Frenchy's Rant

At Mohegan Sun Casino on Tuesday, I had one of those things happen to me that really piss me off when they happen to someone else.

I sat down at a slot machine, and put $20 in. This machine had the option, by playing five lines at once, to lose all your money quicker than normal. When I sat down I thought the machine was a quarter a line, but before my first spin I realized it was a dollar a line. Ooops.

I figured what the hell, and hit the ‘MAX BET’ button.

My very first spin came up with three sevens and three ‘Triple Bonus’ multipliers.

And… nothing happened for a second. I’m convinced slot machines are programmed to consistently show a jackpot on a line you didn’t play. I figured this was one of those times I hit the wrong button, and this was the slot machine’s way of saying, “Ha Ha! You’re an idiot and a loser!”

A second later lights started flashing and the machine started making BINK-BINK-BINK-BINK noises like it was going to explode with excitement. The words ‘CALL ATTENDANT‘ blinked, and a crowd started forming around me. Woah, this is gonna be good. The lady playing the machine next to me threw up her arms and walked away uttering, “Motherfucker!”

More people started crowding around. One lady said to me, “Good for YOU! Congratulations!” Congratulations for what? Hitting the MAX BET button? Gee, thanks. It was pretty tough. Another older guy said, “I hope you took them for a lot!” Some people looked excited, others clearly had that addict-gambler look of, “I hate you! That should’ve been me!”

The attendant came over, and took out a huge wallet. It seems that a seven and two triples, along with two other sevens and a triple is worth $800. He counted eight crisp Benjamins out and put them in my hand. Now I can afford to park for a week in New York City!

I was pretty happy with my new fortune, until later that night. Some clearly drunk guy was staggering around the casino shouting “WAAA HOOO!” Security was following him, talking into their hands like the Secret Service.

It didn’t take long to find out the reason the guy was so happy.

“WAAAA HOOOO! I just won FORTY THOUSAND DOLLARS on a dollar slot!”

I shot the man my deadliest “I hate you! That should’ve been me!” look on the way out of the casino.

I drove to the New York show on Sunday night, arriving at the Grand Hyatt around 10 PM. I used the valet service, because parking around that area is nearly impossible, planning to pick up my Jeep after the show Monday night.

It was midnight on Monday when the show finished and I got my Jeep back.

Total time parked: 26 hours.

Total cost for parking – not detailing or an oil change – just parking: $88!!

RAW tonight comes from Madison Square Garden in New York City. At the beginning of the day I was standing near the sidewalk watching the never-ending angular mass of New Yorkers flow through the streets of the city. It didn’t take long for a few hardcore ‘New Yawk’ WWE fans to show up, hoping for a glimpse of a wrestler, or maybe even an autograph.

Building security came up to the fans standing by the barricade and said, “OK. Keep movin’! Ya can’t just stand around heah, so get goin’!”

Anywhere else in the world that would probably be enough to get people to move. Not in the Big Apple.

“Hey man, fuck you! This is a fuckin’ public fuckin’ sidewalk and I ain’t fuckin’ goin’ any-fuckin’-where!” The fans then pointed and laughed at the security guard for the next twenty minute until they got bored, THEN they got goin’.

Later in the the day on Monday I went back outside to enjoy the parade some more before walking off for lunch. The same security guard walked up to me, a look of concern on his face.

Pointing at the satellite truck he said, “Hey man, that thing can’t be parked there! It’s parked in the owner (of Madison Square Garden’s) spot! Nobody ever parks there!

Since that thing had been parked for a few hours already, and in any case, it’s certainly not up to ME where the satellite truck parks, I considered saying, “Hey man, fuck you! It’s fuckin’ not MY fuckin’ satellite truck!” I shrugged my shoulders instead, and got goin’ to lunch.

Coming back from lunch this guy spotted me and waved me over. Great. With a big smile, he told me that they (building security) had solved the problem, and the satellite truck could stay where it was parked.

How did they solve the problem? Simple. They called the owner and told him that if he was coming to his building today to – I swear I am not making this up – TAKE A TAXI!

I live in a small town, and I love it. My town has one bank, a small grocery store, four liquor stores, five bars, and two breakfast places. It’s the kind of place where my neighbor will shout into my window to come with him for a boat ride at 8 AM. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and what they’re up to. When I am home, I routinely have ten minute conversations with SuperDave, my mailman. Who even knows their mailman’s name anymore? If there was a sign at the border of my town (which there isn’t, it’s that small) it would probably read: Smalltown, USA – Pop: 250 wackos

Recently, it seems Jen’s Place – my favorite place for breakfast – has closed down. It’s entirely possible that Jen decided to take a vacation, or just got tired of slinging hash and locked the doors. Nobody knows for sure, though the rumor mill is going full speed. No matter. It’s only a matter of time until Sharon, Betty or Helen step in and make that place their own. Such is life in a small town.

But until then, the only viable breakfast option is Emily’s Family Restaurant, (formerly Mimi’s) a place that due to my small town loyalty to Jen’s, I’d never tried. With Jen out of the breakfast business, Emily’s was packed full. I sat at the counter, taking the only available stool, and eventually placed an order. Ten minutes later, I got a cup of coffee. The service was slow, but it didn’t really matter, because I’d brought something with me that nobody else in the place had, a book! (and an excellent one at that… I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by Tucker Max) All the locals could tell I wasn’t originally from Smalltown, because I was **GASP** reading!

A half hour passed, still no food. I can see through to the kitchen, and the poor guy back there is working his ass off. There is only one waitress on, and the place, though tiny, is full of hungry customers. And here is why I love small town life. The woman next to me asks the waitress if the cook needs some help. The waitress asks her what her name is to which she replies, “Sue.”

Waitress to obviously slammed cook: “Hey! Sue over here wants to know if you want help back there.”

Cook: “Hell yeah I do!”

And with that, Sue, a customer waiting for breakfast just like me and everyone else in the place, gets up, goes into the kitchen, and starts cooking!

Even with Sue’s help, the kitchen is still slow. Everything in Emily’s Family Restaurant is slow, but at least it’s entertaining. Another customer gets up and walks behind the counter, obviously looking for something.

“Whatcha need, hun?” asks the waitress.

“Uhh, syrup?” says the customer.

The waitress responds, “Oh yeah, that’s under here. The little container is empty, so fill it with this, OK?” She hands the customer an industrial sized jug of syrup to refill the little container.

Soon after, a wildly happy and completely rotund woman walks behind the counter. This lady was a dead ringer for Jabba the Hut, only larger, and she is clearly ecstatic about something important. I was willing to bet it was going to be even more important than syrup! One of the other breakfastless customers at the counter asks her what is going on.

“Sorry I’m late, but we just got our delivery today!” Throwing her jiggly arms wide as if worshiping in church she exclaims with a huge grin, “A! BIG! SCREEN! TV!“

Perfect. Now all you need is a few days of Dance Dance Revolution! Before anyone has a chance to respond, she announces she’s leaving to go worship at her new altar. I still have no idea why this lady came in or even who she was. Maybe it was Emily herself.

I’m nearly finished my book when I see my breakfast appear from the kitchen (Thanks Sue! Hey, you know… There’s a vacant breakfast place up the road a piece…) The weary waitress is busy with another table, so rather than continue to wait, I do what is evidently expected of Emily’s Family members – go behind the counter and get my breakfast from the window. Now what? Should I tip myself at the end of the meal?

I finished my book and breakfast at the same time, and headed home for a hard day of beer drinking on my neighbor’s boat.

Did I mention I love small town life?