(ll cool j voice) don't call it a comeback!

“Turn the radio up!
For that sweet sound.
Hold me close,
Never let me go.
(Keep) Keep the feeling alive,
Make me lose control!

Baby! Baby!

When I look in your eyes,
I go crazy.
Fever’s high with the lights down low.
(So take) me over the edge --
Make me lose control …”

-- Eric Carmen, “Make Me Lose Control”.

I should probably note up front, remember the overall theme of this recap -- this thing was epic, a night I won't experience again anytime soon. Especially "The Comeback". And I did enjoy it, really I did. Having said that, yeah, I can see how a few folks might get p*ssed at my reaction to some stuff that happened, in your recap below ...

---------------------

At last count, I believe I had 51 rules in life, but after Saturday night, you can effectively add another one:

Rule 52: anytime you've been drinking with some friends for six plus straight hours, and one of, if not the most, inebriated one of them suggests "let's go to the casino!" as your final destination for the evening, do NOT, under ANY circumstances, believe this is a good idea, and do NOT, under ANY circumstances, act on the suggestion.

And yet …

Saturday was one of those weird nights of life, in which there were moments that were absolutely amazing, moments when you would rather be anywhere than where you actually were, and at the end of the night (in this case, late morning the next day), you look back and think "what the bloody hell just happened?!?!" in a "you know what, I actually enjoyed the hell out of this! But let's never, ever, EVER do this again" kind of way.

Saturday evening, a group of about 20 of my buddy Dusty's closest friends, co-workers, college buddies, and assorted random guests (plus me, wherever I fit into that equation by the time this thing is done) headed out to celebrate his impending marriage to the lovely Kellie. By the middle of Sunday morning, me and Pickell were the last two left standing, thanks to getting ditched by our fellow partiers and a little thing now immortalized as "The Comeback".

Saturday night was one of those nights, that you'll remember 50 years from now with precise, accurate detail. It was that epic, both good and bad. Mostly good though. As best I can remember this "what the bloody hell just happened?!?!" experience:

* My day started with my nephew's third birthday party! As I (110 percent correctly) noted to Ashley in the kitchen as six kids under the age of five were attempting to eat cake, ice cream, and talk amongst themselves: "under no circumstance should you have a kid's party without generous amounts of alcohol available".

Man, to think people wonder why I have no interest in kids or in getting married at this point. I mean, really? Really? I think my reluctance to want either one was proven correct by everything that went down on Saturday.

The A Man got a ton of neat stuff, including his first full-on Chiefs uniform! I got him some Thomas the Train, uuh, train figures? Not sure what you call those things, they aren't "action figures", but they're definitely "figures". Anyways, he got a few of those from Unca Teve, and I threw in a Chiefs plush football for him to toss around in the house to boot. (Which he proceeded to do almost immediately). He got a ton more Thomas stuff, plus some clothes, and a full-on set of kids tools so he can "help" Dad out.

The funniest moment though had to occur after most everyone had left. The few of us remaining were standing around the kitchen, enjoying a few glasses of wine, when my niece Fallyn, who was in the little bubble seat on the table, started reaching over and trying to open up the bag of potato chips. Realizing it was a lost cause, she then "turned on the charm" on this crazy drunk uncle, and began giggling, smiling, reaching out for my hand, trying to get me to get the chips for her. Now, she's only five months old, so she's not about to go eating potato chips, but still – even at five freaking months old, she's already using her natural beauty and charm to try to scam a guy into giving her what she wants.

* After driving through a ridiculous downpour, it was off to the bachelor party. I was told to be there "no later than 5:30, Stevo. No later than 5:30!" so we could start on time. (As anyone who knows me knows, I am almost never on time for anything. Save for Chiefs football and tailgating, the important stuff). I was there by 5:20 thank you very much. Although in typical Steve fashion, I forgot to print off the email with the address where we were meeting, so I had to scramble around to figure out where the hell I was supposed to be.

* The guys organizing this rented a "party bus" for the occasion to transport us around. This would be both a great ... and a not so great thing. Great, because let's face it, the words "party bus" are kind of cool. Not so great, because ... well, we'll get to that. As our buddy Pickell would say, let me put it this way: heavy drinking does not allow you to get an accurate person count when it comes time to move on to the next stop.

