Well dang it, that paragon of virtue, Mr. Moral
Compass himself, William Bennett has a gambling habit.
I’ve always thought our
former Drug Czar’s holier-than-thou attitude was a lot of crap and now I
find that instead, it’s a lotta craps. It turns out that the conservative
poster boy for virtue, who has not, incidentally, made millions with his
books preaching virtue to the choir, seems to have lost an equivalent
stockpile himself in Vegas.
That someone who anointed
himself conqueror of the moral high ground has been felled by revelations of
8 million dollars in gambling debts now makes Bennett the poster child for
inconceivable hypocrisy, too.
On one hand, this is mildly
satisfying. After all, there’s little better than watching a
self-appointed morality czar flunk out of virtue school. But on the other
hand, it’s infuriating. How many well-intentioned people plunked down
$24.95 to read what the master said about morality, while he was in Vegas
for the purpose of feeding the proceeds to the one-armed bandits. It’s
definitely a case of consorting with the enemy.
But the real reason I’m
so pissed is the spin Bennett put on the story—the Nobody Got Hurt
Defense. If you’ll excuse the expression, bet me.
I happen to have some
familial-in-law history with compulsive gambling, and believe me, everybody
gets hurt. In fact, several years ago I had a couple of experiences that,
while amusing at the time, gave me quite a lot of insight.
In the midst of a gambling
frenzy by said family member, I made the ill-considered comment, “Heck,
it’s only bingo, how can it hurt?”
Realizing I was naive to
the whole bingo industry, Bonnie invited me to spend an evening at a local
bingo hall—an idea that said family member took to mean we were “coming
around” and interested in getting in on the action.
So there I was, heading to
Glen Burnie, MD, a hamlet that could easily pass for central Sussex County,
to spend Saturday night at the Bingo Parlor. I closed my eyes and pictured
long folding tables, with genteel ladies of a certain age gazing at a bingo
card and gossiping.
Gossiping? These women were
lucky they had time to drag on their Marlboros.
The “hall” was a true
casino, with banquettes of shiny chrome stations, swivel stools, and more
bells and whistles going off than at Caesars Palace. Staff trolled the
aisles between stations, selling “special games” and chances, in
addition to the “party game” of cards already in front of folks.
Being used to our own brand
of bingo, I was stunned to find 24-48 cards in front of most people.
Forty-eight at a time! And forget hearing the number called and covering it
with a little piece of paper. Fat magic markers making fat blue, orange or
red dots were the weapons of choice.
At the beginning of my
first game, I’d hardly heard a number called when the pros flanking me had
marked all their cards, and reached over to mark mine. My arm got dotted
blue and orange for not getting out of the way in time. It was like a
precursor to paint ball.
The 84-year-old to my right
was quicker with her bingo dots than the person half her age (at the time)
sitting next to her.
Cigarette smoke curled
above the heads of most of the players, there was no talking, just frantic
Magic Marker pounding, and the occasional shout of “Bingo!”
After the series of games,
where there was a winner or two amid people losing between $36 and $200,
everybody got up and rushed the counter where they sold the unfortunately
named rip-offs. These were cardboard games where you rip off five flaps on
the card and under one or more you might be declared a winner. Bonnie’s
kin bought twenty dollars worth of rip-offs, denuded them with the zeal of a
cat in heat, won $100 and immediately turned it in for more rip-offs. Luck
was not lovelier the second time around.
Meanwhile, the gaggle of
frantically ripping and tearing gamblers, ankle deep in rip-off debris,
looked like chickens pecking at feed. They continued their frenzy as we
pulled our car’s passenger out the door.
Prior to this experience I
would have been inclined to say, “What’s a couple of hundred dollars
once in a while for a night of entertainment? After all, we paid that to see
CATS, which turned out to be two hours we’ll never get back.”
However, I came to discover
that the clan of high-haired senior women (and a smattering of comb-overed
men), who haunt bingo halls often go EVERY NIGHT OF THE WEEK. You do the
math.
The resulting pain includes
unpaid bills, utilities shut off, and homes sold at public auction. In one
revealing episode I saw a busload of women with swollen legs, in danger of
suffering blood clots, from having gambled 36 hours straight on a bingo bus
traveling up and down the east coast. I could not make this up. I saw them
waddle off the bus.
The unfortunate upshot of
our night in bingo hell led to our unfortunate several month stint as
supportive family members in weekly GAMANON meetings. It’s just like
Alanon but you can drink afterwards.
Several Sunday nights
running our anonymous gambler sat cloistered with other gamblers,
purportedly giving each other tips about eschewing the ponies, slots or
bingo.
Although I often suspected
they were giving each other hot tips on the Preakness.
At the same time, Bonnie
and I sat with the gamblers’ unlucky mates and offspring, listening to sad
tales of financial disaster wrought by their loved ones’ gambling habits.
Bonnie and I were instrumental in taking family members’ minds off their
troubles, since they spent a lot of time trying to figure out who the heck I
was and how I was related to the family. We believe it was the first time
these people had ever seen lesbians in person and betcha six to one I was
their first Jew, too. It was memorable.
And while Bonnie and I have
been known to drop a roll of quarters at Dover, or play the occasional
powerball, we really are not big gamblers. And personal experience aside, it
upsets us to see people who can least afford it lining up at the gas station
buying scads of lotto tickets, or throwing away the remnants of their
disposable income at the slots. But far be it from us to tell people how to
be virtuous.
So pardon me when I smirk
at Bill Bennett as he tries to play the hand he’s dealt himself. After
all, his moral preachings have included condemnation of, among other things,
marijuana, anti-war activists, affirmative action and of course the
homosexual lifestyle.
According to him, my moral
compass is pointing in the wrong direction.
According to me, when he
was outed as a gambler, I yelled, “Bingo!”
Bennett’s
Book of Virtues is just one more rip-off.
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