I’m on my final afternoon of a vacation to Las Vegas. Yes, a proper, real-deal vacation, not some trip that coincides with road dates or where I stumble upon a show that I can jump on for a quick ten minute spot. I needed it. The tail end of September was a light couple of weeks for me, at first by accident, then by design. My week in New York City became more focused on hanging out than getting up a bajillion times due to a combination of shows falling through and me not submitting to things in a timely manner, but to my great surprise I found myself not minding the time spent hanging out with my friends, even as my broken brain chided me for not ceaselessly grinding. I already had this stint in Sin City with DG and some other friends of ours in the calendar, and it became apparent that instead of chasing stage time, what I actually needed to do was have a vacation. Contrary action, as they say.
I came to Vegas to eat food and play craps, and I already made dinner reservations. So Hank and I are at the tables, seeing if we’ve still got some luck on our side. I’ve been slowly building my bankroll back up all day. A hot roll at Ellis Island – 24 rolls before the seven out, never hit the point but sure did hit the rest of the numbers enough times – brings me back from the brink. A slower, more grind-y roll at Paris helps us kill time during a short thunderstorm. The only reason we knew it was raining was because our phones told us so. The painted-on skies inside the casino were deep blue. We color up in time to join DG as she finishes her late lunch of French fries and salad at Mon Ami Gabi. Bankroll check: I’m not quite positive, but I’m far from negative.
After we’re re-joined by Hank’s wife Sara, whose flight has been delayed by the teeny tiny thunderstorm,1 we grab dinner at a Thai place, where I accidentally get chili oil in my eye. In the bathroom, dabbing away the tears and wondering if I need to go full eye-wash station, the gambler in me says “this is good luck.” Like what you tell yourself when a pigeon shits on you to take away the sting.
We go to Park MGM, where the ladies see if any slot machines catch their eyes while we plant ourselves at a cold table. It’s busy, but no one is doing that great. All the hooting and hollering you associate with a lively craps game is a table over, where everyone is packed on top of each other and someone’s grandma is rolling hot. “Keep it going, Grandma!” they yell behind me.
As the dice make their way to our end of the table, and we continue to lose, these two guys strut up to the rail. Tan loudmouths. They’re everywhere in Vegas. You hate to see them but you’re not surprised to see them. They have split off from the rest of their flock of forty-somethings, talking exclusively in catchphrases and inside jokes. They’re not playing no games tonight. They want the box man to mark down that they bought in for two grand instead of two hundred. They tell us they met him last night, he loves that one. Come on Pepper, they say to the box man. Come on Pepper, they say to the shooter. Let’s go, Pep, they say to each other. Who is Pepper? The table may never know.
They are rolling the dice right before us. They, of course, have insane rolling rituals. The guy who wishes he was Bradley Cooper in The Hangover stacks the dice, rubs them on the table in three exact circles, then launches them down the table. The guy who wishes he was Vince Vaughn in Swingers leaves the dice on the felt, does some weird John Cena “you can’t see me” hand motions over them, then flings them. Both of them don’t last long.
Hank rolls – a point seven out – then the dice get passed to me. My rack is almost empty. I roll a nine. I do some quick math with my chips, ask the dealer how much it costs to go across. He says $78, almost the exact amount I’m still playing with. Sure, what the hell, let’s switch it up. We have to leave after this roll anyway. I go across and empty my rack.
Then I start rolling, and hitting numbers, and pressing my bets, and winning money. “We’re Not Playing No Games Tonight!” they say. “Come On Pepper!” they say. I think now I’m Pepper. I’m pretty sure this is how Pepper would roll.
Now I’m torn. I feel good but I feel squeezed. I’m activated but tense. The dealers are working hard to pay people out right as I hit numbers and win points. I’m having a good roll, and we’re not supposed to talk about it, like when a baseball player is pitching a no-hitter.
I am not pitching a no-hitter. In fact, I am accidentally hitting people with the dice. Multiple times. I have never thrown the dice from this position with this many people on the table. I’m feeling a bit jangly and my hands are showing it. The box man gives me a stern look the first two times. I have never been backed off a craps table before, and I fear it’s coming now. I tell him I’ll change up how I’m throwing, and hit another point.