Anyways, this thing had a pretty sweet setup. It was an old converted school bus, painted pitch black on the inside (including the windows), with comfy seats lining both sides all the way to the back. It easily held the 22 people we had on it at one point. Everywhere you looked on this thing, you had styrofoam coolers and mini-kids pools filled with ice and beer, and in the back, you had Patron, Jager, and Goldschlager for shots. (Or in my case, Patron on the rocks).

It's neatest feature, was that it had not one, not even two, but three -- three!!! -- stripper poles on it! This naturally led to the "we should have hired some entertainment" suggestions, to which Mickey, one of the organizers of this thing, replied "We thought about it, but kind of figured that after 20 minutes, the act would get old, and then we'd still be stuck feeling guilty about not tipping them for the rest of the night". I can't believe I'm about to say this, but he's right for once. Holy God, you know it's a "what the bloody hell just happened" evening when Mickey makes a reasonable decision that makes perfect sense to everyone.

(The guy is nice as hell, but he annoys the crap out of me 95% of the time. Think my old neighbor Chris as a reference point, only with fewer uses of the word "dude").

* About 6pm (so much for that "we're leaving at 5:30 whether you're here or not" ultimatum, I guess), we rolled out of Raytown headed for Ward Parkway Lanes and a couple hours of bowling and beer to start the night off. And I have to say, that with the demise this winter of everyone's favorite white-trash ghetto bowling alley, the late great Laurel Lanes in Raytown, I was scared that the last run-down seedy bowling alley in this town had closed. I mean, I grew up with a lot of the people who regularly read this, so think "Shawnee Village Bowl" as a reference point. (May it forever rest in peace). That's my type of a bowling alley -- where it's a safety hazard due to the decrepit lane conditions, you can't see the ceiling because of the cloud of smoke blocking the view, and some old broad with a pissy attitude runs the joint with a "you complain, I toss your ass out" kind of authority. Ward Parkway Lanes ... definitely is my kind of bowling alley! (Except with a middle aged, fat and balding white guy instead of the old broad filling the manager role).

The bowling was fun. The beer went down fairly well. (I'm not a big fan of either of the two beers the party bus and the bowling alley had: Bud Light and Miller Lite. I'm a Coors guy. Bud Light is watered down slop and foam, it's atrocious, and unless there is not one available option of a higher quality level than Hamm's, I won't touch it. And even then, if my two choices are Bud Light and Hamm's, I'm at least thinking for a couple seconds of ordering the Hamm's. At least Miller Lite has some taste to it, although it's not a taste I'd define as "pleasant" or "worth savoring"). As usual, my bowling was perfectly mediocre.

Funniest moments had to include seeing the bowling shoes we got to rent (definitely from the early 1980s, with the holes in the soles to prove it), Nick sitting a pitcher on the table, only there was no table there -- because they'd put a circular table next to a square table, and he'd set it on the open part the table cloth hid, ruining a pitcher of beer. As he noted, "what kind of idiot puts a round table next to a square one?" Ward Parkway Lanes everyone! Jeremy busting out the electronic cigarette. Probably a good thing those were not invented yet when I was in college, I'd be a refill-the-water-chamber four times a day puffer at this point. And yes, they really do let off no smell. One of the greatest inventions ever. Good God, I’m jonesing for a Marlboro Red right now. And of course ...

* Got to meet the dude who lived across the hall from Dusty all the way through college. I think his name was Tony. (Sorry if I'm wrong; I'm horrible with names -- I still call Jeff and Paula "Tony and Lisa", and it's only been two years of Chiefs games now. Oy).

I had to ask him how the hell he did it, living four years with the guy. That induced a good laugh. He also got a good laugh with the "yup, I'm the token black guy here" joke that never fails to offend some people, and make me laugh a lot. I love people that can laugh at themselves as much as they laugh at everyone else. Really nice guy, Tony. He should come around more often. Don't be a stranger at summer tailgating, champ.

* After adding a couple late stragglers, it was off to The Well in Waldo for some drinking and other assorted tomfoolery and hijinks. I was just grateful that we found a TV set in time for the Slam Dunk Contest.

(It is at this point that I feel the need to state the obvious. Dusty, if you ever doubt that you're one of my best friends, never forget this. (cuing up deep, booming, “voice of God from on high” voice) I gave up All Star Saturday night to spend it bar-hopping with a bunch of people I either don't know really well, or in some cases, really don't care all that much for, because it was in your honor. You can bet your sweet ass that I would not do that for just anyone).

