Let Me Be The One

By Expose

Sometimes, people play with love.  Falling in love is just a game; don’t think I don’t know love – you’ll never be alone again.  Let me show you how I feel; be the one  that I need so much.  Let me give you what is real; be the one that I long to touch.

Only you can make me feel this way.  I’ll give you all – come on, let’s get away.  This love I feel will never ever fade.  I’ll give you more and more so, let me be the one.  Hold onto the dream – let me be the one.  You can trust me at any time.  Let me be the one, give you all the love.  Let me be the one, to feel your tender touch.

First time that I saw you there, thought I knew you from before.  Promise me you will never leave – ’cause I will never let you go.  Let me hold you close to me.  Be the one, because our love is strong.  Let me feel the need in me; be the one – together we belong.

Only you can make me feel brand new.  I can feel it in my heart, your love is true.  Together, we are one instead of two.  I want you more and more so – let me be the one to hold onto the dream.  Let me be the one – you can trust me at any time.  Let me be the one – I want to give you all the love.  Let me be the one, and be the one.

Only you can make me feel this way.  I’ll give you all – come on, let’s get away.  This love I feel will never ever fade - I’ll give you more and more so – let me be the one.  Hold onto the dream.  Let me be the one – you can trust me at any time.  Let me be the one – I want to give you all the love.  Let me be the one and be the one.  Let me be the one to hold onto the dream.  Let me be the one – you can trust me at any time.

Let me be the one - I want to give you all the love.  Let me be the one and be the one.  Let me be the one to hold onto the dream.

Don’t Let Me Be The One

By Nu Shooz

I want you to understand: I only want to be your friend.  Maybe we’ve been getting in too deep?  I want to let you know – you’ve got to let me go.  Don’t let me be the one, don’t let me be the one, don’t let me be the one…to plague your heart.

There’s nothing left that you could say to make me wanna stay – maybe we’ve been getting in too deep?  I want to let you know – you’ve got to let me go.  Don’t let me be the one, don’t let me be the one, don’t let me be the one…to plague your heart.  Don’t let me be the one, don’t let me be the one, don’t let me be the one…to plague your heart.

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

Although my reasoning for not giving a shit about college was pretty sound – I looked around at the 30,000 other kids eventually destined to graduate from my bottom-of-the-SEC-academically-and-that’s-probably-saying-something not-alma mater and wondered what would ever really make me different from all those other dipshits in the eyes of future employers. A valid concern, and as I now know I had a few lucky breaks that sent me down a more lucrative academic pathway. Back to 25 years ago…

Working like ten hours a week at $3.45/hour presented me with a few dilemmas, such as how to provide myself food for consumption.  I also wasn’t technically living anywhere, staying at my then-SO’s house (she lived with her parents, and they were unaware that I was sleeping on their couch – chastely, might I add) – for a few hours a night.  Some nights I slept in my car – I had the ingenious strategy of pulling my car into a used car lot so that nobody would give me shit like if I tried to crash in the Wal-Mart parking lot (before they were open 24 hours).  While a 1981 280ZX shares many attributes with a plush recreational vehicle, retaining warmth was not one of them. This lean period frequently caused me to rue my failure to endure collegedom.

Eventually I sort-of moved in with some former coworkers – there were about 8 people living in a 600 sqft apartment at one time or another.  I added additional jobs to my resume – donut cooker at a grocery store in the morning, tough guy who collected on newspaper subscriptions in the afternoon, Taco Bell closer at night.  I got canned at Taco Bell (at the time for showing up late and having a bad attitude; when I saw my old manager a few years ago at a reunion he claimed they knew I was capable of more and needed to get the hell out of Dodge. Revisionist history.) and eventually got a far more lucrative job as a waiter, which allowed me to finally scrape together enough cash to get my own place before joining the Navy.  (I was 19 and that was my second apartment I’d had on my own – old soul.)  Other than eating at the Ragin Cajun restaurant, approximately 85% of my meals were Goober Grape-based.  (At the communal apartment, when someone would bring in a block of ham, it was ironically like that scene in Hannibal when those pigs ate that dude.)

