My Cup Runneth Over

The thing about gambling is that it is more or less so. That spread makes all the difference. 

I showed up at Southland Casino in West Memphis with no expectations and a wad of cash. It was my anniversary and my wife was treating me. They upgraded our room to the corner suite. From the 12th floor we could see Rt 55 and the now defunct greyhound track. Grass grew through everything and paint was there, to an extent. You feel like the version of a million bucks that costs ten. It still does the trick. 

But everyone looks like shit. There's not a baller in the house. We're all there to pretend we're ballers. But in houses of money, there will always be a reward for skill. The reward begins by alluring the prey. 

My wife and I go over to a table, just looking to have some fun. But that 3 letter word has such a variety of shades of meaning. One man's fun is another's fuel, and ones fuel is another's conflagatory proposition. We sit at the table, get dealt a hand to have a woman gnawing on our ear for a side bet. Lady, we obviously don't know what we're doing. Obviously, we're not giving you a side bet. 

But I get to thinking, we do it all the time. I have no idea, or maybe to be more fair, little idea, most of the time, I'm generally winging it. That doesn't stop me. But I got to thinking. Some people are not winging it. They know exactly what they're doing. There is still some speculation, and some risk, but they mostly have their win / win mapped out. That is, until the rules change, or some other conceit that arises as miscalculation. Greed. Power. Influence. 

So we pony up on a bet, for posterity, and lose immediately, not even knowing what happened. Seriously, I can't even tell you what game they were playing... some improvised game of blackjack. More power to you if you can get someone to play by your rules.

We had fun. Bought lots of drinks, did some dancing. The live band was intoxicating. There was a smoking section which was basically like Pinocchio's hell. It was cool to have a smoke in there, but the self-destructive debauchery was just a touch too literal. 

You're Sixteen, penned by the Sherman Brothers, reached number one with Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney. Now it seems predatory. The Redskins and The Indians had to be redubbed The Commanders and The Generals. The attractions of yesterday are today's snubs. It's trickle down economics. Can't you just feel the rain falling from the toilet of the penthouse? 

It's not so much that we're fooled by it, as it is drinking from the cup handed to you.