About a year ago, the Little Traverse Bay Band of Odawa Indians opened a new casino in Mackinaw City, Michigan, under the same name – Odawa – as their casino/resort in Petoskey. I wanted to maintain our record of having been to and gambled in every casino in Michigan.
For her birthday, which was last week, my wife wanted to spend a couple days at her favorite Michigan casino, the Little River in Manistee.
This presented the perfect opportunity for a mash-up road trip.
The new casino really is tiny, about 5,000 square feet accommodating 120 slot machines but no table games, no hotel, no restaurants, no gift shop. What they do have, which is very cool, is a machine into which you insert your driver’s license, and out pops a player’s card.
Before making our way to the Little River, we spent the first night at the Kewadin Casino in St. Ignace, and the next night in Brimley at Bay Mills Casino. Then we took off for Manistee.
We needed directions, so we called OnStar. We use this service frequently when we travel, sometimes even close to home if we get lost trying to find something. The OnStar people we talk to can be friendly or hostile and anything in between (frequently bored) but they are generally all business and relatively efficient.
This time our "Advisor" was very pleasant and sounded young. We told her where we wanted to go, and in just a moment she said, “I have the Little River Casino and Resort in Manistee, Michigan. I’m downloading the directions to your vehicle now. Thank you for using OnStar.”
Then she added, “Know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em,” and terminated the call.
Thursday, August 31, 2017
Sunday, August 13, 2017
The Prowler
One time when I lived in Kalamazoo a few decades ago, I was reclining on my couch reading when I heard a slight commotion outside my apartment door. I was sure I had turned the deadbolt, but I got up to check anyway. There was also a chain lock which I put in place making as much noise as I could doing it. I had heard it discourages a housebreaker to know there's somebody inside.
Then I stood on my tip-toes to look out the peep-hole, but I didn't see anybody or anything except for the door to the apartment directly across the outside entryway. As I backed away from the door, I looked down and saw that the doorknob was turning very slowly. I looked out the peep-hole again and still saw nothing, which meant that whoever was out there was either crouching or standing off to the side so as not to be seen.
I didn’t exactly panic, but it frightened me. I went directly to the telephone and called 911. The dispatcher took my address and told me she was sending a patrol car, and she made me stay on the line with her until it got there.
When the officers arrived, one scouted around outside while the other came to my door to let me know they were there, and then he too went off to see what he could find. Other apartment doors began to open and neighbors stuck their heads out, curious about the arrival of the police. I made a very brief explanation, and the man from the apartment across from mine waited with me until the officers came back.
The two policemen came back to my apartment having found nothing suspicious. They checked my windows and the locks on the door, and they recommended charlie-bars for the windows, but otherwise said my apartment was pretty secure. After they left, I locked the door behind them and tried to calm down.
About four days later, the man across the way came out to talk to me as I was coming home one evening. He said he had seen who was trying to get into my apartment and had chased him off. I asked if he got a good look at the guy and could describe him to the police. “Sure, I can,” he said. "It was a great big black cat."
What!?!
It seems this big cat was standing on his hind legs, stretching up to rub one front paw across the top of the doorknob, which is what made it turn. Maybe the cat had lived in that apartment at one time, or perhaps the people who lived there had fed him.
I was relieved, of course, but also somewhat chagrined that I had called police to come save me from a killer-rapist pussy cat.
Then I stood on my tip-toes to look out the peep-hole, but I didn't see anybody or anything except for the door to the apartment directly across the outside entryway. As I backed away from the door, I looked down and saw that the doorknob was turning very slowly. I looked out the peep-hole again and still saw nothing, which meant that whoever was out there was either crouching or standing off to the side so as not to be seen.
I didn’t exactly panic, but it frightened me. I went directly to the telephone and called 911. The dispatcher took my address and told me she was sending a patrol car, and she made me stay on the line with her until it got there.
When the officers arrived, one scouted around outside while the other came to my door to let me know they were there, and then he too went off to see what he could find. Other apartment doors began to open and neighbors stuck their heads out, curious about the arrival of the police. I made a very brief explanation, and the man from the apartment across from mine waited with me until the officers came back.
The two policemen came back to my apartment having found nothing suspicious. They checked my windows and the locks on the door, and they recommended charlie-bars for the windows, but otherwise said my apartment was pretty secure. After they left, I locked the door behind them and tried to calm down.
About four days later, the man across the way came out to talk to me as I was coming home one evening. He said he had seen who was trying to get into my apartment and had chased him off. I asked if he got a good look at the guy and could describe him to the police. “Sure, I can,” he said. "It was a great big black cat."
What!?!
It seems this big cat was standing on his hind legs, stretching up to rub one front paw across the top of the doorknob, which is what made it turn. Maybe the cat had lived in that apartment at one time, or perhaps the people who lived there had fed him.
I was relieved, of course, but also somewhat chagrined that I had called police to come save me from a killer-rapist pussy cat.
Wednesday, August 2, 2017
Play away, please.
I caught a couple minutes of some major professional golf tournament last week and saw some major professional golfer not bother, after teeing off, to pick up his tee. He simply walked off down the fairway.
There has never been a suggestion that bending down to pick up one’s tee after a drive is beneath the dignity of any golfer, even a famous champion. I suppose it's possible he has back trouble and left it to his caddie, which I would not have seen as the camera followed him; or he might just be a real slob who does not pick up after himself.
Anyway, it reminded me of Betsy Pickens who played on the company golf league. Betsy was unfortunately burdened with an inflated sense of self-importance which manifested itself in various ludicrous pretensions, not the least of which involved the golf tees she used.
Betsy used wooden tees that had her name imprinted upon them. After teeing off, she left the tee right where it was – stuck in the ground, driven into the ground, four feet away, whole or broken -- no matter. Wherever and in whatever state, she left it.
Not because she was lazy, nor because she considered it undignified, nor because she had a caddie to pick it up for her. No, as she was perfectly willing to explain if questioned, she left her tees on the teeing ground so that golfers who came after her would find them, see that Betsy Pickens used golf tees with her name on them, and be impressed.
There has never been a suggestion that bending down to pick up one’s tee after a drive is beneath the dignity of any golfer, even a famous champion. I suppose it's possible he has back trouble and left it to his caddie, which I would not have seen as the camera followed him; or he might just be a real slob who does not pick up after himself.
Anyway, it reminded me of Betsy Pickens who played on the company golf league. Betsy was unfortunately burdened with an inflated sense of self-importance which manifested itself in various ludicrous pretensions, not the least of which involved the golf tees she used.
Betsy used wooden tees that had her name imprinted upon them. After teeing off, she left the tee right where it was – stuck in the ground, driven into the ground, four feet away, whole or broken -- no matter. Wherever and in whatever state, she left it.
Not because she was lazy, nor because she considered it undignified, nor because she had a caddie to pick it up for her. No, as she was perfectly willing to explain if questioned, she left her tees on the teeing ground so that golfers who came after her would find them, see that Betsy Pickens used golf tees with her name on them, and be impressed.
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