I have generally felt that those bootstrap-pulling times provided me perspective later in life.  If that’s the case, I’m setting myself up to REALLY have some perspective about ten years from now….Let’s take stock of present-day Chilly: unemployed for going on five years (okay, sure, that was largely of my own volition, but I’m trying to draw parallels here), savings largely sapped (thanks AAPL, I’m not even a fucking fanboy and I got lured into big (well, relative to account size) bets based on eye-poppingly modest valuation multiples and insane cash flow and margins, not realizing that options have truly become the tail wagging the dog in a huge way), again semi-estranged from my mom (my dad passed away in January – no need for condolences, it was a relief after suffering from stroke complications for 18 months), I weigh close to 230 (my goddam foot still hurts from the plantar fasciitis) and the 49ers lost the Super Bowl because they acted like they didn’t give a shit for about an hour and a half. So, yeah, it looks like a full circle deal.

Getting into this situation wasn’t the same process as in 1988, where I kind of rejected the do-what-you’re-supposed-to-do thesis.  Then, my thoughts were more along the lines of “look at all these dickheads, going to classes and stuff”…in the present I never really thought “look at all those dickheads going to work and stuff” – it was more born of being tired as shit.  Being on a submarine, and then being a banker does not mix well for a classic Type B (translation: lazy) person.  I wanted to take some time and just do whatever the fuck I wanted.  I mighthave gotten a little carried away with that – I doubt many leading life coaches would embrace the “just fuck off instead of working during some of your peak earning years” approach.

So what is next for the Chillster?  I did what any rational person would do – I packed up three suitcases of shit and drove to Austin, Texas where I rented an apartment for $600/month. Luckily, the girl leaving the apartment let me have her crappy furniture (my nice furniture has been in storage in Brooklyn for seven years – don’t ask) which may or may not be bedbug-infested.  Yesterday, I bought two plates at Goodwill. Today I went to a different Goodwill and bought a pot and a spoon.  (Reminder: six years ago I paid $87k for a car without thinking twice about it.) Tomorrow, I’m gonna buy a fork.  And maybe look for a job.  I’ll keep ya’ll posted.

Anyway, this post was meant more as an announcement that I’ll finally (for real) be posting more, as I will try and document my Phoenix-like rise. And I realize this post sounds like whining and bitching, but really it’s all good in the hood (extra appropriate since I actually live in the hood): some of my happiest times were being poor as shit, fighting it out with a bunch of other poor bastards for a hunk of ham.

And completely mitigating all other downers is the fact that, this Christmas, I finally achieved one of my life-long goals: owning half-pound Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  More details on the gigantic Reese’s Cups here.

Fake Rolex for scale purposes only - these are some big-assed Reese's Cups

And a have a really cool roommate:
 

via foodbeast.com

Not sure what more to add other than apparently Pizza Hut’s in the Middle East are selling Kit Kats wrapped in a dessert pizza.

Speechless – but this has potential to bring peace to the region,

Chilly17

As I discussed my new find with other folks, I heard the same story over and over again: “yeah, that stuff is delicious, but don’t be fooled – it is NOT good for you!”  Luckily, I was able to sniff that one out without any research – my keen intuition suggested that spoonfuls of chocolate sauce might not be the nutritional equivalent of broccoli.  Basically this spread tastes like a Toffifay – which on taste alone had a chance to make this esteemed list- but without the pain in the ass of the worst packaging in the candy industry.  Put another way, it tastes like that damn hazelnut coffee smells – without the pain in the ass of drinking a cup of coffee.  This stuff goes good on anything you’d normally put like jelly, jam, peanut butter, cream cheese, marinara sauce on – you could also probably make a nice mole sauce if you were into that kind of thing.  I like to put a spoonful in my oatmeal – then it’s like eating a mushy candy bar with a spoon.  Just be careful – it’s apparently not good for you (but if you eat it with oatmeal – which IS good for you – isn’t that a push?)  And don’t worry, Sriracha - I haven’t foresaken you.  (Sriracha at $2.64/bottle at Wal-Mart in Arkansas represents the greatest arbitrage opportunity since Kramer and Newman figured out how to get a mail truck to Michigan.)

