Blackjack Stories

The following story was posted today in light of the outcome of the Green Bay Packers vs Seattle Seahawks game on Monday Night Football:

After several rounds of edits and revisions, 1536 Free Waters and Other Blackjack Endeavors–Finding Profit and Humor in Card-Counting is now available at iUniverse.com, Amazon.com, BN.com and a few other online retailers.  Hardback, softback and electronic versions (Kindle, Sony eReader, NOOK, iBooks, Kobo Reader, .pdf and more) are available.  I want to thank each and everyone who has visited this site, whether it be once or many times.  I hope you will give the book a chance:

http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000594922/1536-Free-Waters-and-Other-Blackjack-Endeavors.aspx

This should be the last post on this site until my book is published.  Several blackjack cohorts, as well as friends and family have asked, “Who is in your book?”  I tell them that traditional blackjack books mention folks like Edward O. Thorp, Stanford Wong, Arnold Snyder and Ken Uston.  My book is NOT the typical blackjack book!  Of course, I mention many pioneers of the game, especially the legends who started card-counting for all of us.  From the very first page, however, you’ll see that my book is different.  The following cast of characters all make an appearance in the pages of 1536 Free Waters and Other Blackjack Endeavors–Finding Profit and Humor in Card-Counting:

[In order of appearance]

Lori Wiggy, Newman (my dog, not the Seinfeld character), George Carlin, Mark and Brian, Chris Bloomer, Rush Limbaugh, Aunt Wilma, Mitchell Wiggy, Pat (character from Saturday Night Live), Derek Jeter, Pete Rose, Abbott and Costello, Timothy McVeigh, JD Fennell, Bruce LaBrie, Barry Clark, Justin Springer, Rick Ogle, Samantha Lovelace, Todd Crites, Jesus Christ, Jesus Crites, Kerri Ives, Brian Wiggy, Ted (some kid, not the bear from the 2012 movie), Cindy Crawford, Avery Cardoza, Edward Thorp, Sarah Wiggy, Joe the Camel, Roger Waters, Pink Floyd, Raymond “Rain Man” Babbitt, Garfield the Cat, God, Superman, Austin Powers, Oprah, Bonnie and Clyde, Michael Shackleford, Thomas Walter Wielgoleski, Uncle Stanley, Arnold Palmer, Pop Warner, Helen Wiggy, Kirk Wiggy, Kara Gardner, Ernest Borgnine, Yoko Ono, William Shatner, Scott Wiggy, Mike Evans, Rick Simon, Brian Barnett, Cousin Johnny, Aunt Jenny, Kim Authement, Hayden Grace Dempsey, Harper Madeline Demspsey, Bevo Russell, Andy Nagurny, Dan Gutilla, Paul “Ho-Ho” Smith, Jim Dixon, John Cassup, Warren Bachelor, Joe McGowan, Clyde Reese, Rex Lierman, Colonel Dailey, Russ Moody, David Dover, Ralph and Bill and Carl and Lou, Bill Wooten, Doc Randall, Don Davidson (fictitious), Robert something-or-other, Brad the Cajun, the Reagan administration, Casey Sere, Buddha, Bill Clinton, Monica Lewinsky, Roosevelt, Cadet Secondclass Reese Williams, Stanford Wong, Lady Luck, Barkley (my dog, not Charles), Dave Matthews Band, U2, The Mighty, Mighty Bosstones, Mr. and Mrs. Seinfeld, Tanya Cobb, Taylor Cobb, Haley Cobb, Portland Sea Dogs, Edward (a major in the Air Force), Shaq, Yong (a Korean immigrant waitress employed at the Pueblo of Sandia Casino in Albuquerque), Ocean Eleven experts, MIT students, Adolph Coors, Wile E. Coyote, Native-American tribal elders, Kevin Whipple, third-world national steward, a disgruntled guy from somewhere below the Mason-Dixon Line, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, Elsa ( a dealer), old-man elephant-face who worked at 7-11, “Carl” (name of a person on a sign), Ward Cleaver, Cliff Huxtable, Ned Flanders, Lewis (a dealer who was notorious for offering extremely deep penetration on a double-deck shoe), Brenda Bailey, Satan, waitresses at Caesar’s who wore sexy toga outfits, Lucky (another one of my dogs), David Vallejo, visiting Seattle Seahawk player, Merv Griffin, Donald and Ivana Trump, Ben Franklin, Samuel (but he went by “Sam”), Abraham Lincoln, Jerry Garcia, The Grateful Dead, NASCAR guy, Mr. Lewis (who was really me), Jake (man missing two fingers), Hawkeye and Trapper, but not Winchester or Honeycutt, the first girl in class who grew boobs, the Taiwanese husband and wife, a knife-yielding member of the Yakuza mafia, a school bus full of children returning from a tour of the pottery factory, baby Jessica, Gene and Linda (neighbors of mine in New Mexico), Saint Joseph of the Sacred Heart, Texas Longhorns, Jacob and Matthew (Gene and Linda’s twin boys), Larry David, Dudley Do-Right, Conan O’Brien, Conan the Barbarian, an African-American family of five, Cap’n Crunch, Catholic priests and cardinals, Hurricane Katrina, Rod and Todd Flanders, a racist son-of-a-bitch, Monroney Thunderbirds, Tiffany Herbert, Lisa (girl with a skunky blond streak of dyed hair that ran down the middle of her otherwise brunette head), Ridgecrest Elementary Roadrunners, Smoky the Bear, Elizabeth Knight, the Marlboro Man, Mr. and Mrs. Smoky Smokerson, a tiny woman named Cici, Grandma Gloria, Nacho (Wiggy, not Libre), Lee (woman who resembled Estelle Getty), Luis from Las Vegas, Mrs. Robinson, Oakland Raiders and Pittsburgh Steelers, North Carolina Tarheels, Englebert Humperdink, Mr. and Mrs. Humperdink, Bobby Boucher, Adam Sander (sic), Michael Phelps, a puppy probably not named “Squatter,”  Grandma Wielgoleski, an MGM Grand security guard, subjects from my blackjack superstition experiment (Anisha’keekwa, Bobby Bob Bobby, Cheng Cheng, and DeJesus),  Egghead, Monica (the 800-lady), the Pennsylvania Dutch, Doctor Phil, the Denver Broncos and the Indianapolis Colts, John Elway, JOE DIMAGGIO, The First Lady of the American Casino Theater, The Three Stooges, Chris Dempsey, Moe, Gerald Ford, the Japanese man who ripped the cards, TALMADGE, Cousin Mary, Shelly (from Rolla, Missouri), the Red-Chip Prostitute, the guy the Red-Chip Prostitute was soliciting, Larry the Cable Guy, Jay (or it might’ve been “J,” like the Doctor), Frank (pit boss who served doughnuts), the creepy couple in the hot tub, Sam Powell, Dan Tolly, Twinkie (a person, not the food), Jeff Cliatt, Josh (name was “Joshua Owens” on the paycheck), the Boardwalk Cats, Chesty (last name unknown, and not her real first name), Glen [last name TBD], Tiger Woods, Ben Affleck, Paris Hilton, Larry King, Marg Helgenberger, Daniel Stern, Allen Iverson, Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling, Anna Karenina, Tolstoy, Yossarian, Citizen Kane, Da Vinci, Warren Buffet, Bill Gates, the Commanding General of Multi-National Corps Iraq, the cocktail waitress from the Borgata, Scarlett Johannsson, the goofball from my company, the foreign billeting clerk with less-than-perfect English, Batman, Indiana Jones, Seth Rogan, Uncle Sam, Saddam Hussein, Sergeant Leif Olson, Megan (wonderful eleven year old from Muncie, Indianna—that’s the way she spelled it), Miss Grengarten, Miss Green-Goblin, and Glen Wiggy.

