Thinking about Vegas for too long makes my head hurt, so you're just going to have to get this in non-chronological chunks.
Rick and I spent part of Sunday downtown. Downtown Vegas is the old school, Sin City part of Vegas that you imagine from the movies. Hard-core gambling, much less theme-park stuff ("Look! It's the Eiffel Tower!") for the kidlets. The slots have better odds here. It's where Hawaiians come to gamble, so you know it's got to be cool. It feels a lot more Wild West, like if anyone bothered to point a gun at you it would be an 1800s revolver shooting a flag that read, "Bang!"
We spent some time absorbing the atmosphere at Binion's Horseshoe, a legendary downtown casino that hosts the World Series of Poker every year. This is where our friend Tom and friend-of-friend Mat were holed up for hours playing 3-Card Texas Nosepickins, or whatever poker players do all day. Compared to other Vegas casinos, particularly those on the South Strip (more on that later), Binion's was practically sedate. Lots of gaming tables for gamblers who mean business, fewer slot machines for amateurs like myself -- that means less headsplitting clanging and banging. Fewer flashing neon thingamabobbers, more wood paneling and red carpeting. The cashier windows had bars on them, like an old bank. The nubile cocktail waitresses in silly theme outfits on the Strip? When they're middle-aged and pot-bellied, they come to Binion's to die.
It's hardcore, but it was also one of only two places in Vegas (<--- another teaser) where I got any sort of idea of how the Vegas myth might have come to be, and probably the only place where I felt any genuine love for the art of the game. There was a poker hall of fame on one wall full of photos of men I've never heard of. On the opposite wall, closer to the actual tables, was another photo gallery, this one of each year's World Series of Poker winners. Some of the faces looked familiar from the hall of fame. Rick and I noted with some awe that a few of these dudes had won twice, and one had won three times. One of the casino workers, a gray-haired man, walked over to us, reached up, and tapped on the photo of the three-time winner.
"That's Stu Ungar," he said wistfully, "Some say he was the greatest poker player who ever lived."
We make noncommittal noises of approval.
"He had an incredible mind for cards. Simply amazing. Sad, though, he overdosed on drugs a few years back."
We make noises of sympathy.
"What a great mind for cards, though. No one else like him. Not just poker, he was the best gin rummy player in the world."
How odd to think of how many subcultures have their own celebrities most of us will never of. How sad to think how many screwed up stories like this must come out of Vegas.
We adjourned to the minimal snack bar, where the nice senior citizen lady behind the counter volunteered to make a fresh pot of coffee for Rick. She fussed over this task, happy to have something to do (we were the only ones there), mumbling about how it's always better to have fresh coffee, she just can't stand old coffee, no sir. I asked for water, and got some free Vegas tap water in a paper cup. As the coffee brewed, we tried to determine which was the least dirty table to sit at, before the nice senior citizen lady realized the tables were narsty and got happy to have yet another task to fuss over.
When Rick got his coffee, I asked him how it was.
"It's fresh," he said diplomatically.
Later, Rick had walked off for about two minutes, and I was thumbing through my copy of Lonely Planet California, when a 60-something relic emerged from nowhere and tottered over to me.
"What are you reading?" he asked enthusiastically.
"Oh, just a tourist book," I said.
"California! Do you live in California?"
"I do."
"So do I, but I'm getting tired of it." He leaned forward conspiratorally and put his hand on my arm. "A few too many of the Mexican persuasion these days."
"There are one or two Mexicans in California, yes."
"Come with me! You can move with me to Iowa!"
"Well, I don't know....Iowa..."
"It'll be great! Listen honey, I've got to use the men's room, but we'll talk about this more when I get back."
Hilarious. I found Rick post haste, and that was about when we decided we'd had enough of Old Skool Vegas. Long may it reign.
Rick and I spent part of Sunday downtown. Downtown Vegas is the old school, Sin City part of Vegas that you imagine from the movies. Hard-core gambling, much less theme-park stuff ("Look! It's the Eiffel Tower!") for the kidlets. The slots have better odds here. It's where Hawaiians come to gamble, so you know it's got to be cool. It feels a lot more Wild West, like if anyone bothered to point a gun at you it would be an 1800s revolver shooting a flag that read, "Bang!"
We spent some time absorbing the atmosphere at Binion's Horseshoe, a legendary downtown casino that hosts the World Series of Poker every year. This is where our friend Tom and friend-of-friend Mat were holed up for hours playing 3-Card Texas Nosepickins, or whatever poker players do all day. Compared to other Vegas casinos, particularly those on the South Strip (more on that later), Binion's was practically sedate. Lots of gaming tables for gamblers who mean business, fewer slot machines for amateurs like myself -- that means less headsplitting clanging and banging. Fewer flashing neon thingamabobbers, more wood paneling and red carpeting. The cashier windows had bars on them, like an old bank. The nubile cocktail waitresses in silly theme outfits on the Strip? When they're middle-aged and pot-bellied, they come to Binion's to die.
It's hardcore, but it was also one of only two places in Vegas (<--- another teaser) where I got any sort of idea of how the Vegas myth might have come to be, and probably the only place where I felt any genuine love for the art of the game. There was a poker hall of fame on one wall full of photos of men I've never heard of. On the opposite wall, closer to the actual tables, was another photo gallery, this one of each year's World Series of Poker winners. Some of the faces looked familiar from the hall of fame. Rick and I noted with some awe that a few of these dudes had won twice, and one had won three times. One of the casino workers, a gray-haired man, walked over to us, reached up, and tapped on the photo of the three-time winner.
"That's Stu Ungar," he said wistfully, "Some say he was the greatest poker player who ever lived."
We make noncommittal noises of approval.
"He had an incredible mind for cards. Simply amazing. Sad, though, he overdosed on drugs a few years back."
We make noises of sympathy.
"What a great mind for cards, though. No one else like him. Not just poker, he was the best gin rummy player in the world."
How odd to think of how many subcultures have their own celebrities most of us will never of. How sad to think how many screwed up stories like this must come out of Vegas.
We adjourned to the minimal snack bar, where the nice senior citizen lady behind the counter volunteered to make a fresh pot of coffee for Rick. She fussed over this task, happy to have something to do (we were the only ones there), mumbling about how it's always better to have fresh coffee, she just can't stand old coffee, no sir. I asked for water, and got some free Vegas tap water in a paper cup. As the coffee brewed, we tried to determine which was the least dirty table to sit at, before the nice senior citizen lady realized the tables were narsty and got happy to have yet another task to fuss over.
When Rick got his coffee, I asked him how it was.
"It's fresh," he said diplomatically.
Later, Rick had walked off for about two minutes, and I was thumbing through my copy of Lonely Planet California, when a 60-something relic emerged from nowhere and tottered over to me.
"What are you reading?" he asked enthusiastically.
"Oh, just a tourist book," I said.
"California! Do you live in California?"
"I do."
"So do I, but I'm getting tired of it." He leaned forward conspiratorally and put his hand on my arm. "A few too many of the Mexican persuasion these days."
"There are one or two Mexicans in California, yes."
"Come with me! You can move with me to Iowa!"
"Well, I don't know....Iowa..."
"It'll be great! Listen honey, I've got to use the men's room, but we'll talk about this more when I get back."
Hilarious. I found Rick post haste, and that was about when we decided we'd had enough of Old Skool Vegas. Long may it reign.
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