I thought the first round scoring was an absolute joke. The final should have been Javele McGee against Serge Ibaka. Even in fan-friendly dunk contests, NBA "officiating" is shady, questionable, and heavily influenced by the outcome the league office wants to see occur. (Sorry, still haven’t gotten over the 2002 Kings / Lakers travesty, and it’s been nine years come June since that shadiest of shady playoff series was contested).

Having said that ... Blake's dunk over the car might be the coolest dunk I've ever seen in my life. And I was drooling and Pauler Abdul drunk-seal clapping after Ibaka's "retrieve the stuffed animal" dunk from 30 minutes earlier.

Anyways, we spent a solid hour at The Well, before someone decided it was time to move on. This was the last time the party bus would depart with everyone who arrived on it. I'll unload on this in the "Steve gets left at the casino" section of these prepared remarks.

* Apparently my rapt attention to the Slam Dunk Contest led a few people to think I was having a horrible time. Quite the opposite, actually. I just love the NBA, and this is it's signature night. Plus, Damien was shocked that I wasn't pounding vodka tonics. I can pace myself from time to time champ. Especially at $7 for a watered down double. To be fair, Cam thought $7 was a great price for a double vodka tonic. It is … if there’s actually two legitimate Steve-style shots of vodka in it. That, and anytime Blake Griffin is dunking over a freaking car as the ball is tossed to him through the sunroof, I'm all in on that.

* We wound up at Charlie Hooper's in Brookside, which was ridiculously overcrowded. There was nowhere even a group of six could congregate together, let alone a 22 person bachelor party. We lasted maybe 30 minutes at Hoopers (aka "two vodka tonics for me") before opting to head to Midtown and the Velvet Bar. That excursion lasted maybe 10 minutes once we realized the skee ball games were occupied. Plus, it was another overcrowded spot with nowhere to sit and relax. So, back onto the bus.

* At this point, we were down to 13 people. We'd lost almost half the bus at the last two stops, almost all of whom had planned to keep on partying. We lost, at a minimum, Cam, Andrew, Tony, Brett, and Raine. The last two being a “how the hell did this happen” event because they arrived with the guest of honor for Christ’s sake. Gotta say it, as Bruce Willis noted in "Armageddon": "no, I didn't say this was a poor operation, I said p*ss poor!" But, for those of us who were left, it was time to get the drunken pole dancing down apparently, because Bleese popped in Eric Carmen's "Make Me Lose Control", and (pathetically), every single one of us knew every single word to that bad boy. Nothing says "yup, I'm drunk" like me loudly singing along to such life-altering lyrics like "Jennifer's singing "Stand by Me", and she knows every single word by heart! Was love always this close, or could this be just a start? Oh darlin!" Man, I love 80s music!

Then someone got the inspired idea to switch to country. I’m guessing Mark or Mickey, since they’d taken over the stereo from left-behind rap-loving Tony at this point. (Been spendin’ most our lives / livin’ in the Gangsta’s Paradise! Sweet Jesus, has it really been SIXTEEN effing years since “Dangerous Minds” was released? My first date in college was taking a chick to see that movie the day it came out. Damn I’m old).

Anyways. Cue "Calling Baton Rouge" and the always knee-slap inducing crowd pleaser "Dixieland Delight". You couldn't help but sit back, laugh, and sing / clap along. Drunken revelry at its finest. All that was missing was some halfwit eating grass on one of the bus benches, and we'd officially be drunk white trash at that point. (And no, for the official record -- nobody offered some blades of grass to me to chow down on. Thank you, I’m here all week).

* At this point also, apparently nobody had a freaking clue what to do next. We literally drove in a circle for 30 plus minutes through Midtown and the Crossroads. Finally, someone decided to avoid the planned excursion to an adult entertainment establishment in Basehor, and decided the best course of action …

Was to go gambling.

(In their defense ... a strip joint in Basehor? I mean, dear God, how pathetic has the quality of the talent got to be? And it was only a $2.50 cover! On a Saturday! Thankfully, I'm still inebriated enough that I can't visualize how awful that scene has to be. I mean, even Pure out my way, which thanks to "keep government out of our lives! Well, except for what we consider to be morality, then we demand government enforce our views on everyone!" quack conservatives is now no longer nude, and no longer allows dances, even Pure still charges a $5 cover to get in the door to watch girls entertain in more clothing than any decent looking chick would wear to a pool in July! (Not that I'd know, no sir. All second hand knowledge).