I was once seated at third base when a new player entered the blackjack table. He looked exactly like Harry Potter—same glasses, same hair, and roughly the same age. Of course, the dealer asked for ID. After taking a driver’s license from the player, the dealer placed it on the table to his right so the pit boss could verify Harry Potter’s age. I glanced at the license and noticed that he was twenty-four years old. Ten minutes later, during a re-shuffle, another player commented to Harry Potter that he looked really young.

“I get that all the time. Nobody knows my real age.”

I chimed in, “I bet you five dollars that I can guess your age with one try.”

“You’re on.”

I pretended to make an educated guess, “Let’s see, I won’t say twenty-one. That is too obvious. Hmmm, I’m gonna guess, twenty-four.”

Harry Potter responded, “Good job,” and tossed me a red chip. I took the money without saying a word. All you J.K. Rowling fans probably think that I’m going to hell.

If you heard the recent story in the news, you know that the Pentagon is concerned about an upcoming book written by a former military member.  Maybe it is true, maybe it is a ploy for publicity.  Either way, anyone searching the internet for “pentagon threatens author of new book” will instantly be taken to a website where a former military man tells wondrous tales previously known to only a handful of trusted individuals.  Mentions of Al-Qaeda, death threats, SEALs, Osama Bin Laden, CIA, and other apparently randomly terms which have nothing to do with blackjack would only help to bring unwanted publicity to such a website where the author of the website mentions that the Pentagon threatens the author of a new book that can be sold soon through the website.

As they say at the blackjack tables, “Hit me.”

I’m always glad to see players taking advantage of mistakes made by the house.  I devote an entire chapter to it in my book.  The following story was reported by many news outlets last week:

http://video.foxnews.com/v/1801020353001/casino-sues-big-winners-for-15m-winnings/

The story reminds me of blackjack players tracking clumps of aces through a shuffle to take advantage on the next shoe.  I’ve had very little success with that method.  Many times, however, I’ve been able to fix the cut to get the card (or avoid getting it) that was on the bottom after the dealer shuffled.  At the Cosmopolitan Casino in Las Vegas last winter, I was playing head’s up in a double-deck game when the dealer inadvertently flashed an ace of spades on the bottom.  I placed the cut card at what I thought was exactly twelve cards from the top.  It was a skinny slice, so I expected the dealer to make me re-do it.  He didn’t.  The dealer burnt the top card.  Eleven more cards until the ace.  On the first hand, we both had two-card eighteens.  Seven more until the ace.  On the next hand, I had a 2-3 against the dealers queen.  I hit for a two, then another hit which was a seven.  I had fourteen against a face. I instinctively thought about hitting again, until I realized that if it were the ace, it would not help my fourteen.  I stayed.  My only chance of taking advantage was to hope and pray that the dealer’s hand was pat.    When the dealer uncovered another queen to match his down card, I lost my bet with a smile.  I thought, “Holy Shit, the next card is the ace of spades!  Time for a huuuuuuuuuuuuuuge bet!”

