then that way,” pointing that way and then another way. I wandered off in the direction of her first point, taking a Billy-from-Family-Circus route through the casino before finally arriving at a bathroom about 50 yards straight down the main hallway from our table. When I got back, I called the pit boss over and complained about the lousy directions. At first, I think Olga took me seriously. She watched anxiously as I animatedly made my points. Then, in the middle of my diatribe, I winked at her. She laughed, and after that all was well. Until I needed to go to the restroom again, that is. Or until anyone at the table needed to go. Every time that happened, I would give Olga the “This way and that way” treatment, wildly pointing in all directions, save the direction of the nearest bathroom. Even late that night, when Olga was at another table, I stopped briefly for more directions, eliciting another laugh. I’m not sure she was truly amused, but I sure as heck was.
Eventually, it was time to stop playing blackjack. Our third dealer, Mulu, was the rowdiest of the bunch, quick with a high five and a smile. But it was time to go. The marathon session had been a blast, during the middle of which, Rusty made his famous pronouncement (detailed at the beginning of this narrative). I made a grand total of $1. I think G-$ and Miles made out slightly better. But when it was time to cash, Rusty pushed his pile of red chips to the center with a hearty grin. I eyeballed the stacks, estimating he was anywhere from $50 to $80 up—a nice session for Rusty, who’s not an aggressive bettor.
But he reached into his pockets, and started to bring up even more reds, and more and more. He’d been rat-holing for hours! Nicely done, Rusty.
The next morning was another lazy affair. The Angel Park golf shuttle wouldn’t arrive until about 10:45 for our quick ride out to the course. On our way out, we took a hard left over to the sports book to cash some winning tickets. Most were in the $40 to $100 range. Mine was worth $50.
I must say, golfing in October is much more pleasant than golfing just 4 weeks later, as we usually do. It was about 80 degrees as we teed off, and it stayed pleasantly warm all day long. Giving a half-stroke per side, Jonny, Miles, G-$ and I lost the front side to Sims, Hanley, Mattt and Cranberry, but took the back (+1, +3 vs +1, +5) so there was no money exchanged. Shots were exchanged, but no money.
Some more detail from Jonny: “The van to the course from Angel Park is a huge, huge perk and we need to remember how awesome it is. Big golf was fun and beautiful. And warm. I think I like the Mountain course better than the Palm course. But we don’t need to bring/drink our own shots on the course. Three shots was one more than I needed.
“And ya know what? Fuck Sims and his bitching about the number of strokes he gets. We played about as good a round of golf as we can pull together as a team. And with that, we still lost the front. So, I’m not inclined to give him an extra stroke on both front and back. We should go for an overall score as well and that’s where I’d be willing to give a little bit more. Key words: a little bit.”
We got back home around 5 or so, and met down at La Comida for dinner. I seem to recall the opening reviews of the place praised the food but not the prices, but we thought that although the drinks were kind of outrageously priced, the food was reasonable. It was pretty decent chow—imaginative and tasty. The portions looked pretty darn small, but did the job. I felt pleasantly full as we pushed away from the table and strolled over to The Bling.
People were pretty eager to leave The Bling as soon as they entered it, though. A few guys sat down to the $5, single-deck game, but everyone else just wanted to go. I made them wait until I used up my free play coupon (+$20 on some weird Alien penny slot), then we walked back up to the Grand.
We tried to find some video poker games side-by-side, but the pickings were kind of slim. A few guys played here, a few over there. Me, I sat down a few yards away from the guys at an Ultimate X Bonus machine. The cocktail service was swell—probably the swellest cocktail service we had during the trip, so I stayed longer than maybe I would have otherwise. Good thing too—I was dealt 4 4’s! Hoping for a kicker, I held the 4’s on all 4 lines…but got no kickers. Drat. Still, it was a $60 profit on the session, after which we got some walkin beers for our trip back up to the Plaza.
We decided to try out the Plaza Party Pit. Were we successful? I’ll let Miles tell you: “The Reverse psychology pit is henceforth known as an Indian burial ground with Indians killed by Doug or Jason ancestors' or both. Genocide definitely doesn’t pay.”
In short, although we enjoyed ourselves immensely, it was not a profitable area. An obvious regular from a neighboring table gave our dealer his “Evil Eye” several times, which worked fewer times than it should’ve, given that in order to deliver his wicked gaze he had to lean in over my shoulder and weirdly impinge on my personal space.
G-$ enjoyed the time there: “I still enjoy the Party Pit. It’s been a fun time and great story two out of two times.”