Way too many Toffifays find their way to the dirty-assed floor thanks to the infernal foil tray

One surprising thing about the large rice field I find myself sequestered in, it has a pretty sweet T-Mobile 4G signal.  Yes, I’m still loyal to the T-Mobs and their most excellent spokeswoman.  And, despite being a fan of Apple the stock, I’ve never owned an iPod (although I rocked a sweet Creative Labs Nomad way back in the day when iPods were just a gleam in Steve Jobs’ eye; the 64 meg version was the bomb, it could store up to twelve songs.  Astonishingly, these are apparently still available- although the reviews are a little stale.)  The only thing I’ve ever purchased from iTunes is two episodes of Party Down (that I will cherish forever).

So how do I get my mobile listening on, you ask?  For years I used a stream (pun intended) of low-end mp3 players that worked with Napster-To-Go (you paid a monthly fee and could put songs on your device as long as your account was current).  I had a bit of a chemistry problem with the cheap mp3 players though – they could not withstand the deluge of sweat that always ensued during a typical Chilly workout.  Somehow, even on a treadmill, I managed to get the damn things wet and they would cease to operate.  Spending $60 every two months wasn’t gonna work, nor did I desire to start gasp – paying – for individual songs.  So, I just gave up and started running without music, letting the pleasant harmony of my graceful gait fuel my daily runs.  And at home I would use Pandora – until I got tired of hearing Michael Jackson songs featured during any possible playlist.  (Seriously, the third song on the Slayer station is “Billie Jean” – check it yourself.)  I needed some control of the situation – and at the time (a year ago?) Spotify wasn’t in the U.S. yet (and wasn’t going to be free when it hit our shores).  What to do?

And then I happened upon Grooveshark.  The legality of it is still somewhat being determined, but it is apparently legal (by the words of the law, if not the spirit) as of now and has been operating for years.  It works almost exactly like the original Napster did – the songs are uploaded by users.  How the f*ck could that work?  The songs can only be streamed – somehow this is within terms of the DMCA and Grooveshark apparently has agreements with some labels so I think there is a royalty mechanism of some kind.  Also, they will pull songs if the artist requests (Adele disappeared for about a minute, but it looks like she’s back on there.  Not that I love Adele or anything) – but that’s all neither here nor there, not my job to provide legal or moral opinion, I am only obligated to point you toward free sh*t so that the title of this post isn’t misleading.

Grooveshark is free AND has a cool logo

So here are the steps to getting some free stuff on your Android phone:

1.  Go to Grooveshark and sign up for an account (Two Notes: 1) I’m not getting anything for this, this is just a public service – like when I challenged Gristedes about the absurb Arriba salsa pricing, and 2) Feel free to use a fake name when you sign up – I went with a character from a Mel Gibson movie)

2.  Type in the name of some songs you like and drag them to the bottom of the screen – if you push the play icon, you should hear music and words similar to those you are familiar with based on the song title you typed in

3.  Save these songs as a playlist

4.  Go to the android market and download tinyshark (Note: Grooveshark provides a mobile option directly as well – but they CHARGE monthly for that, and that’s not what we’re all about.  tinyshark is an app that (I believe this is what it does, I could be off by 1,000 miles) works around the need for the paid mobile app by basically mimicking the online version

5.  Go to your phone, click on the tinyshark icon and login with your account info established in step 1

6.  If you get a good synch, you should have access to your playlist and all music therein; feel free to listen to it wherever you have wifi or a good 4g signal.