Or was it?  I took an unusually long pause to think before placing my next bet.  If the next card is indeed the ace, I need to make a huuuuuuuuuuge bet!  However, if I made a mistake in the number of cards that I cut, and I was off by one card, the dealer would get the ace of spades, and probably a blackjack, and I would most likely lose a huuuuuuuuuuge bet!  But if I made a mistake in the number of cards that I cut and was off by two, then I’d still get the ace!  Thinking of all the possibilities was a little nauseating.  The dealer asked if everything was OK.  I replied sternly, “Maybe.” 

I decided to go for it.  I had been playing a $25 unit with about $300 in chips on the table.  I opened my wallet for $300 more–everything that I had at the time.  When the dealer started to give me green chips, I said, “Black will do.”  I placed $600 in the betting circle and two reds and two whites ($12) for an incentive toke to the dealer.  Every cent I had was in play.  I told the dealer as I stood, “This is my last hand.”

The suspense was killing me, but I didn’t have much time to dwell on it.  As soon as my big bet was on the table, the dealer gave me a card face down, then one to himself face down, then another to me face down, then another to himself face up, which was a jack .  His face down card was #2 off the deck.  I looked at my second down card (#3 off the deck).  It was a ten.  I didn’t look at the other card (#1 off the deck) just yet.  As the dealer started to check his down card, I stated, “I have a feeling one of us has an ace.”

“I hope it’s not me,” he replied while uncov

Cripple Creek is a mountain town in Colorado made famous in the Gold Rush era.  Nowadays, tourism is the town’s only industry.  For several months beginning in July 2009, I was a frequent visitor to the blackjack tables at the casinos of Cripple Creek.  The Gold Creek, Wildwood’s, Brass Ass and the others are pleasant alternatives to the casinos on the Las Vegas Strip.  Smoking in not allowed in any buildings, few patrons crowd the tables, and there are no mile-long walks from the parking garage to the main casino gaming area.  Plus, some of the newer blackjack dealers in Cripple Creek make mistakes in counting and payouts.  Good stuff.  The 63-mile drive from Cripple Creek to my home is very enjoyable when I’ve won a few bucks gambling.  The 20-mile downgrade circling Pikes Peak is an especially beautiful highlight of the drive.  There are magnificent cliffs, various rock formations, colorful foliage and even wild deer and longhorn sheep.  I love rolling down the window to the smell the fresh Rocky Mountain air combined with the scent of newly won hundred dollar bills.  On one occasion last summer when my wallet was emptied due to aberrations in the laws of probability, however, the drive down the mountain from Cripple Creek was an ugly pain in the ass.

I lost $500 on a visit after being up several hundred dollars an hour earlier.  Obviously miffed, I pulled out of the casino parking lot onto the two-lane stretch of Highway 24.  I was behind a motorcyclist who was behind some crappy POS who was behind a casino charter bus who was behind a long line of cars who were all behind a farmer with a pickup truck full of hay bales.  Everyone was going 30-35 MPH.  I settled into my seat, pissed, knowing that it would be a long ride home.  A few minutes into the journey, I saw another motorcycle approaching in the opposite lane.  As it neared, the motorcycle guy in front of me took his left hand off the handlebar and directed it slightly downward and outward, about a foot away from the left side of the bike.   The approaching rider did the same.  It was a wave.  How cute!  I didn’t think much of the gesture until it happened again with another biker a few miles down the road.  Then it happened again, this time with a pair of riders in tandem.  Now I was starting to get pissed off!  I didn’t mind the fact that the wave resembled an upside-down, Nazi-like salute…I could see that it was obviously safer, and cooler, than the rider waving a hand straight up the air like a mom would do when she spotted her lost child in a crowded shopping mall.  I had a more perplexing thought.  This goon in front of me doesn’t know all those other bikers personally.  Why is he waving to all of ‘em?!   I remembered back to a moment in seventh grade when my freind, Barry Clark, told me that all school bus drivers waved to each other.  It was true.  For years afterward, I watched the strange phenomena, as all the school bus drivers, man-woman, young-old, normal bus-short bus, it didn’t matter, waved to each other as they passed on the highway.  I eventually grew up and quit riding the bus, so I haven’t seen an equally goofy phenomenon since.  Until now.

