LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: Odds are, he's the biggest hypocrite around |
by Fay Jacobs |
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 storythe 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 hallan 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. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 13, No. 5, May 16, 2003 |