7.  Thank me later.  (Note: I resisted the urge to add: 8. Call me maybe. So maybe you should thank me twice.)

Later,

Chilly17

This situation is very similar to the time I quit college and went back to my hometown to work at Taco Bell, occasionally sleeping in my 280ZX as I “figured out WTF.”  People were like “what the hell is that kid doing not going to school?”  Presumably now people are like “what the hell is that middle-aged dude doing not making any money during his prime earning years?”  Hopefully my response will be on par with the stretch of good (ok, very good) fortune I had following dropping out.

Top Ten Reasons It’s Better To Get Kicked Out Of The House When You Are 43 Than When You Are 17

10.  Now have total custody of my dog (with the attendant shedding/exclusion from certain hotel chains), back then my dog stayed at home (note: not the same dog)

9.  [yellow tail] is my friend now, back then could only drown my sorrows in Mt. Dew

8.  Large pizza at Pizza Hut inexplicably now costs half what did 26 years ago #deflation

7.  The internet exists now, I don’t have to go to Food 4 Less to read projections about the upcoming NFL season (and I hear there are images of attractive and naked females easily available on the internet as well, but I have not yet endeavored to confirm this)

6.  If I find myself homeless during winter, at least there’s been 26 years of global warming – and, sleeping in the Escape with a warm dog would be much more comfortable than wrapping up in a USA Today in a sweet 280ZX (with louvers!)

5.  I have almost twice as much money in my checking account as I did back then

4.  This time I didn’t have a bright yellow OP shirt fly out of a boat on the day I was getting kicked out.  (I cannot believe that I found an image of the EXACT shirt – the internet is insane.  I had long yellow shorts that matched.  This somehow was an improvement from my “hey-”Beat It”-was-a-cool-video-two-years-ago-I’m-gonna-wear-parachute-pants-and-a-sleeveless-white-t-shirt” phase.  Also, trembling with fear at my mom’s reaction to learning I lost that shirt on the lake, I had to pay a 200% markup to buy another one from a kid at school who had the same shirt.)

Looked much better with matching shorts and Air Jordans

3.  At 83, mom’s punches barely leave a mark (however, her words still do a lot of damage)

2.  2010 Ford Escape holds more (okay, all) of my treasured belongings than that crappy Oldsmobile

1.  Back then I was burdened with having friends and fun stuff to do when I left home, now I’m free to work on sh*tty websites to my heart’s content

Later,

Chilly17

(Editor’s Note:  After writing the self-indulgent stuff above (in an effort to make the narrative more internet-compelling) I got some unfathomably bad news – and the kind of news that generally makes people say “well, that gives things perspective” but in this case it gives zero perspective because it makes no fucking sense.  One of my buddies from my boat passed away unexpectedly the other night…there are no words that can do justice to something so tragic, but I will say that Chuck – a great guy and probably the most capable officer in our entire wardroom (no small accomplishment with a roomful of workaholic geniuses) – was basically Ron Swanson before Ron Swanson existed.  He built a large fishing boat by himself – from f*cking SCRATCH: welded the frame together, coupled a couple of diesel engines to power the f*cking thing, did the most ornate woodwork you’ve ever seen throughout the cabin, it was astonishing to behold – and I took several skeptics over to do just that.  Despite all that hands-on prowess he was actually an electrical engineer and something of a computer expert (he partitioned a hard drive and added a second operating system so he could run CAD on a government laptop in 1997) and was the only person on the boat who really understood the arcane Navy QA system.  He also was pretty much always in a good mood (no small feat in the military) and is probably the only person I’ve ever met who literally did not give a shit what other people thought about him – totally comfortable with himself.  Rest in peace, you will be missed greatly.  Elizabeth, stay strong during this terrible time.)