* But let me say ... at first, I thought this was a great idea. I mean, we're all basically hammered. Poor Brandon had to literally (attempt) to be carried into the place, he was so far gone. I had no interest in gambling that night, but figured I would toss away a couple hundred if we'd made it to the Outhouse (my destination of choice) or this place in Basehor anyways, so why not spend it instead on some blackjack and try to profit from this evening! (Yes, that is Steve logic at its finest. I guarantee you, my mind will be the subject of intense scientific study after I’m gone from this life).

Eight of us headed into Harrah's about midnight, and we all agreed -- when someone was ready to leave, they'd start rounding everyone up, so we'd stop leaving people behind.

And I can report ... that me and Pickell sat at the same two tables, in the same high limit area, for ten straight hours Saturday night into Sunday mid-morning. The only time one of us got up was when we had to pee, or hit the ATM for more cash, or for the beginning shot at "The Comeback". At no time, other than the start of “The Comeback”, or the final confirmation search that yup, we done got left, was one of us not at said table.

Not once did anyone come by with the "I think we're ready to leave" information.

(Except for Dusty, of course, who at least tried to hold this thing together. Unfortunately, after sitting with me and Pickell for a while, he decided to bail on his own party early. I mean, really? If you wanna shut the thing down and go home, great. Then shut the damned thing down, round everybody up, and let's leave. Show your pair for once. You don't call the fiance to come pick you up and bail on everyone else, ultimately leaving everyone on their own to find a way back. OK, back to the recap before I get dis-invited to whenever the reception is ... on second thought, I'm not done blasting the “left behind” part of this thing yet --)

* I know that putting intoxicated people in charge of rounding people up, is a recipe for disaster, but I mean, you have GOT to be f*cking kidding me that nobody bothered to let us know they were leaving. Ditto for the folks who got left behind at Hooper's and Velvet Bar. It's absolutely ridiculous. At one point, I joked with Pickell that "yup, it's a typical situation involving the kid -- it starts out with nothing but the best of intentions, it begins great, it's looking pretty good at the midpoint, and then BAM!, then it all blows up in his face, and somehow, the person who avoids any of the fallout will be him, because he saw the train wreck coming before the rest of us did and bailed on the impending disaster". That provided just about the only moments of laughter for a solid three hours ... because within 12 minutes of arriving, Pickell had to hit the ATM. Ditto about forty minutes after that. And an hour or so after that.

Between him and I, we were down nearly $2200 before we even knew what hit us. We literally lost $850 on a single shoe. (Again, thanks so much for nobody else who was there coming along with the "we're leaving" blast to save us from ourselves. It's much appreciated guys, seriously. Much appreciated). By now, it's pushing 3am. We've just experienced Last Call and Last Roundup of liquor. None of us have any cash to pay for a cab ride home ... and we're not about to give out a credit card in our intoxicated state, and at that time of night, to pay for said cab ride. Not to mention risking a DUI once we got back to our vehicles. So there was only one obvious choice left to us.

Stick around, sober up … and risk even more money.

And thus began an effort so epic, so historic, so “what the bloody hell just happened?!?!” levels of incredible, that it will forever more be known as “The Comeback”.

* "The Comeback" began about 3:30am, after taking out a couple withdrawals on credit cards. (Yes, we went there. It was that awful at that point. Pickell’d already maxed out his ATM limit, and I had no cash left in my checking account I could afford to lose. Again, (sarcasm at its finest voice) thanks for the $34.95 withdrawal fee, and the only-God-knows-how-high interest rate I’ll be paying for the next only-God-knows how many years for that decision. You guys are the best!)

We started on the Wheel of Fortune high limit slots, under the theory that "we hit a couple spins, we might make some quick cash to back us up with". It actually worked, as we finished up nearly $150 on the Wheel machine in about 20 minutes of work. After grabbing a few bottled waters, it was off to battle our way back from a (now) almost two grand hole.