The chips are flowing, and now people are cheering here instead of at the other tables, and the crowd that was watching someone’s grandma an hour ago is watching me now, as I accidentally hit one of the dealers with the dice. “Worker’s Comp!” they say. The box man looks at me again, hands on hips.
“I’m trying, man!” He knows I’m trying, man. He probably also knows that stopping the roll now would cause an uproar. So we all sort of shrug and I try to keep winning back my money and not hit anyone else with the dice.2
One of the Tan Loudmouths stops being loud, looks me directly in the eyes, and says “you’ve got this.” I hit a couple more numbers, then Sara and DG meet us back at the table. Sara’s flight has a departure time, she has to head to the airport. Thank God. I squeeze out to say goodbye, then return for a few more rolls. The seven comes, as it was always bound to, and I breathe a sigh of relief. So does the box man, who hopefully no longer has to deal with a stone cold sober guy accidentally hitting people with dice then winning them money.
I color up, leave a final tip, and count my chips. In for $200, out for $300. Not numbers that’ll get them salivating on r/Craps, but enough for me to be just a little bit more out of the red.
The problem with gambling is that it is exhilarating to win, but it is also exhilarating to lose. Especially to lose big. That’s why I have to be disciplined about how, where, and when I gamble; I have that itch to feel exhilarated the same way I get those other itches to alter myself. If I scratch the itch, I have to deal with the consequences. And I can’t scratch a lot of itches any more. It’s almost nice to have this thing I do have some control over, even if it’s only the teeniest bit of control.
It’s funny to write a newsletter so focused on recovery and talk about the thrills of gambling, but this is also a newsletter about comedy, which, as you surely know by now, is full of maladjusted mentally ill people. But I tell you this story not just to dump out my feelings, or to say “look how pretty I can write about a craps game,” or because it’s way more interesting than me talking about getting swept up in emotion at the Big Thief concert at the Hollywood Bowl,3 or me reflecting on how and why I loved One Battle After Another4.
I tell you this story because I am coming up on the end of a month that feels like the tail end of a plateau, a month in which I’ve found myself seeking material and meaning in equal measure. And maybe the artistic distance provided by going to a killer concert and seeing a kickass movie instead of being back out on the grind helped shape this story in my mind into a metaphor about how nice it is to get a reminder to play by the rules. I do better with guard rails. I do better knowing that I will walk away from the table after 10 shooters. I do better knowing I need to revise these jokes today, and try out those jokes tonight. I do better when I am able to see my limits, because then I can see the false limits my broken brain tries to impose on me. Like how some people who live in Malibu put up doors to try and keep people from accessing the public beach. Turns out that my alcoholism now has beachfront property and is trying to keep me away from the ocean. I just have to remember that the doors are not real doors, that I can go through them any time I like and that I won’t see any ill consequences. If I stay tapped in to my higher power, follow the Good Orderly Direction, I never lose sight of the real boundary, which is as far out as I can swim safely.
I need those reminders that I am safe, even out on the edge. That it’s okay to sit in those feelings and fears because I have no choice, and that I will make it back in one piece at the end. It’s always nice to stumble into a reminder, whether at a meeting, at a club, an open mic, during a concert, at a movie, or even in the middle of a hot roll on a craps table.
Enjoy the ride. Roll the dice. Surf the ocean waves.
WHAT ELSE IS GOING ON?
This week, you can find me:
in LA during the week and Austin on Sunday – check out my full show calendar for tickets
prepping for the next WRONG! in Los Angeles next Thursday at the Comedy Store at 8 PM
Still need to catch up on the latest episodes of WRONG! before coming to see us live? Check out the newest one below.
Until next time, friends. Thanks for reading, I’m glad you’re here!
Las Vegas really cannot handle itself in the rain. Couldn’t have been storming for more than 30 minutes, the airport delays flights for 6 hours. Learn to fly in the desert!
I don’t, by the way. But hitting 4 people with the dice, that’s a record I hope to never come close to ever hitting again.
A band I was really not super familiar with but have now fallen in love with thanks to this show
A movie that everyone should see as soon as possible
what an adventure!