Roman Harper with an excellent touch football tackle

Mike Sando over at ESPN’s NFC West blog was kind enough to answer a recent question I had (okay, “Chilly from New York” is currently inaccurate, but “Chilly from Hugemosquitoville” didn’t have the same ring to it) about providing some historical perspective on Vernon Davis’ 2012 playoff run.  I was too lazy to look it up, but two games of basically five catches for 150 yards and two touchdowns seemed like a ridiculous output, even for today’s Gronkowskified NFL.  Sando obliged – what’s up beeyotch’s of The View?  Are you ever going to give me that chance to respond like you said you would?  Call me!

Later,

Chilly17

Yeah, I could make this look slightly better, but would take roughly 15 hours - thought that counts

The line between “liquid soap-like product to cleanse myself” and “possible granola topping” gets thinner every day, as products like Oatmeal Lavender Ginger Exfoliating Scrub aim to completely replace old-fashioned stuff like bars of soap.  The Cucumber, Olive Oil and Honey variants dominate most of the shelf space, so here’s a shout-out to those flavors relegated to the very back of the top shelf.

Top Ten Least Popular Body Wash Scents (alternatively: Bottom Ten Body Wash Fragrances, as Ranked by Popularity)

10.  Syphilitic Bikini Bottom Scrub (with AntiOxidant Pearls)

9.  Shaq’s Game-Worn Jersey Mist

8.  Highway Underpass Lean-To Breeze

7.  DMV Urinal Rejuvenating Rinse

6.  Damp Dog Bed Delight (with Incontinent English Bulldog Sparkles)

5.  Mom’s Homestyle Lasagna Moisturizing Creme (with Revitalizing Ricotta Ribbons)

4.  Body Essence Wash (with Hint of Cabdriver’s Breath)

3.  Pomegranate Cleansing Foam (with Lunch Meat Oil)

2.  Macau Baccarat Ashtray Relaxation Gel

1.  Teenage Tube Sock Moisturizing Wash (w/ Aloe and Tartar Sauce)

(Editor’s Note: Given a chance in my lifestyle circumstances, I’ll likely be posting more.  Could be dumb stuff, experimental stuff, more commercial stuff – who knows?  Drop me a line if there’s something you think I should address in these hallowed pages.)

Later,

Chilly17

Speaking of embarrassed, I’ve seen two different reviews of The Offspring’s single “Cruising California (Bumpin’ In My Trunk)” and both have prominently featured the word “embarrassing.”  Holy sh*t.  I just watched it.  God.  I’ll give that a full paragraph later.  Wow.  That was worse than Wilson’s lines from Juno.  I feel like I need to shower.

Back to YA, I didn’t remember the creative team behind the movie until the credits started rolling, which is probably good since my PTSD symptoms from having to hear an episode of United States of Tara would have likely prevented me from pushing the Purchase button.  Either my ear for sh*tty dialogue is getting worse, or Cody really toned it down for this one.  I guess I never had a problem with Reitman anyway, Up In The Air was pretty good, as I recall, except for the idiots that brought their six year old with his Gameboy into a 10:00 PM showing in Chelsea, nearly resulting in a very awkward brawl – with all genders, sexual preferences and various races being accounted for.

Anyway, Young Adult is about a seemingly successful writer chick (Charlize Theron, managing to appear delicious despite playing a despicable character) who has moved away from her childhood sh*thole town in Minnesota to the Big City of Minnesota, but finds herself at a bit of a personal crossroads.  She concocts a brilliant plan to go back home and recapture some of her magic by winning back her old college boyfriend (Patrick Wilson, who should probably have at least 1/3 of Fassbender’s roles – and I think Fassbender is great, but PW is solid too) who just happens to be married and a brand new dad.  Hilarity ensues.  Not really.  This movie isn’t very laugh-out-loud funny.  Maybe one or two instances.  It’s more cringe-funny.  But it’s def worth seeing, if not on PPV or whatnot, check it out on Netflix when it hits the stream in six years.