Stewing in my grumpy old man bitterness, I waited for the next motorcycle rider to approach.  Here we go.  Will he do it again?!  The moment of truth.  The guy in front of me lowered his hand.  The other rider returned suit.  Holy $’@%*& shit, he did it again!  I was so pissed, I steamed up the windows in my Honda.  A few minutes later, another biker, another wave, but at least this time, the other guy did a lowered peace sign instead of the upside-down Seig Heil.  What is there, a Rocky Mountain version of Sturgis goin on here?  It was ridiculous.  A mile or so before the mountain leg of my trip ended, something happened which made this story have a happy ending.  No, no, the cyclist didn’t crash.  (I may be a grumpy gambler at times, but I’m not a sadistic rat bastard.)  Instead, a final biker appeared in the oncoming lane.  I was too exhausted to care.  I simply wanted the madness to end.  The guy in front of me waved downward.  The other biker looked his way, then looked back toward the road without a returning gesture.  He didn’t motorcycle wave back.  Thank God, some motorcyclists hate the routine as much as I do.

Several of you have asked when my book will be published.  Because of a sticky legal issue regarding one of the stories, plus final editorial changes, the book is now scheduled to be released around the end of September or the beginning of October.  Stay tuned on this website for more information.

One of the changes recommended by my publisher concerned the title.  They think 1536 Free Waters and Other Benefits of Blackjack is more appropriate for a memoir-only book instead of a nonfiction blackjack book.  They also mentioned that the content of the book isn’t focused on “benefits” of blackjack.  Finally, they suggested that I add a subtitle that would amplify or clarify the title.

Thus, the new title and subtitle of the book will be: 1536 Free Waters and Other Blackjack Endeavors – Finding Profit and Humor in Card-Counting

While coming up with a revised title, I also had to determine the book classification.  It was a tricky choice between “Games” and “Humor.”  Since I could only pick one, I went with “Games”…adding “Humor” in the subtitle will hopefully be a catch-all for the other classification.  Just so you know, I rejected these other titles in case the book was classified a different way:

In the Fiction area: Fifty Additional Shades of Grey – My Life of S&M in Underground Casinos

Science Fiction: The Real Hunger Games – 42 Straight Hours Playing Blackjack While Eating Only a Half-Empty Tin of Altoids

Sports: Playing Blackjack is More of a Sport Than 27 Events Played at the 2012 London Summer Olympics

History: General Douglas MacArthur – Great Leader, But Fucking Horrible Blackjack Player

Parenting and Family: Mommy, Why is Daddy Always at the Casino?

Travel: Visit Mesquite, Nevada – But Watch Out for the Douche Bag Pit Manager at the Casablanca Casino Who Kicked Me Out for Card-Counting Even Though I Was Losing $800 at the Time

Mystery: The Angry Man Who Killed a Cocktail Waitress with a Nine of Diamonds

Reference: “G-SHIT-KRICE-YOU-FRIGGIN-BUTTNUTT-I-CAN’T-BELIEVE-YOU-TOOK-THAT-CARD” and Other New Entries in the Webster Blackjack Dictionary

Law: Keeping Chips Found on the Casino Floor – It’s Not Stealing If You Don’t Get Caught

Religion: I Found Jesus – He Was Eating a Muffin in the Alley Between the Palazzo Hotel and the Imperial Palace Casino in Las Vegas

Literature: Absence of Sense and Sensibility – Average Blackjack Players

Kids: Stranger Danger – Stay Clear of That Wiggy Guy Who Asks, “Wanna See the Chips in My Pocket?”

Young Adult: Stranger Danger – Stay Clear of That Wiggy Guy Who Asks, “Wanna See the Chips in My Pocket?”

 Adult Women, Ages 18-25: Welcoming Strangers – No Need to Stay Clear of That Wiggy Guy Who Asks, “Wanna See the Chips in My Pocket?”

Trivia: The Game of Blackjack Was Invented in 2009 in Kodiak, Alaska, and Other Lesser-Known Gambling Trivia

Politics: Like It or Not, Americans, Your President is Black, Jack!

Diet & Health: Morbidly Obese People Spotted at the Casino – Counting Cards Instead of Counting Calories

Art: Mona Lisa – The Original Model for the Queen of Clubs

Self-Help: You Suck – Why You Shouldn’t Sit Next to Me at the Blackjack Table

Pets: My Dog, Newman, Was Spaded Seven Years Ago – But He is Still a Better Blackjack Player Than Many of You

Automotive: My Car Has a Cracked Windshield and Faulty Transmission – But It is Still a Better Blackjack Player Than Many of You

Romance: 1536 Free Waters and the Clean-Up Required After Trysts with 1536 Vegas Prostitutes

I’ll never forget the time I walked past a blackjack table and noticed two new and amazing sights.  A man was playing head’s up against the dealer with bright, neon orange and neon yellow chips.  The oranges were $10,000 chips and the yellows were $5000.  I’ve handled a few $1000 chips in my day, but never a higher denomination.  The player was surrounded by the dealer, the pit boss, the casino manager, and two security guards.  If you had seen the way the man was dressed, and how his hair was combed, you’d think he was a school bus driver in a poor neighborhood.  Besides having more than $300,000 in chips at the table, the man also had a dozen chocolate doughnuts on a platter along with a carafe of coffee.  Apparently, it was a special VIP comp from the casino.  I never got any doughnuts for playing.  In fact, I think food had been  prohibited in the table games area.  The pit boss and I were on a first name basis, and had been for over a year.  I walked up close to the high stakes game, “Hey, Frank, I never get any doughnuts.  What’s up with that?”  Frank sternly asked me to leave the area.  The two-faced sunuvabitch acted like he didn’t know me.  For a second, I thought about doing a grab and dash at the table.  Not for the neon-colored chips—for a doughnut.

