When you think of the worst ideas you’ve ever heard, what immediately comes to mind? Maybe nothing comes to you “immediately,” but after thinking about it for a few minutes, what then? You still have nothing for me? Ok, well, be patient for a few, and I’ll tell you about the worst idea ever. Ever? Maybe not, but definitely the worst idea I’ve seen put into effect in some time.
I had just finished a Hold ‘Em session at Commerce Casino. It’s not a particularly pleasant place, but it’s reasonable. I can’t say as much for Hollywood Park, the location of my poker playing when I was a younger man. Hollywood Park was always more than a little sketchy, but I would go with a couple friends, or during the day, or during the day with a couple friends, so I never felt too terribly unsafe there. Every sixth day of the week during the summer, HP features “Friday Night Races,” where there are ponies running the track deep into the evening. Hot dogs, soda, and beer are a dollar apiece, and a fun time can be had messing around with the horses and horse’s ass inhabitants. If you don’t purchase a private viewing box, you’re stuck with the dregs in the lower levels. Homeless, handicapped, and befouled denizens make up the majority of Friday night partygoers, but it’s cool. The place is well staffed and security inside is decent, so you never feel as if someone is going to roll you for your $42 trifecta box ticket. Seven years ago I was there on a Friday night during the Lakers-Supersonics playoff series and heard one of the funniest things ever to befall my eardrums. It was a close game all the way, and we were watching the TV screens every second between each race. Race 6 had ended, and the masses scurried back to the monitors to check out the last two minutes of the game. With only seconds to play, the Lakers kicked it out and swished a three pointer to fridge the victory and the series, and Los Angeles collectively lost their minds. The cameraman on the floor at the game snatched a close-up of Jack Nicholson grinning and clapping ecstatically. Amongst the Hollywood Park mania came a thunderous voice behind me, shouted out by a man dressed in rags and supported by a crutch. “You can’t handle the truth, Seattle!”
We laughed and cheered and had a time of it. Then came all of the robberies. And tales of murder and despair, and I started wondering if it was such a great idea to venture to Holly Park after dark. Los Angeles has a decent amount of police activity, every big city does. And a certain portion of that police activity consists of “ghetto birds,” otherwise known as helicopters. It is a crucial weapon against felons, because of the general useful nature of them. The sector in and around Hollywood Park is a “no fly zone,” the only such zone in all of Los Angeles. Because of the LAX airport, helicopters are not permitted in the immediate vicinity. The exact diametrical region escapes me at the moment, and I am too lazy to look it up. What I can quote you, however, is that it is no coincidence that this said no fly zone endures the highest crime rate in LA year after year. Stands to reason. I found all of this out about four years ago, and decided I should change my venue if I’m ever in the mood to play poker late at night and I’m not in Vegas. Soon after, I heard tales of people being robbed in the parking lot, beaten unconscious, stuffed into their trunks, and having their cars set on fire with them inside. What I was left with was one harrowing factor that was factual, and a second, even more harrowing item with questionable validity. But it was the sheer frightening nature, coupled with the first fact, that made it entirely too believable. The thing is, until you’ve been lost in the vast, packed yet vacant Hollywood Park car lot you wouldn’t be able to grasp exactly how scary a place it is. There are hundreds upon hundreds of cars, but it always seems as if you could go hours without seeing a single person.