Top Five Things About Young Adult

1.  Charlize Theron – Manages to seem desperate and pathetic while looking quite hot – that’s a tough line to walk

2.  Patton Oswalt – Any review of any movie with Patton Oswalt in it is obligated to say that Patton Oswalt was good in the movie

3.  The title – “Young Adult” isn’t just the literary genre of choice for the pro/antagonist, it’s also a sarcastic criticism of her development as a human being

4.  Reitman capturing the beauty of a Minnesota Hampton Inn just right –  so opulent

5.  The main character’s name is Mavis

Bottom Five Things About Young Adult

1.  Promotes the use of chicken cutlet bra stuffers – if Charlize Theron is using them, shouldn’t everyone?  False advertising

2.  Patton Oswalt got nakeder than Charlize Theron – not cool, Reitman – didn’t you see that Sarah Polley got Michelle Williams and Sarah Silverman buck naked recently?  It’s all the rage

3.  No 110 lb woman can drink that amount of hard liquor without dying

4.  Patrick Wilson’s wife seemed like she’d have a darker side to go to (I used “darker” so as not to have to use a SPOILER tag…”darker” suggests that she may have gotten somewhat dark, so you – the reader – will be pretty surprised…unless she happens to grab a f*cking butcher knife and kill everyone, in which case you’ve just been REVERSE SPOILERED)

5.  Mavis managed to hit for the Kentucko Hut cycle – or three-legged stool, if you prefer…actually that’s probably more appropriately suggestive language for eating at all three places…I doubt Theron could eat a Dorito Taco and an Original Recipe drumstick, much less power down a couple personal pan pizzas and 3 more items from each place, no matter how bad her hangover.

This movie hit close to home (no pun intended), as I also find myself back in the state where I grew up  after having lived in an exotic far-off land and having a glamorous, high-paying job for a decade – no matter that those adjectives might have been more than slightly misleading.  Like Mavis, I often find myself shaking my head in disgust (and coincidentally, sometimes while consuming mass quantities of YUM Brands product.)  However, I suspect if you find yourself constantly saying “look at all these d*ckheads” then there’s a good chance that YOU might actually be the d*ckhead.  I’m probably way too guilty of measuring success based on professional (re: how much cash do you have) success, rather than personal success (nice family, friends, hobbies, other assorted fairy tales).  Along those lines there was an interesting article in the Times the other day about how not everyone can be extraordinary – and it’s just in time, since I am trying to shift my “success measurement paradigm” to respect the ability to refresh the NFC West Blog on espn.com thirty times per day just as much as the ability to make tons of dough or have, like, friends.  Hmmm, I guess that wasn’t very philosophical, after all.  Well the title is done, so hopefully somebody will read that Times article and do their own philosophizing.

Finally, Offspring – what the f*ck???? Is this thing a joke, or what?  I understand wanting to get some 19 year old surfer girls in skimpy bikinis on your bus, but does the song have to be so ridiculous?  And are you guys older than me?  This evokes Rebecca Black far more than “Come Out And Play”…I think this might actually be a massive joke.

 
 
Later,
Chilly17

The Chillster has been taking it on the chin recently in financial matters, as I’ve mentioned on here a time or two.  In my chosen profession of trogger, there is a two-pronged approach to making money: websiting and option betting.  This site makes money from folks clicking on advertisements and from buying stuff from the Amazon via the link over there – I am not at liberty to discuss the exact magnitude of coin we are talking about, but let’s just say that my monthly income from here would’ve made a pretty shitty weekly allowance for a six year old during the Great Depression.  The other prong in the metaphorical antler of trogging, trading, has managed to be even less fruitful recently, somehow managing to make the monthly $1.37 or so from this site look like a windfall.  It’s disappointing since one of the main tenants of my trading “strategy” is selling time premium, and – to my knowledge, at least – time has continued to pass.

Anyway, ever since I got laid off I’ve had a figure in the back of my head that, when my could-get-my-hands-on-quickly liquidity got to that level, I would have to strongly consider throwing in the towel and consider re-entering the real world work force.  Given that I’ve been out of the job market for three and a half years, I would probably struggle to land an internship to be a barista’s apprentice – there’s not much out there for people who have been looking, much less people who have been happy doing (relatively) nothing for a long time.  I don’t think it’s actually laziness, either – though there is evidence that might support that accusastion – I just don’t want to get back out there and pursue somebody else’s dream.  Ugh.  Dammit.

