It turns out that I'm not a very good gambler. I've already learned this during my still-brief career as a blackjack player — once at Foxwood's, again in New Orleans. In between those trips Atlantic City had neglected to reinforce the lesson, but yesterday it corrected the oversight. Ficke and I had driven there after an idyllic beach weekend — the girls, seemingly blind to the sophisticated glamour of AC, opted to head directly home in the other car. I should've known my luck was bad after five-putting during our pre-departure round of mini-golf. At the time I'd simply chalked it up to the robot spider guarding the hole, but now I see that my problem was more metaphysical.

It was hardly a catastrophe*, but the fumbling, vacant dealers did collect our money with startling speed despite spending most of their time staring hopelessly into the space over our heads. That was the worst part: seeing so many good cards wasted on those for whom they could produce no joy. I would've thought that the place's delightful wild-west theme would keep the employees more cheerful. Maybe for them the mild disappointment Matt and I felt at the lack of period costumes has grown into a poisonous cancer that eats them away from the inside. I bet it's nothing that some leather fringe and a fake gunfight scheduled on the quarter-hour couldn't cure.

* Thanks in part to the casinos' exorbitant ATM fees. Am I crazy to think this is a bad decision on their part? Cutting down that $4.50 charge seems likely to make them a hell of a lot more money over the long run.