* The sad thing is, neither one of us ever doubted we could do it. Both Pickell and I are rock-solid blackjack players who rarely if ever f*ck up. Even while intoxicated, the game is so ingrained in us, that we instinctively know exactly what to do in any given situation. And yes, I might need to call 1-888-BETS-OFF for the second time in my life.

* The first turning point had to be early on, when after buying back in for a couple hundred, we faced the "critical moment". That couple hundred was nearly gone. Down to one chip, Pickell noted "that's it, this is all in". (Our strategory was trade off who was playing. That way, if one of us got hot, we ride it. If it tanked, we could add a second hand … or at least lose slower. No matter what, we had two voices to debate each play, to ensure we made the smartest, most cost-avoidant decision. I still can’t believe we came up with that after all the drinking we did). About an hour later, we'd made back nearly half of the deficit. Slow and steady. Slow and steady. We only played above the table minimum ($25 / hand) three times in that stretch -- and twice we nailed blackjack with $100 plus on the table.

(Including once, on a last hand, when Pickell went ridiculously nuts on hitting said blackjack. I was like "nice $75 win". He just looked at me grinning. He'd slid a black under the green when I was talking to our waitress, who was absolutely smoking hot. She had some Eastern European name. Anyways, I stood corrected -- Nice $187.50 win!)

* Sadly, just when things are rolling -- it's just us, we've got an awesome dealer named Crystal, Pickell's favorite pit boss Pat has taken over, the game is actually fun again at this point -- the powers that be decide to shut down our table. Dammit. Every degenerate gambler (hey, that's me!) knows ... (kenny rogers voice) the secret to survivin’, is knowing what to throw away, and knowing what to keep! Actually, what anyone with a basic knowledge of blackjack knows, is that the key is to maximize the run. We've gone from literally last chip on the table to almost a thousand in barely an hour. We're routinely clearing $100, $120 a shoe, and we're playing six deck for God's sake, we're easily averaging 60-70 hands per shoe. The tide has turned in our favor. And then, those greedy casino bastards conspire to stop "The Comeback" just as it's gaining momentum.

(And yes, the words “every hand’s a winner, and every hand’s a loser, and the best you can hope for is to die in your sleep” crossed my mind on multiple occasions Saturday night. Of course, “The Comeback” was fueled by the ending to that song: “and somewhere in the darkness, The Gambler he broke even …” I absolutely loved the adrenaline rush of “The Comeback”).

* Thankfully, the table closing just wound up moving us to another $25 table, but this time, well, I couldn't help but smile. It's blackjack the way I love playing it: double deck, with the players holding the cards. The best three nights I've ever had at a casino, this is the game I played, double deck face down.

* But before we moved tables, we strolled the entire casino floor to officially and finally confirm that yup, every f*cking partier had left without telling any of us "hey, we're leaving".

Confirming a sh*tty thing like that only deserves a two word phrase: (president george w. bush voice) "Mission Accomplished!"

* Fortunately, the roll somehow just continued. Finally about 8am, we were within sight of even. We'd battled back from down $2200 to barely down $150 in a little over four hours. And never once did we “press the bet” and try to steal three or four huge hands in a row before the inevitable bust. Absolutely amazing. Two great gambling moments in this stretch --

(1) "First call!" Yes, the casino has "first call" at 6am! I truly don't get our archaic liquor laws. They had to stop selling at 2:30am. They came and collected every alcoholic beverage off the table at 2:45am. And now, barely three hours later? "First call!" You have to love a place that has a "first call" at 6 in the freaking morning, and acknowledges it. As much as casinos here in KC frustrate the hell out of me (more on this, in a positive way perhaps?, in a couple paragraphs), I love "First Call". Oh, and

(2) Pickell took a few shoes off to make some phone calls and figure out exactly what the break even was as 6am was approaching. (Note: when you have no idea how many times you've hit the ATM in a night, consider that to be a bad sign). I got dealt a pair of 8s against a king, and I was playing $50 on this hand. (It was the last hand of the shoe, and I always up the bet later in the deck if things are going well).

I have this theory, that every time I play blackjack, there's always one hand that makes or breaks the cession. One big huge bet usually that if you win it, turns the tide in your favor, and you're leaving up money, but if you lose it, it's time to flee the table as fast as humanly possible, because the floodgates of losing are about to be opened. So here it is, $100 already committed to (probably) two losing hands.

First card out? Oh hell yes, another 8! Pony up another $50. I even turn to the Asian chick next to me and I'm like "we lose this, we're in deep deep trouble".