So on Saturday I found myself still in my country retreat, trying to pull myself together after too much exposure to parental types.  My sister who I was staying with had taken her grandkids (yeah, Chilly is f*cking old and my sisters and their kids like to fire out some little ones, but at least I am officially Great at something) to a camp retreat thing overnight, and came back to her place to change and stuff before driving them the hour and a half back to Tunica (for those new to this site, the place in Mississippississippissippi about thirty miles south of Memphis that has casinos).  Turns out that supervising an overnight thing with a bunch of kids involved her not  sleeping for more than 13 straight minutes, she looked like she might drop any second.

Being a considerate brother, I offered to drive these little bast angels (and one random friend who came along; great, I’m also responsible for some little f*cker I don’t even know) home so as to avoid the whole horrific car accident thing.  She did not even hesitate for a nanosecond before taking me up on that offer.  I also figured since I was gonna be in Tunica, and was already broke, why not just make things even worse by playing a few hundred bucks worth of craps?  So I was off, Leaving Las Tunica style.  I delivered the kids home safely – words spoken during the trip, due to the presence of a Nintendo DS: less than 7 – and headed to the Horseshoe.

She basically a perfect representation of the average craps player at Tunica

For those of you unfamiliar with the marker system in casinos – it’s a convenient way for you to take money out of your checking account in the future, without the fees of an ATM, or the risk that sound judgment will counter impulsive recklessness.  All you have to do is say “give me a marker for $1,000″ and – voila, a post-dated check with all your account info appears for you to sign in exchange for a pile of chips (you have to get your credit approved in advance, which is definitely a greasy experience.  ”I’d like to apply for a loan to buy a few hours of losing money in this establishment.”)  If you win, you buy back your marker and the check never gets deposited.  If you lose, at some random time in a few weeks – most likely when you have as little money as possible – they deposit the checks (that have invariably been signed during what your signature would suggest was a heroin binge).

The last time I was in Tunica in March, I narrowly averted disaster.  I planned to while away an hour in the afternoon playing the $5 craps table, risking no more than a couple hundred bucks.  Five markers later, I have to give up on craps and head to play the Devil’s Game – blackjack – with only about $300 left.  Down $2200, I had a one-shoe heater, pressed my bet until I had a $500 bet, got 11 against a dealer 6, doubled and lost.  Counted my stack, had $2520 left – paid off all markers and left with a free $20 and significantly higher blood pressure.  The problem with degenerate gambling is that you have a nice score and think “despite what I know about math, and how the universe operates, I think I can beat the odds even more substantially next time, I cannot wait to game again.”  I must be maturing, since, instead I thought “f*ck was that lucky, I’m getting the f*ck out of here and never playing that sh*t again.”

Typically when I hit the casino, I’m brimming with optimism.  This trip, I was overstuffed with pessimism, like some new product from Pizza Hut that finds a creative place to insert additional cheese.  I did not intend to bet much because a traditional loss of impulse control – combined with my option trading losses – would likely be the final impetus to having to seek salvation in what is apparently a very sad job market.  I took out a $500 marker, put down a few bets and watched the shooter immediately 7 out.  This continued for about an hour, with eventually everyone leaving the table.  By that time I had taken out $1,500 and things were looking decidely unrosy.