So I opted to start going to Commerce Casino to play my pokey instead. It isn’t in the most desirable location itself, but it’s a hell of a lot better than no fly Inglewood, I can say that. Today I attended the sinner’s church, aka, the poker hall. It was Sunday afternoon, and while some were praying, I was praying for pocket Aces. Hey, I’m a good person, and I conduct myself scrupulously, so if I want to play poker on Sunday, leave me be. Besides, it was Tim’s idea. And it wasn’t my idea to pick up the whores on the way home and race people on the freeway while we played drinking games with a bottle of Jack either. Every time I enter a poker room these days, it is amazing as to what is happening to the mean age. I would even go as far as to say it is bothersome, but eh, doesn’t really bother me. It’s probably better for my bankroll anyway. When I started playing, I maybe, mayyyybe, saw one person in their early or middle twenties throughout the course of an evening. Ten hours, one Gen Yer. If you were 20-25 in 1998 you were Gen Y, right? Anyway, that was how it was, whether I was in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Lake Tahoe, San Diego, or Arizona. Now, thanks to the Internet and Celebrity Poker and reality shows and all of the sensationalism that has come with it, there are practically as many young fools as there are rounders. For years I would stroll into the Bellagio poker room in Vegas late at night or early in the morning. I could go a year without seeing someone in their 20’s. Two weeks ago, I hit the spot at 5am and in place of a table of professionals, I nearly dropped my wad [of cash!] when I caught a glimpse of my competition. “Light,” the cooler-than-you Club at Bellagio had just closed, and the table was full of spiky-haired, fingernail-painted, shimmery shirt wearing hot boys with glitter and tans. Poker players aren’t tan! I sat down and became instantly bewildered at their ineptitude. And this was a decent limit table too. They were there because it was “in,” and I would welcome them as long as they wished to continue their donation to the Bank of Bryan. We’re open 24 hours, 7 days a week. And we greet you with a warm smile and plenty of nasty beat downs. I took them apart for a few minutes and they realized they had enough. It was about six in the morning, they had more gin and juice to drink and girls to corral.
Warmth and heat are associated with success to the average gambler, while cold and ice are typically associated with defeat. When you’re “on fire,” you’re winning, this is obviously applicable to realms outside of gambling, but you see what I’m saying. When I “roll heat,” my dice are working and the craps table is treating me well. And when I’m throwing nothing but sevens, well, I’m “icy balls.” “Hey, Bryan, how was your session?” If it was bad, “Man, I’ve been icy balls this whole trip,” I’m likely to respond. That’s one of my phrases within my gambling lingo known as “Bryonics.” It’s an ever-evolving language; I’ll spare you from reading some of the other humorless, nonsensical, inside-jokers only terms and sayings. For the purposes of this story, just know when I am not pulling cards at the Hold ‘Em table, or I’m throwing trash heaps at craps, I have given it “icy balls” status. Luckily for me, I was not icy balls today, but my friend was. While I was winning, he was getting rattled after a brief series of befuddlements, and he was destined to lose. Wisely, he got up from the table to walk around and get a deli sandwich. We were set to meet at 5:45, and I pseudo-promised to get up from the table and meet him at the deli at that time. However, a gambler’s promise is never really a promise, you should know that. Mothers know to warn their daughters against getting involved with someone who drinks or uses drugs, but allow me to tell the ladies out there, do not marry a gambler. You won’t be happy when he’s missing church to take some hands, or yelling at you because you paid for Lulu’s braces with the money he had set aside to put on the Mets. Don’t get me wrong here. I am not a gambler, at least not anymore. I was some time ago, but I am past it. So what I just said doesn’t apply to me. Anyway, there I was, an hour away from home and shirking responsibility to sit around with a bunch of dimlight dickhead degenerates.
I got up from the table at 6:15, a few hundred dollars richer, and jaunted over to the deli. It only took us five minutes or so to find my car in the dustbowl of safety, otherwise known as the sandy parking lot. We drove back into the valley, and I wanted to get a quick something to eat before I got in a few hours of Sunday night work to prepare for the week. I ordered a grilled chicken salad and leaned against the wall while reviewing Tim’s meltdown at the table a few hours prior. That is when I observed the infamous vending machine, inhabitant of the aforementioned “worst idea ever.” It was a large glass encasement with a ball dispensing apparatus inside. Children “Ages 3 and up” inserted their quarter, cranked the dial, and out came a ball. Now, the outrage comes when I explain the set up of this bumbling, botched concoction. The machine was filled half with gumballsand half with rubber bouncingballs! So basically, you throw a party at this cutey-pie spot, and you’re gonna have half the kids trying to jump their gumballs off the linoleum, and the other half choking to death on their rubbers. Don’t blame me for the gummy floors, don’t blame me for the dead head rubber eater kids, and don’t blame me for ages three and up. The name of this kid friendly machine? Icy Ball. That’s right. Nothing hot about it. Nothing t’all. Icy Ball.
Bryan May
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