Nonetheless, and to the point, the slots have
changed in the last 12 months. Say, you're at
the "Wild Cherry" chrome box, you hit "spin
the reels" or you hand crank, and you get a
wild cherry in one of the three rows. The $2.50
does not come in that joyful crash of quarters
out of the metal poop chutes. Instead, they
give you this lifeless slip of paper saying
that you have won $2.50 that can go toward 10
more plays on the machine or you can go to the
payout cage and get 10 quarters.
Why did these idiots mess with it? It wasn't
good enough to see some ecstatic blue hair come
rolling out of her seat thinking she had just
made a down payment on the rest of the Christian
world? If it's not broken, don't fix it. But
noooooo ... leads me to believe that like Reno
and Laughlin, profits have fallen off at the
big glossy. I mean how many Wayne Newton shows
can you watch before terminal vertigo sets in?
In a sentence, everything around the Vegas
off-track set had me counting my money before
approaching the beckoning finger. Mark my words,
this keeps up and Vegas can kiss off the trailer-parkers.
And it wasn't much better at the track. Food
prices were utterly abominable (and please none
of that DRO's-on-the-rag complaining again.)
I go with former Chinese Communist General Secretary
Chou En-Lai, "Not everyone can be an artist,
but EVERYONE should be a critic. And it was
open season in Las Vegas compared to this year
and the previous year.
Leaving aside the fraudulent $2.20 plus a gallon
gas swindle, what can you say about $5.00 a
beer, $5.00(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) for popcorn, a $4.00
corn dog, pastrami and Philly Cheese Steak sandwiches
for $8.00, and, what's left? Maybe if you've
got breathing credit cards, you can get back
to L.A. or San Diego. Denver, good framing luck.
All of these untoward experiences, though,
were ensconced in conditions that for me spelled
disaster. It rained on Friday, and on Saturday
morning at 8 a.m., it was pouring. Visibility
on Interstate 15 headed toward Las Vegas was
roughly 50 feet. For all intent and purpose,
the race looked like a patient etherized on
an aluminum table. No chance. But as look would
have it, things changed for the good, especially
for someone like me.
At 5:01 p.m. on Saturday, Doug Kalitta zapped
through the Vegas timers at a 4.483, 335.37!
You know my prejudices towards numbers.
Yes, I was pissed at the outlandish prices.
Yes, I thought the suckers at the casinos were
being sucked on harder than insurance dealers
at a Heidi Fleiss memorabilia show. But to see
the 335.37! Last year at this track, I saw my
best speed from Larry Dixon's Don Prudhomme/Miller
Lite dragster at 332.75.
So, my mind's made up. In the future, I'll
go play the pop machine at the Happi Motel in
Ghetto Death, Nev., the Sin City Adult Center
has a new library card holder, and the joints
to the east of the old Fremont Hotel have a
new victim in the making. Downtown? Fuggedabout
it. The racetrack? I don't know why a 4,000-altitude
track can produce numbers like they do (see
Sue and the Hawthorne's stories), but as long
as they do, I'll be the guy pissing and moaning
to your left.
To quote famed "Blue Max" crew man and good
guy "Waterbed Fred" Miller, "a good time
slip will cure cancer" ... and, I might add,
terminal spectator pouting. Damn the prices,
full speed ahead.
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