(I should probably note – EVERYONE was rooting on "The Comeback", even Billy the Dealer and Pat the Pit Boss. Especially once Pickell dropped the "they not only deserted us, we didn't have cash for a taxi because we had lost so much" comment to evoke sympathy. Worked like a champ. That’s another key to blackjack -- you gotta have the table rooting for you, and you rooting for the table. If everyone at the table hates each other (usually because a f*cking dumbass is screwing things up), good things never happen).

Anyways, now I've got three hands out, and none of them at this point you'd even rate as a 50/50 shot to win. First card onto the first eight? Oh hell yes, a three. I believe you double an 11 against anything. So I push out another $50 to double down. The one drawback to double deck face down blackjack? You can't see your double down card. It's a total blind guess. So you always root for the dealer bust, even if with a king showing, the odds of a dealer bust are about 20%.

On to 8 numero dos, and first card out, wouldn't you know it, a 2! I never, ever, ever double a 10 against a face card. It's stupid, because your best case outcome is likely a push. So I just hit it, and pulled a five. Gotta hit fifteen. Hit it again, an ace. Gotta hit sixteen. Next card out? A five. Whew. Exhale just a little bit -- at least one hand ain't losing.

On to 8 numero tres, and first card out, another three! Oh sweet Jesus, I'm looking at a potential $500 swing now, nearly a quarter of the deficit. Lose these two double downs, and "The Comeback" is staring a Charlie Sheen like train wreck head on.

(Should also probably note – this was right after we cashed in $1000 in green and black for orange, to ensure at least some level of dignity when the night was through. I only had $325 in chips in front of me … and now $250 of them are committed to this hand. Yikes).

I was playing first, so I had to wait through the rest of the table. The Asian chick next to me took a ten and stayed. Probably a 17 or 18. Gotta root for the improbable bust. Next, her friend, who wound up doubling down on an 11. The Asian chick and her friend were each betting $100 / hand, so needless to say, this hand is getting to be epic. Dude at third sits. He was kind of shaky, routinely screwed up his decisions on 12 and 16, so I was nervous. I wanted to see him hit.

Billy the Dealer looks at us, both he and Pat the Pit Boss say "good luck" and here we go. Turns over the hold card ... and it's a five. A freaking five! Sweet Jesus, we're alive! Everyone rooting for the bust. (Should probably note, Billy the Dealer busted a ton on hands you'd expect to lose to. So this wasn't just blind optimism -- he'd been doing this for an hour, crapping out with king showing, making something with a four up. We all had hope. Yes we can! Si se puede!)

(And if you’ve ever had a huge table hand at a blackjack game, and the dealer improbably is set up to bust out and pay the table, you know EXACTLY what I was feeling at this point).

Billy the Dealer pulls the next card out ... and it's a three. Dealer 18.

I literally pound the table and scream "mother f*cker!" The Asian chick is, in the words of Al Michaels, "about apoplectic". Sure enough, my doubts about third were proven correct -- he sat on sixteen. I just glare at the guy. The Asian chick does more, she screams "you f*ck table! You f*ck table asshole!" (I love Asian casino gamblers. Especially on Pai Gow).

By now, I'm in full on sh*t panic mode. It doesn't help that I'm the last player to get dealt with either, I might add.

It also doesn't help that this moment occurred a little bit before "First Call", so I had no vodka to strengthen the nerves.

(One nice thing ... screw that, great thing ... about playing with Pickell? He refuses to drink the cheap stuff. I gotta admit, there's a definite very-high level of quality difference between a Grey Goose vodka tonic, and the well vodka tonic. A hu-yuge difference).

Dealer gets to my first double down, the last hand. Turns over the card. (dramatic pause). It's an eight. Player 19. It pays! Second hand I already knew was a winner, via the draw to 21. Now for the clincher, the other double down, basically the difference between a $250 profit and break even ... and it's a nine! Player 20! I literally sat down shaking from relief. (That, or vodka withdrawal. Possibly both). My entire body was literally shaking. Pickell walks up, sees what happens, and pats me on the back, and goes "nice hand kid!"