My friend, Bruce, told me a story which happened a few weeks ago at an Oklahoma casino.  Bruce was sitting at a table with a rookie who was slow in making decisions and often deviated from basic strategy.  (In my book, I call players like this, “blackjackally challenged.” )  During the game, the player was dealt a five and an ace.  When he hit and received another five, the player turned over his cards and exclaimed, “BLACKJACK!”

Here is another short tale of short-sided thinking: Last week at the M Resort in Las Vegas, my son and I were sitting with an elderly gentleman who was playing $50 a hand.  Usually, players betting that much know what the hell they are doing.  Not this gentleman.  Two hands into a double-deck shoe, there had already been seven aces in play.  I asked the dealer for a re-shuffle.  Before the dealer or pit boss could react to my request, the old man to my left pondered, “Why do you want a shuffle?”  I responded, “Because there have already been seven aces played.”  The old geezer replied, “That’s good…the dealer won’t get an aces.”  He obviously did not know how important aces were to us players.  Instead of getting a new shuffle, my son and I quit the shoe.  The old man played head’s up against the dealer.  Three or four hands passed.  On the next hand, the old man doubled down with a ten against the dealer’s seven.  He received a four and lost $100.  I asked him, “Were you expecting an ace?”

I’ve been told by family, friends and other players at the blackjack table that I act like a grumpy old man at times.  They think I have a tendency to compain too much.  I disagree…there are many things that I like:

– I like that, statistically, people who have bumper stickers about politics, religion, abnormal social views, or their favorite sports team, have a better chance of being in a fender-bender because other drivers are distracted by their overly-opinionated point of view displayed on the car bumper.  These people also have a better chance of having their car keyed by someone.

– I like hearing news about multi-millionaires, celebrities, or professional athletes who lose a ton of money on Ponzi schemes.

– Nowadays, you hear more and more stories about old high school sweethearts who hook up via Facebook. I like it when the internet breaks up long marriages.

– Even though I’m in my mid-forties, I enjoy that I can still hit a golf ball hard enough to possibly end a person’s life with an errant shot on the golf course.

– I love that I’m allowed to buy and eat as many Popsicles as I want.

– It pleases me when I see hemi-powered pickup trucks on the highway, knowing that they get 6.7 miles per gallon fuel efficiency.

– I enjoy downloading songs, even entire albums, for free on the internet. That’s legal, right?

– I adore that people say my wife and my daughter look like sisters.

– I’m very thankful that Abe Vigoda is still alive.

– I’m happy that while I floss only once or twice a month, my dentist recently said, “Good job. It looks like you’re flossing regularly!”

– I like that as the average weight of Americans goes up each year, the size of toilets remains the same.

– Have you seen the Travelers Insurance television commercial where all the wild animals are pleasantly living and singing together at the watering hole? I like that in real life, these creatures would be ripping each other to shreds to survive. ♫ It’s the cirrrrrrcle of life… ♪

– I’m fascinated that the phrases “I don’t give a shit” and “I give a shit” have the same meaning.

– I’m grateful knowing that most cell phone providers will offer you a better monthly rate if you threaten to change providers. Try it.

– When I’m in the first car waiting on a red light, then the light changes green, I love waiting as long as I can until the driver behind me beeps the horn. When I hear the horn, I wave like Forrest Gump in the rear-view mirror.

– I like taking advantage of the trick my daughter, Sarah, taught me. If you want a personal pizza from Schlotzsky’s, order the kids-sized pizza. It is the exact same size as the regular pizza, but cheaper. Plus, you get a cookie!

– I always get giddy when religious leaders or key members of groups like “Focus on the Embryos” denounce homosexuals, then they later get arrested for using same-sex escort services.

– I love that I can periodically sneak into the YMCA near my house without paying. The secret is to complain about something at the front desk, “Did you see all that damn garbage in the parking lot? I wonder why nobody ever asks to see my membership card.

– I’m glad there is website that will anonymously send an email to your friend or co-worker to let them know they have a bad breath problem.

– I enjoy hearing about hunting accidents. ♫ It’s the cirrrrrrcle of life… ♪

– Have you ever seen bike riders or motorcyclists get caught unexpectedly in a torrential rainstorm? I like that.

– I like that more and more television commercials are featuring women in bras and panties. It wasn’t always that way…maybe nudity on public TV is just around the corner.

– I’m happy that the bad economy makes it easier for me to get a table at a restaurant on Friday nights.

– You know when you’re stopped at a traffic light, and a car pulls up alongside with a dog or dogs inside? When that happens to me, I like barking really loud to make the puppies go nuts.

– It may be weird, but I like it when my 20-pound dog takes a human-sized poop.

– I like having my own internet site where I can mention shit, poop, and toilet jokes as much as I want.