After I lost $95, I got up from the table, with Malmoe and Jase taking my spot. When those guys took a bathroom break, G-$ and Miles discovered the table’s greatest secret: it hated Malmoe and Jase. When they were gone, the table turned red hot. As they got back and sat down, the table cooled as if infused with liquid nitrogen. G-$ and Miles shooed them away, and they complied, if only to stem their own losses. The table heated quickly, but if either of them even made a move toward his chips, the dealer would complete an impossible 21 and scoop the bets.
Under threat of death, Jase and Malmoe stopped touching their chips. And the Party Pit’s final shoe of the night almost brought G-$ and Miles all the way back! They found me about $10 down at a video poker machine and convinced me to cash out so G-$ could have a McGriddle and Miles could have two of something.
We woke up later Monday morning, because it was time to move out to the Suncoast. Chug ‘N Putt Gamblepalooza 8 would tee off on Angel Park’s Cloud 9 at noon sharp, and we had lots to do. Including, we found out, an unplanned trip to Jacksons. As I walked into their room with the morning round of coffee, Miles showed me an uncashed Jacksons slot ticket for a hundy. Whoops.
We did find out, pleasantly enough, that Jacksons serves a darn tasty breakfast!
The Suncoast accommodated our request for an early check in, and even had side-by-side rooms available for us, an advantage we need to remember for future trips. And we got everything done so fast that we had some time for pre-game games. After dumping $40 into an 8/5 Bonus machine, I channeled Mr. T and found his new favorite game: Triple Wheel Poker, which pays you wheel multiplier bonuses if you’re dealt a 3 of-a-kind or higher. I managed to get a couple of dealt full houses for some sweet bonuses and left the machine up a cool $80.
With that, the lucky group of 14 crossed the street for the Chug ‘N’ Putt. Check in was a snap, and before long we were choking down Fireball shots and teeing off. I would end up playing my head-to-head holes on #1 (against Jonny, a win) and #11 (a draw vs. Malmoe), and playing a pretty solid round. I didn’t have my best stuff, but as I told my captain, Sergent (who said before the round, “No pressure, but I think it’s obvious I have a lot riding on you today”), I battled as hard as I could. I have no regrets on the round. I finished two shots off the lead, and those two shots were out there for me to get: a chunked extra chip on #1 and a snapped-off little 4-footer that I missed for par on maybe #7 or #8 or so.
Instead of awarding the cash at the 19th hole at Angel Park, I had the guys depart immediately after finishing up for The Game, the Suncoast’s goofy little sports bar. G-$ and I totaled the scores, and hustled downstairs to find pitchers and plates waiting for us.
Miles won the tourney. His handicap-adjusted score tied Cranberry, but by virtue of his birdie he won the tiebreaker. Cranberry, in just his second CNPGP, became our runner-up. Congratulations!
After a few burgers, we spilled onto the casino floor for our last night in town. We played some cards to start. I hadn’t bothered changing out of my Washington golf shirt, a laziness rewarded handsomely when a guy sat down at first base, looked at me, and said, “What’s Chris Petersen doing at our table?” We had a laugh, and he called me “Chris Petersen” all night, putting the capper on this amazing weekend.
Another capper—I left that table up $50, and dragged some guys over to play some Super Times Pay. And I hit some real doozies on the machine! While neither of these memorable hands was bonused, they still paid a bunch of nickels:
- Dealt 3 Aces, I hit the 4th Ace on 2 different lines!
- And dealt 4 to the Royal, I hit a Royal on the first line!
Those weren’t the only great hands on that game, only the most memorable, and I left the machine up more than $300. We downshifted to (guess what!) more penny slots, and I once again served as G-$’s loser wingman as he profited on pennies pooped from a volcano god.
Sufficiently hammered, it was time for Miles and I to win a few million, so we found the Megabucks bank. Unfortunately, Miles’ foolproof system worked again, and after doubling my half of our stake, I was forced to quit while Miles worked to similarly double his half of the stake, or go broke. He went broke, so I begged him for another chance. He didn’t budge, so we left the bank each up $7 (our respective halves of the profit I made). After some late video poker, it was finally time to turn in, so while Friday and Saturday were not great gambling days, Sunday and Monday netted me nearly $400.
Tuesday morning, I got in trouble for taking the rental car over to Starbucks for the morning joe. Miles was hot to get checked out and over to the Hard Rock for breakfast and our last gambling sessions of the trip. Breakfast was great, but I took a flier on some $.50 Bonus Poker and blew through a hundy pretty quick.
But oh, what a weekend.
