I played blackjack in a casino today–the first time since being published.  As I approached the entrance to the facility (which shall remain nameless), I wondered if anything would be different.  Maybe there would be a special greeter for me outside the door, “Good morning, Mr Wiggy, excellent book!  We have a special table set aside for you in the PLUSH VELVET room.  Do you want some champagne or a mango and passion fruit smoothie?  What about a scone?  Would you prefer that we wash and dry your feet like Jesus while you play?  We introduced new chips today–they have your picture on one side.  Plus, there are 47 of us casino employees waiting for you to explain every intricacy of the game, even though we’ve been working here day in and day out for centuries.  Please dazzle use with your brilliance!”

Or, perhaps I would be treated oppositely upon arrival, “Freeze asshole!  Get on the ground–NOW!  What made you think you could ever come here again after writing a blackjack book?  Who are you working with?  How come you have a bottle of Carmex in your right, front pocket?  Who is Talmadge?  We’ve called the FBI, CNN, TMZ.com, and the United Nations.  Your days of counting cards are over.  Plus, there is an excellent chance that you will be executed in our back parking lot in 15 minutes.  We have a guillotine!”

Something in between those two extremes actually occurred.  Nothing.  I went in the building, played blackjack for three hours while counting cards in a mostly vacant pit, made a small profit, cashed out a $20 coupon, received a comped breakfast burrito (bacon, egg, potato and cheese) and drove home listening to the new Mumford & Sons CD.  Great music.  You know, they released that album to commemorate the publication of my book!

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