Place your bets

I checked the lottery section on Denverpost.com today, and it confirmed my fear: I didn't win Powerball. I didn't even match one digit. I guess that's to be expected with the astronomical odds and all, but it's still disappointing. After all, who picks up their potentially winning ticket before a $173 million drawing and thinks about not winning? Everyone kicks back and thinks about what it's going to be like to be rich. With that silly sum and all those big red zeros posted on billboards around the country, people are thinking about being FILTHY rich.

Buying a Powerball ticket gives me exactly the opposite feeling as being in Vegas. The nominal investment of one dollar makes me feel like I don't have much to lose. In fact, I bought my most recent non-winning ticket with ten dimes. I like to imagine that I'll take the ticket from the gas station attendant, shove it in my wallet and forget about it until it's time to collect my winnings. There's no stress involved, no oxygen pumped into a room full of crazed geriatrics slapping their wadded singles and fives onto the roulette table. All I need to do is be patient and wait for my lazy investment to grow. Exponentially.

In Vegas, I have to deal with too much distraction and abject panic. I've heard craps referred to as "wallet lightening," and I'd love that moniker if it wasn't my billfold being zapped. There's the above referred to aging zombies, but the pace is just too much. Especially for an investment minded gambler like myself. I want time to think about how great things are going to be when I get rich, not have to make split second decisions that will ultimately prove to undo that very goal. Don't yell at me and ask if I want to buy a six, of if the boxcar hard way is for me. Take my spare change and return it, along with one hundred sixty five tons of matching coin. Or, have Ed McMahon deliver a novelty check to my front door and yell "peaked in the 80's" while I gleefully cash out.

Now don't get me wrong, trips to Vegas are a blast. Take, for instance, one of my more successful trips out there:
God knows why my boss temporarily lost his mind and sent Hans and me out on a project in Southwest Utah that left us both flying through Vegas. If facing down a jury and questioned about his decisionmaking, I'm sure he'd plead insanity. He must have seen the benefit of sending an old hand such as myself (at the time I think I'd been researching county records for all of a year) out with the new guy to show him the ropes. Hans, the new guy for this little junket to Sin City, was glad to accept the tutelage.
Hans and I were friends from high school, and he'd recently taken a job with us after his previous employer was booked for two DUI's in one week. Getting busted that often for playing bumper cars in your Land Rover aparently makes it tough to run a business. Ironically, he was an advertising guy for Budweiser before he came to Denver.
So Hans and I flew out to Vegas for work, and spent a few days touring the desert wastes of Southwestern Utah. (I say wastes, but for climbing's sake, it's actually a goldmine. Hans and I didn't get to climb, so for purposes of this story, the countryside was a waste.) Come that Thursday, we needed to head back to Vegas to meet with a guy we were trying to buy an oil and gas lease from. This particular individual turned out to be one of the crazier people I've ever met, complete with the bumper sticker on his beater Volvo that read, "911 was an inside job!"

Needless to say, we spent about 20 very uncomfortable minutes in his livingroom before Hans and I were finally able to ascertain that we weren't getting any business done that afternoon, and that the Strip was a better option. Sorry, Mr. Loco, we gotsta go.

We had a room booked at Caesar's for that Thursday night, and a flight scheduled to leave at the very civilized hour of noon on Friday. That would allow us centralized accomodations and plenty of daylight to shake off any hangover. We checked in, thinking that the conspicuous name that would headline the receipt could be forgiven, considering our budget allowed for two separate hotel room. After grabbing a bite of dinner, we headed off to try the tables.
Before I get to that, though, a quick word. The best Thai restaurant in America is in a strip mall off of Sahara. 953 E. Sahara, to be exact. The Lotus of Siam is so good, that last summer on a different trip, my friend Rob and I seriously considered driving down from Reno, a full 6 hrs, just for dinner.

Back to Vegas, and after dinner: Hans and I had been to the Strip together before, and had a blast at the super budget Harrah's. Knowing that we'd had luck there before, and knowing that the time at the tables is always extended with the lower minimum bets that come with older, dingier casinos, we headed back.

The main point of the post is this: There is nothing in life like a hot craps table. I don't care what else I wrote, that's the only thing that matter. Especially after a ton of awesome Rad Na and pork larb.

Hans and I had a run of dice that was outstanding. It got to the point where we were throwing chips around to the dealers in a prayer to keep the good rolls coming. Hi fives, drinks, shouts, and some grumpy Pit Boss rumbings. Playing a $5 minimum bet, we came away with a combined $1,400 for just a few hours "work", nearly what we earned for an entire week of hasseling freak shows for their oil and gas. That sounds pretty good.

Hey H- How bout a return?