Icy Ball
By Bryan May
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 gumballs and half with rubber
bouncing balls! 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
bmay@emarketmakers.com