A blackjack player, or any other type of gambler, experiences a wide range of feelings and emotions after repeated wagering. Sometimes the feeling is sheer exhilaration, other times it is a disappointment beyond belief. One of the absolute worst feelings occurs when you quickly lose your entire bankroll after having been up hundreds or thousands of dollars just minutes previously. If you gamble long enough, it happens. When it happens to me while playing blackjack, blaring and irritating thoughts immediately fill my head. Why didn’t I quit ten minutes ago? Why was I so greedy? I can’t believe I lost it all.

I had this ill feeling crop up on me unexpectedly while playing at the MGM Grand casino in Las Vegas. I was up $900 and lost eight of nine hands while the true count was high. In the course of a few minutes, I lost all the winnings and my entire $400 bankroll, a $1300 swing. I was hot. Everything I saw after that pissed me off: The ninety-four year old lady jumping up and down because she just won $50 on the slot machine nearest to the table games, the security guard near the men’s room telling me to “Have a nice day,” the ten-second wait for the elevator to arrive from the second floor, and the fifty-something immigrant custodian cleaning the ashtray canister. I just lost enough to pay your salary for a month. The everything-was-pissing-me-off theme continued. The sign inside the elevator advertising the all-you-can-eat seafood buffet, and the mini-billboard in the parking garage promoting the Englebert Humperdink shows on August 28th and 29th. Screw Englebert, and screw Mr. and Mrs. Humperdink for naming him that. While I’m thinking about it, screw the month of August, you hot bastard with no holiday! I was hot, and getting hotter. The loss of thirteen black chips, coupled with the 110-degree heat, combined to create a satanic-like sweat that emitted from every pore of my body. I couldn’t imagine feeling worse—until I saw the puppies in the covered parking garage.

Five puppies were crammed inside a kennel cage barely big enough to hold one of them. Some grade-A, uncaring, moron had left five infant animals caged in the back seat of a thirty-year-old, piece of crap Impala. Left them with no food or water. I was fuming. The car was shaded, and the window was cracked a few inches, but the interior temperature must have been near 125 degrees. The puppies were lifeless. I had to quickly get these puppies some water and food, and then find the idiot responsible for their predicament. I ran back into the MGM Grand. Luckily, I had been away from the confines of my home-court gaming establishment, the Sandia Casino in Albuquerque, otherwise Yong and the rest of the water police would have given me grief. I snagged six bottles of water from the self-help concession stand, holding them in the upturned bottom of my linen shirt. I also grabbed the styrofoam bowl used to hold an ample supply of Sweet-and-Low packages. Damn coffee drinkers. Because of you and your need for artificial sweetener, laboratory rats had to die. Everything was pissing me off. Finally, I grabbed a plate of half-eaten french fries from the dozen or so small tables just outside the main gaming area.

As I ran back to the piece of crap Impala, I hoped that the shit head who abandoned the puppies hadn’t yet departed. Nope, the car was still there. I yelled proudly, “Don’t worry, babies, Bobby Boucher is here with some fine quality H₂0.” If you weren’t aware, that was a reference to Adam Sander’s movie, The Waterboy. Why don’t you watch a movie with your kids once in awhile instead of gambling? Geez, everything is pissing me off! As I yelled, a couple of the puppies sprang to life. Although the Impala doors had been locked, it only took a few pounds of force to push down the partially opened window. Was I breaking and entering? I doubt it. Any police officer or judge would sympathize to what I was doing. I poured a bottle and a half of the water into the styrofoam Sweet-and-Low bowl. The dogs knew what was coming. I opened the cage door. It was like someone turned on a happy meter inside the car.

I placed the bowl of water on the backseat and watched the fireworks. The puppies immediately quenched their thirsts. One of them, whom I had named “Mark Spitz,” actually got all four legs into the styrofoam Sweet-and-Low bowl and did half a lap before getting head-butted out of the way by another puppy. I called that one, “Bull.” Each time I had refilled the bowl, the puppies playfully competed to get a drink. Rightfully so, they went nuts with delight. At this point, I figured it was safe to add french fries to the menu. “Mark Spitz, no swimming for twenty minutes after eating.” Dinner concluded with the puppies licking my face through the partially opened window in appreciation. I was happy. They were happy. It was a wonderful after-school-special moment.

I basked in the glory of my friendly deed. What now? Maybe these little guys didn’t deserve their current situation. Maybe these puppies were destined to leave the prestigious MGM Grand parking garage with me. I quickly dismissed that scenario. As much as I would have liked the immediate adoption, our family was about to go through another one of those wonderful moves that the Air Force believed in putting us through every two to three years. Plus, we already had a large Black Labrador at the time, Barkley. He wouldn’t want to be a momma. He liked the current one-dog-to-four-person ratio in the Wiggy household. Finally, I thought about the security cameras in the parking garage providing damning evidence in the dognapping case that could be filed against me. Nah, these dogs would have to stay with their current owner, as sad as that person might have been.

