the other press Op-Ed Section Editor: Erin Culhane February 12, 2003 Dawn-Louise McLeod OP Columnist Welcome to the land of big steaks and high stakes, overpriced beer (considering we're in the US), a ridiculous exchange rate, and second-hand smoke. Welcome to Lummi, gambling capital of the state of Washington, where the Lummi First Nations band runs a casino to rival those of Nevada. A visit to Reno (back before Computers) and a Dire Straits song called “Tunnel of Love” left me with the roman- tic expectation of once again encountering the one-armed bandit—the slot machine. This was the only reason I agreed to accompany my friend A. and her erstwhile love-interest, a well-off gentleman in his senior years, to a gambling establishment one rain-soaked evening in mid October. Well, maybe not the only reason. I need- ed to warm up, and an American ten-dol- lar bill was my ticket to temporary cozi- ness. To fend off the autumnal frost while off-season camping at a so-called resort in Birch Bay, my buddy and I had been rely- ing on fires built from scrounged wood, and summer-weight sleeping — bags. Absentminded as usual, I'd forgotten where I'd stashed my ceramic space heater, and she couldn't get the furnace going in | her trailer. 10p.m. our first night out found us on the back lot of a salvage com- | pany, rooting surreptitiously through piles _ of rubble in search of wood, and praying like heck that the vicious | Dobermans wouldn't notice us. I had a Public Relations paper due and was working to deadline. So I spent the | next day holed up in my trailer, tapping on-site opinionsubmit@hotmail.com my analysis of classic PR cases on my craptop, fingers blue from the cold, instead of partying it up in the hot tub with my friend A., her pal Ed, and a six- pack of Miller Lite. So I didn’t argue with A.’s suggestion for the evening's entertain- ment. Now, gambling with real money would normally be low on my daily—or ever—list of Things To Do, but hypother- mia and homework burnout have a way of lowering one’s standards. We pulled into the immense parking lot in late afternoon, and surveyed Lummi Casino, a facility too beautiful to serve as refuge for the unloved, the desperate, the alcoholic—or just the plain old bored in a town without much shakin’ on a Saturday night—or, I suspect, at any other time. Inside, we surveyed the joint and I watched my romantic preconceptions go up in smoke. I had envisioned a run-down dump where you perch on a chrome-and- vinyl barstool, eye the Liberace-inspired costumes of your fellow gamblers, are served free Harvey Wallbangers by a hard-nosed, bleached blonde, grab the plastic ball on the end of a slot machine’s arm, and are rewarded with an avalanche of nickels. Disillusionment #1: The slot machines are, like the Venus de Milo at Caesars Palace, armless—and they are digitalized. Disillusionment #2: The machines do not even accept real money— instead, they read a plastic card. It’s strictly pre-pay-as- you-go gambling—prior to playing the digital bandits you pre-lose your money by using another machine to transform cash into a plastic card—sort of like an ATM in reverse. Whoever came up with this system probably based it on the same concept credit cards are based on—that it feels less like real money if it’s plastic. Disillusionment #3: Free drinks? Huh, you must be kidding. The crappiest beer there costs $3.00 US If you had the nerve to request a free Harvey Wallbanger a bouncer might turn you into a Harvey Wallbanger. Disillusionment #4: Everyone dresses in regulation Food Bank-lineup-nonde- script, with few exceptions and no signs of Liberace wanna-bes. However, the same mindless intensity that I recalled from my Reno days was there, minus the tacky ambiance that had made it all worthwhile. This was gam- bling—middle-America, shopping-mall, cleaned-up gambling. But like the Reno patrons I recalled, these people were on a mission. No aimless browsing around the baccarat tables for these folks. They played with the same grim determination that had held them stalemated for decades in dead-end jobs or loveless marriages. Despite the chaos and the colourful lights, the smoke was thick with sombre tension. I bought a $5.00 piece of plastic for $9.00 Canadian. I played a_ nickel machine and was actually up $2.00 before losing the rest. Time elapsed: less than three minutes. I could have had more fun ona ride at Playland—for what I spent on the bandit, make that two rides. That minor win of $2.00, however, encouraged me to feed the plastic card machine another $5.00 My companions were not so frugal. A. made several trips to the Backwards ATM, and Ed had burned through $140.00 and was running a tab. Fascinated by his quiet recklessness, A. and I watched him play in the Big League—the dollar machines— until I got bored and went in search of a cheap drink, uncomfortably aware of being under surveillance from the omnipresent cameras. I looked around for someone to talk to, but that was out of the question. Eye contact and personal inter- action were discarded in favour of single- minded attention to machines that nibble and gulp your hourly wage. At least I was now warm—too warm. And I was getting vertigo from smoke expelled from the lungs of addicts, and the perpetual electric whining. To add to my discomfort, there was no place to sit unless you were in the act of spending money. The best place for that, I eventually decided, was outside in my car. There, I polished off a diet cola and watched it get dark outside. I longed to get back to my chilly bed and a fifty-cent beer, and con- tented myself with the thought that the proceeds of our gambling spree were going to benefit members of the Lummi Band. A thought was shared, perhaps, by some souls, still in the casino, unable to walk away from the smouldering ashes of their fortunes—or, at least, their pay- cheques. Comments? Send your email to: iconoclastcom @yahoo.ca : Mother Hubbard OP Recipe Guru “All oppression creates a state of war, and this is no exception.” Simone de Beauvoir wrote this back in the 1940s, and it’s my all-time favourite quote. Not only do I like saying Simone de Beauvoir with a French | accent, I also like the fact that this quote works for all | sorts of things. For example, prepared mixes. We pay a lot of money for things we have to add ingredients to in order to make it edible. Take pancake mix. You add an egg, oil, and water or milk, so what the hell is in this so-called prepared mix? What is so prepared about a “mix” of really nothing more than flour, salt, sugar and baking powder? Nothing. All it The Starving Student means is that the dry ingredients are sealed in a ! handy-dandy plastic bag that you rip open and have | to measure out yourself anyways. For years, Aunt Jemina has seduced me with her | buttermilk pancakes, and like a fool, I’ve been loyal to | the old girl—not willing to believe she was only in it for the money. Well Auntie, enough is enough. I’m | tired of you and all the others keeping me broke. I'm | breaking free and sending your mix to the trenches. | Here is the recipe for pancakes AKA flapjacks or | griddlecakes. If you're feeling creative, pour the batter | into heart shapes for Valentines Day. Aaaahhhh. x Pancakes 1-2 cup(s) milk 1 egg 1 cup flour 1 teaspoon salt other side. 2 tablespoons melted butter 2 teaspoons baking powder 2 tablespoons sugar Beat the milk, butter and egg in a mixing bowl. Mix the rest of the ingredients in another bowl, and then dump it all in the first bowl. Stir just enough to moisten the flour. The batter should be lumpy. Lightly butter a grid- dle or frying pan and heat over moderate heat. Drop about 2-3 tablespoons of batter per pancake. When the pancakes are full of bubbles on the top and lightly browned underneath, flip ‘em over to brown on the See eee eee ew ee eee eee eee ee ee eee eee eee”