From the ages of 8-12 I loved Slush Puppie’s more than most things. There was something about the beaded texture of the ice, mixed with the sugary syrup that did it for me. Problem was, I was a child, with no access to the internet, and no driving rights. So, in my mind, there was only one place in the whole world that sold Slush Puppies. And unfortunately, that store was a little gas station about 300 miles from home, on the way to my grandparent’s summer house outside of Yosemite Valley.
The only times I ever got to taste the forbidden high fructose corn syrup delight that is a Slush Puppie, was on family vacations. The gas station that sold them was a popular spot for my dad to stop to refuel the car. But, if the tank was full and dad didn’t need to stop, that meant no Slush Puppie for Derek. I would have to wait for the possibility of stopping on the way back – which never happened.
The Unspoken ‘Vacationing Dad’ Rule
My dad knew how much I loved the Slush Puppie. He had no qualms with buying me the biggest size: 32 ounces of freedom. But my dad always would get in what I call ‘Vacationing Dad mode.’ The typical ‘Vacationing Dad’ does several things. Besides drinking beer all day, everyday of vacation, they refuse to make any unnecessary stops on the way to the vacation spot. Vacation does not start until the car stops at the final destination.
This type of strict, Spartan time-line for traveling was often disastrous, especially to me and my brother’s bladders. Anyone who drank too much water or soda was left to suffer. It was also disastrous to my Slush Puppie addiction.
It’s About The Journey
This past Saturday, I left San Diego headed towards Yosemite with a friend of mine. As we approached LA on I-5, we hit a particularly bad stretch of traffic. I went over the possible explanations for why there was traffic on a weekend. None came to mind of course. There is no rhyme to LA traffic, it is what it is. It exists and we deal with it. It gives people in LA something to talk about and excuses for constantly being late assholes.
Normally, my friend and I would have just suffered through it, but with 4 or 5 more hours of driving left past LA, we decided to get out. We decided to break the cardinal ‘Vacationing Dad’ rule. We told ourselves that our trip started the moment we left San Diego.
The great part about Southern California is that anywhere you look could be Native American territory. And you know what that means: Indian casinos!
The only other Indian casino I had been to was literally in a tent. A very sturdy and well maintained tent, but still a tent. This casino, however, was made with standard ‘white-man’ materials. It was huge and magnificent – like the casinos you find on the outskirts of the strip in Vegas. And, to top it all off, it was located just 50 yards from the gridlock occurring on the I-5 freeway.
Entering Forbidden Ground
When my friend and I stepped in through the casino doors, we found the place packed with middle-aged Asians and no Indians in sight. Indian casinos are kind of sad really. They have all booze and addiction that comes along with gambling, but none of the sex like Vegas. We worked our way to the bar.
After a beer, a shot, and a quick “We-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-golf-chat” with our bartender, we headed to the 21 tables. My friend and I are both extreme newbies to gambling, especially at a live table. We sat down at a ten dollar minimum table. We were both under the impression that once we bought in with our ten dollars, that we could bet a dollar per hand. This was, as you might have guessed, a stupid assumption. We were actually forced to put down ten dollars a hand to play, plus one more dollar on top of that for a total of $11. I’m still a little confused.
(Authors Note: I’m going to write a post about 21, so I’ll know what I’m doing next time)
To my complete surprise, we both won the first hand as the dealer busted. It’s a good thing too because otherwise I would have left right there, $11 poorer. The next five minutes were an absolute blur. I felt like I was constantly reaching for my wallet to pull out more dollar bills, and the cards just kept coming. The pace was phenomenal. We both decided on a hand to quit – I won, my friend lost.
In the end, I was up $10 and my friend was out $15. Not awful for first-timers but as we exited the casino, we both agreed that it could have been a lot worse. The rate of turnover was incredible. We easily could have lost, or won, $100 in the short time we were at the table. Casinos know the numbers – the more you play, the more chances they have to take your money. Thank god we got out with our shirts.
On The Road Again
The casino detour cost us an hour of travel time and $25 combined after drinks and gambling losses. But once we got back on the road, the traffic was gone, and so too were any worries we might have had. A familiar feeling came over me. It felt a little like a sugar rush. Kind of like a 32 ounce Slush Puppie.