My second idea was better. I once heard that puppies had to “go” only ten minutes after eating and drinking. What better place to go than the floorboards and seats of a powder blue, rust-accented, piece-of-crap Impala. I waited and watched. No kidding, as soon as I thought of the impending pee sessions, one of the puppies immediately started leaking on the back seat. I named that one “Squatter.” The rest of the puppies bolted in every direction and found a spot of their own to urinate or defecate. The largest one jumped through the open window into my arms. I named him “Jumper.” I gave Jumper one last kiss before returning him to the Impala romper room. I then raised the window almost back to its original state, but gave the puppies a few more inches of breathing room than they had previously.

My plan worked like a charm. All of the puppies eventually “made” inside the car—five number ones, and two number twos. Plus, one dog produced a small amount of vomit that looked remarkably similar to my Grandma Wielgoleski’s potato soup. And as an added bonus, two of the puppies started gnawing on everything in sight. The styrofoam Sweet-and-Low bowl was the first target. It lasted only a few seconds. The next target was the fake lamb’s wool cover on the driver’s side seat. I was hoping that the cowboy hat adorned with a “Win in Vegas” pin on the passenger seat would be next. Not to be. Naps were now in order. One by one, the puppies snuggled into various nooks and crannies of the Impala interior, then feel asleep.

For the first time since leaving the blackjack tables, I was calm. I would have loved to stay and confront the idiot owner of the puppies, but it was time for me to mosey along. What if the owner, built like one of these WWE wrestlers, found me outside his car with the discriminating evidence of empty water bottles and puppy saliva on my face? Or worse yet, what if the owner was a burly woman packing a handgun? She might have just lost a stack of black chips too, and would be seeing things that pissed her off. Yeah, it was definitely best for me to leave the canine crime scene undetected at that time.

As I departed the parking garage in my rental car, I made a final gesture to ensure the safety of the puppies. After all, who knows how long they would still be in the overheated vehicle? I flagged down a security guard.

“Hey, you might want to check on that old Impala over there. Someone left a bunch of puppies unattended.”

The guard asked, “Do you want to leave your name and make a formal complaint?”

“Nah, I just want them to be okay.”

As I drove back to my hotel, I realized I hadn’t named all of the puppies. Let’s see, there was “Mark Spitz,” “Bull,” “Squatter,” and “Jumper.” I decided to name the last one, “Holy Shit,” because I had imagined that would be the first thing that the Impala owner would say when returning to the car. I laughed at my overall dog-naming abilities, nearly forgetting the evening’s $1300 disaster. As far as I could recall, it was the only time I ever had fun losing all my money at the casino. When I walked into our hotel room, my wife said, “I know you won. I can tell by your expression.” I didn’t correct her.

I’m thankful for the number of people who have viewed this site over the last few months.  I’m not as impressed, however, by the limited amount of participation.  In this day and age where everyone, everywhere, spouts their opinion about the goofiest subjects, why haven’t the masses participated in this fun-loving forum?  Maybe this post will bring you out of the woodwork.

In your opinion, what is the best movie or TV scene involving the game of blackjack?  [You get extra points for attaching a link to the source.]

My favorite is Joe Pesci getting pissed at the dealers in “Casino.”  I found the scene on YouTube, but only in French:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQ7HWq46hDg

 

An editor reviewing my manuscript contends that I am a petty thief.  Do you agree?  Here is a 100% true, short story from my book:

I had been playing at a blackjack table that was part of a pit containing eight tables arranged in an elliptical manner.  On the opposite side of the pit, I noticed a dealer drop a green, $25 chip.  The chip, approximately twenty feet away inside a roped area, remained on the carpet for a couple minutes without anyone noticing.  I sat next to a regular blackjack player who shared many a table with me over the years.  I whispered to him confidently and pointed, “I bet I can get that chip.”  He looked to where the green chipped rested on the carpet.  “No way!” he exclaimed, “You can’t get anywhere near that chip without someone noticing.”  I grabbed three green chips from my current stack and begin walking around the pit to the opposite side.  As I approached the table with the green chip beyond it, I intentionally bumped into the barstool at first base and fell to the side of the table, dropping my three green chips in an exaggerated manner.  The dealer called, “Chips down.”  This action immediately got the attention of the pit-boss, who came to my aid.  “Crap,” I muttered, “I dropped my chips.”  The pit-boss scoured the floor near me and the back of the table, producing four green chips.  “How many did you lose, four?” she asked, handing me the chips.  “Yeah, thanks.”  As I walked back to the original table, my cohort shook his head in disbelief saying, “Un-fuckin’-believable!”

This video has absolutely nothing to do with blackjack, does it?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=soV_Cca64Rk

The following news story is hilarious unless you are one of the two banks involved or the guy in the mugshot:

http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/detroit-man-gambles-away-1-5-million-accidentally-191619543.html

This very same thing happened to me…sorta.  I was playing blackjack when the dealer accidentally overpaid me $10 on a double-down bet.  I gambled it all away.

Have you ever been sitting next to a blackjack player who asks for the wrong cards when taking a hit?  I have…most of the time it is a woman.  For instance, this one lady hit a hand of fourteen against the dealer’s ten:

“Gimme a five,” she requested.

“Why don’t you ask for a seven?”  I pondered.

“I don’t want to be greedy.”