One thing about Harrah’s casinos (I was at the Horseshoe, which has about the best rules for craps in the country), they are always looking for ways to get a couple extra bucks out of the players’ pockets, coming up with some crazy side bets (like the three card poker bet in blackjack and the soon-to-be-discussed Fire Bet in craps).  The dealers at Harrah’s joints are kind of bitter about this as they think players are more likely to make these very -EV bets for a buck or two rather than tip the dealers.  (Click on this link if you are unfamiliar with craps and want to get all wiki-ed up.)  The Fire Bet is a bet that you make before you roll – maximum of $5 – and is based on how many different points you hit during your roll.  The reason the bet is limited to $5 is because if you hit all six points, the payout is a thousand to one.  (What are the odds of doing this?  One in over 6,000; however, the shooter makes a lesser payout if he hits 4 or 5 points, but it’s still a silly bet that’s heavily in the casino’s favor.)

It’s widely considered terrible luck to play craps at a table by yourself; since my luck had been terrible anyway, I said “f*ck it” and stayed right there in the land of icy coldness.  I shot a couple of times and made a point or two, basically breaking even, no momentum to speak of.  On about the third time, I pushed my sacrificial $5 onto the Fire Bet circle and prepared to squander the rest of my meager stack in the near term.  Coming out, I rolled a nine and then immediately rolled a nine, winner.  Next roll, ten – the roll after that, also ten, winner.  Next roll, four is the point.  Hit a four within two rolls.  Now, 10 and 4 are the hardest points to hit in craps, and I notched them almost immediately.  I had only been rolling for like a minute – at an empty table sh*t moves lightning fast – I wasn’t even thinking of the fire bet at that point, I was just happy that I had hit some points and made back some coin on the odds bets.  At this point I had place/buy bets for every number and had $10-15 on all the hard ways (I know those are terrible bets, but when you are destined to lose anyway it just don’t matter.  I often favor superstition on the dice table, despite knowing that the middle of the table bets are terrible.)

Coming out again, I rolled a 6.  Within 2-3 rolls I banged out another 6, and had hit the first rung of Fire Bet payout (hitting 4 points pays 24:1, but at that point $120 was looking pretty sweet).  I’ve played a bunch of craps, and I hadn’t ever even seen someone hit five points on a Fire Bet before – it’s just too damn hard to get the points you need established even (hitting a 9 four times doesn’t count, has to be four different points).  On my next come out roll, I needed to roll either a 5 or an 8.  Clack, clack: 5.  I brought it back immediately with another 5 and things were getting interesting; I was up to the 100:1 payout on the Fire Bet.  Too bad there were no other players around to celebrate with or I almost certainly would have offered up a signature bicep kiss.  $500 was gonna get me back into the game here.  Next come out roll I’m cheering for an 8.  Rolled a 5 instead.  No big deal, I can bang out a 5 in no time.  And I did.  Coming out again.

On the next come out roll I was super-pumped with adrenaline, but still missing two key elements of my craps-celebrating arsenal: other players and a substantial consumption of alcohol.  I had only had about a beer and a half.  I needed to roll an 8 and then another 8.  Coming out, clack, clack, clatter: 8.  At this point, if I was thinking clearly, I would have hedged the f*ck out of that 8 – you can play the don’t side in craps, so I could have put a couple grand on laying an 8 and then I make a couple grand no matter what.  Instead, I pressed my hard 8 and then ROLLED A F*CKING HARD EIGHT.  At this point I’m yelling a screaming and sh*t, taking the casino on a 1,000:1 shot is definitely a nice feeling.  The dudes at the table next to me were mega-bummed that they hadn’t been in on it.  I had to keep rolling and rolled another 8 and then finally 7-ed out at which point they have to shut down the table for a bit and I got my first W-2 in a few years.

A guy at the table next to me offered some sage advice: “If I was you, I’d leave behind that bullsh*t.”  It was weird, the whole thing only lasted like ten minutes, and my profit other than on the fire bet was pretty meager, all things considered (although, to be honest, I’m not even sure they paid me for the hard 8 or whatnot, might’ve gotten lost in the pandemonium.)  After the table re-opened, a crowd of people joined, and I waited to roll again – at which point I hit another four point Fire Bet.  Then I GTFO.

So instead of going out Nic Cage style, a silly side bet paid my credit card bill.  Thanks, Fire Bet.

Later,

Chilly17