Mr. Cope’s Cave: Post-Casino Let-Down


You’ll have to excuse me. I’m having somewhat of a slumpy day. We got back from Nevada late yesterday afternoon and I still have some lingering after-effects of Why-didn’t-I-take-my-winnings-and-get-the-hell-out-of-there-while-I-still-had-some-winnings-to-take-with-me? remorse. It’s nothing too horribly debilitating. It’s just that every time I close my eyes, I get this unbidden mental picture of what was, around 11 p.m., a nicely-rounded heap of $5 chips with a few $25-ers thrown in for color, and if I don’t divert myself right away, I imagine that stack coming apart like it’s being sucked into an industrial-strength Shop Vac.

Oh crap, then there’s that depressing memory of what it was like four hours later, with me trying to get a stupid penny slot to accept that last crumpled dollar bill I found in my pocket after everyone else in our party had gone to bed.

Anyway, I’ll be over it soon. I’ll perk up. Before you know it, I’ll be telling myself things like Where else can a fella have so much fun with no more money than it takes to pay all the utility bills if he still had it?

Still, I have to admit I’m sort of thankful it takes some real planning and effort and a tank of gas to get to the nearest casino. There is something about those joints that’s like being in the womb, know what I mean? Sure, it’s a womb where the lighting makes you think of Blade Runner and the noise makes you think of Alien when the ship was going through the auto-destruct sequence. And the people you’re sharing the womb with aren’t like the people you’re used to being around, not unless you hang out at carnivals every weekend, or you sit through midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show five times a week.

But the temperature is always just right, there’s a steady supply of drinks brought to you by attractive young ladies, and there are no windows. Or clocks. Nothing to remind you that its way… way… way past your bedtime. You seem to forget about things like having to go to the bathroom and eating, or that you haven’t seen your wife since you walked into the place. There are ashtrays everywhere, and you can sit in one place moving nothing but your index finger for hours and hours and hours, and nobody bitches at you about it.

I don’t know about you, but that’s exactly how I remember the womb.

Anyway, the takeaway here is that I don’t much feel like thinking about anything serious. Or un-serious for that matter. Or writing at all, due to an inexplicably sore index finger. So I am inviting you to go elsewhere for your Monday blogging experience. At some future date, we can explore President Obama’s response to the ISIS crisis, or who might make a good attorney general in the wake of Eric Holder, or what’s up with Hong Kong. But at this time, I believe I will shuffle over to my Internet and partake of some online blackjack. Hair of the dog, you know.