Here is superstition truly gone amok.  People like this are actually afraid to beg for the right card.  If you’re going to engage in wishful thinking, why not wish for the best hand possible?  Sometimes the player will really low ball the begging progress.

“Okay, dealer, [hitting a twelve], I want a five or a six.”

When this happens at the table, I get miffed. I’ll start begging for the wrong cards on purpose.  If I’m holding a sixteen against a face card, I’ll say loudly, “Give me a ten!”  Or, if I split aces, I’ll demand, “I want a four on this ace, and a two on this one.”  Or, if I get a blackjack, I’ll moan, “Why? Why did you give me that hand?  Damn you—I wanted a hard six.  The agony!”  I’ll go to great lengths to show beggars how goofy they really are.

My wife and I visited South Lake Tahoe for the first time last week.  The lake and surrounding mountains were beautiful.  Blackjack in nearby Stateline, Nevada was not as beautiful.  Here is a summary of some strange things that I witnessed during the trip:

– Most games at Harrah’s, Harvey’s and the Montbleau casino had horrible rules…double-down on 10 or 11 only, blackjack paid 6:5, and cut cards penetrated less than half the deck or shoe.  On one game at the Montbleau, where bikinied girls danced above a party pit, the game paid EVEN MONEY on a blackjack.  Atrocious.

– I watched a drunk college guy intentionally stay on an 8-3 against the dealer’s 8 to anger an equally drunk girl.  He had been hitting on the girl for 30+ minutes with no luck.  After she made an especially disparaging remark, the guy said, “I’m gonna stay on this hand just to piss you off!”  It worked.  The next card busted the girl; the card after that would’ve given her a 21 against the dealer’s upturned 18.  The drunk girl and guy both lost on the hand.  Chaos ensued.  The girl slapped a drink into the guy’s lap and cursed to the high heavens.  The guy stood up and offered many choice four-letter words of his own in return.  Three security guards eventually settled the peace, but not until the girl landed a few blows onto the face and torso of the now-laughing college drunkard!

– An index play cost me $1000 in one hand.  Basic blackjack strategy requires a hit on 15 against the dealer’s 10.  However, I was playing two hands ($500 each) in a double-deck shoe that had a true count of +6.  I stayed on the 15 (because of index play) and had a 20 on the other hand.    The next card was a 6!  If I had hit the 15, it would have been a beautiful 21.  Instead, the dealer took the 6 and coupled it with his 5 down card for a total of 21.  The card after the 6 would’ve busted him.  I lost both hands instead of winning both.  In the past ten years, index plays have saved/earned me countless dollars…not in Stateline, Nevada on May 27, 2012.

My son, Mitchell, graduated from Colorado College the other day at the age of 22.  Congratulations, boy…I’m proud of you!  Like most college students, Mitchell had a tendency to “party” when the need arose.  Case in point—an April 2012 trip to Las Vegas with nine women.  Originally, a couple other guys were scheduled to accompany the nine girls and one guy to Sin City.  However, the other guys bailed at the last minute, leaving Mitchell alone to endure a healthy heaping of estrogen, perfumed sun-block, and oversized sun hats that did everything to shield the rays of sun on the female face, but nothing to shield the lower 80% of the female body sitting on a chaise lounge by poolside at the Mirage hotel.  Mitchell was fine with that group dynamic.

What Mitchell wasn’t fine with, however, was the detrimental effect that nine women had on his ability to count cards in blackjack during the four-day trip.  He couldn’t concentrate.  Could you?!  The girls just wanted to have fun.  To them, blackjack = no fun.  To the nine girls, “fun” meant other things, like dancing and flirting and cavorting.  Just look at the following picture, which was taken on the reflection of a mirrored ceiling in a Las Vegas hotel elevator.  Can you spot the one guy (Mitchell) who didn’t think it was a fun idea to smile at the ceiling?  Can you also spot the one guy (Mitchell) who instead was waiting for the doors to open near the blackjack pits?

One Saturday night, I was seated at a blackjack table with two college guys and their dates. The two jocks were acting like big shots and the girls were giggling at everything the guys had done. Typical casino date behavior. One of the guys had an impressive run of luck and was winning over $500. However, he did not have any greens chips. His entire bankroll was comprised of red, $5 chips. I know this for a fact, because the guy was piling the red chips in a single, huge stack that resembled a tower. Most players stack red piles $25, $50 or $100 at a time. This guy was showing off for his buddy and the two girls by building an obelisk all the way to the heavens with his $500+ red winnings. When he added another handful of reds to the stack, it started teetering slightly.

“You know,” I remarked, “it will be really embarrassing when that stack tips over. Chips will fly off the table, some will go in the dealer’s tray, others may land in ashtrays, and the game will get interrupted for several minutes.”

The guy ignored my advice. Three hands later, while he had attempted to add a few more chips to the tower, the stack tipped over, chips flew off the table, some went into the dealer’s tray, others landed in ashtrays, and the game was interrupted for several minutes. I laughed my ass off, and unsuccessfully pleaded with the pit boss to get a copy of the eye-in-the-sky surveillance tape so I could put the video on YouTube.