I'm still shaking typing this. I mean, I love to gamble. I freaking LOVE gambling. Too much, actually. I had a group of friends stage an intervention back in 2002, my gambling had reached that epic of a problem level. Since that day, I try to make sure that when I go to the boats now, either Gregg or my brother is there with me, to ensure I don't wind up in a catastrophic situation like Saturday night started out as. (And like many a day was back in the, uuh, day). It'd been a while since I had a $500 swing hand out on the table. And damn, if it didn't feel good to win it.

* Unfortunately at that point, we hit the wall. Further proof this was the ultimate "what the bloody hell just happened" confluence of events. The swing hands like nailing three 8s against a king, that usually produce a huge run to a payoff, never materialized. We spent another hour and a half trying to find a run. It never happened. The other key to making money in blackjack, or at least avoiding losing a ton, besides knowing how to maximize your runs? Is knowing when the hell to cut your losses and run. Which we finally did about 8:30, down about $400 overall after the last couple hours of frustration.

* Once we'd finished, we wound up talking with Diane the dealer and Pat, the awesome pit boss, for a solid 25, 30 minutes over the changes in Missouri gaming. (Let's just say, Harrah's is nowhere close to the most "player friendly" casino in town anymore). Harrah's pit bosses can no longer comp players rooms. They can't even issue a comp of more than $10 without senior casino approval. They no longer provide rides for inebriated preferred gamblers. (Hence our playing up the "they left us without even enough cash for a cab" angle).

What I loved though, is that apparently, all the great dealers and bosses are counting the days until the new casino in WyCo opens. Because they're all planning to flee Missouri for the friendlier confines of Kansas. I know a lot of folks think the Kansas casino is going to hurt gaming in this market. I strongly disagree. If the folks running the Kansas joint know what they're doing (and all early indications are that this is one of the strongest management teams in the industry coming in to open this place), they're going to revolutionize the market and drag every outdated casino and its ridiculous anti-player policies down with it, or they're gonna force the Missouri casinos to modernize just to survive. Just like the late, great Sam's Town did a decade ago.

Anyways, about 9:30, we managed to snag the final cab in the parking lot, and were prepped to head off for Raytown. Only … we forgot to cash in. So back to the casino floor, where for a brief moment, we were like “you know, there’s another guy waiting … we could have another solid run and get closer …” thought, before finally realizing “this is insane, get the f*ck out of here!” We both looked at each other on the ride back and basically said the same thing: "we're never having a night like this again". $38.47 plus tip later (in case anyone cares to know how much a cab in City Taxi costs from Harrah's front door to south Raytown), it was off for home, where I had about an hour to relax, clean up, and get ready to head up to watch Daytona at Wild Wings.

(And in the ultimate “what the bloody hell just happened” moment of the weekend? My drink of choice during the race yesterday … was 22oz Bud Light draws. (grumpier old men voice) Just goes to show you).

Like I said to begin with, this was definitely a "what the bloody hell just happened?!?!" experience of a decade, if not a lifetime. As hacked as I was at getting left (and as hacked as I'm guessing the 10-11 other people are that got left behind due to shady, seedy, drunken people-counting skills) ... "The Comeback" doesn't happen without that occurring. As much as I am not a bar-hopping / Saturday night bar scene kind of person ... it's good every now and then to get out in public and work on your pickup/hookup skills. (Mine are absolutely pathetic, thank you very much. Although they work like a charm at the Eclipse. Possibly because I'm the only white guy there with all my teeth, solid personal hygeine, and a credit card in my wallet not linked to an unemployment, food stamp, or welfare check as its primary source of funds).

As much as I don't care for some of Dusty's crew ... I gotta give Mickey and Damien a huge shout-out for at least attempting to throw this thing together. The party bus was great. Loved the whole "drunk guys sitting around singing to horrific music" touch while we were circling aimlessly through midtown. Great moment, actually.

So overall ... I gotta give this night the Steve Seal of Approval. Would I do it again? Hell yes I would, and I probably wouldn't change a thing. For all my complaining about a few negative things … ok, one really big negative thing (the “left behind” part of the evening), two things trump it all, two things I never thought I'd witness. (1) "The Comeback", my favorite night of gambling ever, and I say this as someone who's left a casino on multiple occasions after having to fill out a tax form before I could cash in. And (2) Dusty's getting married in two weeks. That one is gonna take a lot of getting used to. A domesticated Dusty J. I guess that is the real "what the bloody hell just happened" moment of the whole deal ...