I’ve always been fascinated by carnivals, carnies, and con-artists. Two of my favorite books, the novel Nightmare Alley and Julian Prosauker’s Suckers All!, the story of honest John Kelly, are set in this milieu. So how does a more recent memoir of life on the carnival pitch fair? Let’s see.
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Book review: Eyeing the Flash
Book review: Something for Nothing
I originally reviewed this for the Pennsylvania Review of History. As you’ll see, it’s a provocative book that might make you rethink just how lucky you are.
Book review: Super Casino
Re-reading after seven years, I’m struck by two things: I’m not entirely comfortable reviewing books that I don’t like, and the general quality of writing about Las Vegas has not much improved.
Let me explain: as a writer, I absolutely hate saying negative things about other writers. I know how hard it is to find the discipline and vision to write a book, then go through rounds of revisions and editorial haggling. To do all this and then see your work ripped to shreds is just heart-breaking.
But sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, I’ve heard, and sometimes the writer isn’t the victim, the reader is. Maybe the writer took a nice advance then realized that he didn’t have anything meaningful to say on the topic. In that case, I’ve got no pity: I’ve been offered projects that I didn’t feel I could do justice to, and I’ve turned them down, even though it meant passing up a payday. Before I start writing, I feel an obligation to the reader to approach the topic in good faith.
And the more crap that’s out there, particularly the more well-marketed crap, the less room there is for real writing in the book ecosystem: it’s literary kudzu, or snakeheads, or whatever invasive species you can think of. Theodore Sturgeon was probably right when he said “ninety-five percent of everything is crap,” and in regard to Las Vegas/gambling that’s probably a generous estimate. But since for whatever reason I’m in a position to have some influence, I try to encourage good writing. I’m not saying I practice it or anything, I’m just saying I can recognize it and, like a soused undergrad seeing that guy from his o-chem class across the haze of a frat party, say, with an equivalent nod of the head, “Dude!”
As you’ll see, I’m not saying “dude” for this book.
Book review: The Hand I Played
I originally reviewed this for the Nevada Historical Society Quarterly. Written three years before Positively Fifth Street, this book pioneered the literary take on the World Series of Poker genre.
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Book review: Howard Hughes: Power, Paranoia, and Palace Intrigue
Geoff Schumacher. Howard Hughes: Power, Paranoia, and Palace Intrigue. Las Vegas: Stephens Press, 2008. Hardcover, 292 pp.
More than four dozens books about Howard Hughes have been published since the 1960s. It would seem that there’s little more we can learn about his life. Why, then, should you bother to read another book about Hughes? Because, in addition to being well-written and entertaining, it’s the most exact summary of his documented life to date, and because it also has some thoughtful theories on mysteries that still swirl around the erstwhile aviator.
Schumacher’s book is a hybrid. In some regards, it’s a synthesis of the plethora of previous Hughes works. Schumacher combed through what must have been an endless array of news clippings and tomes of Hughesiana. But he also availed himself of rare and unique primary sources at UNLV Special Collections, the Nevada State Museum and Historical Society, and the treasure troves of private collectors. His thoroughness definitely shows. I doubt there’s much about Hughes–particularly his four Las Vegas years–that Schumacher doesn’t touch on.
The book starts with a quick summary of Hughes B.V. (before Vegas), then discusses his lesser-known earlier stays in Las Vegas, including his 1943 Lake Mead crash and his purchase of the “Green House,” which is still intact on the land of KLAS-TV, in 1953. Then he brings in the story of Hughes’ right hand, Bob Maheu. Maheu’s story has been well-documented, but seems to gain something by being placed in the context of Hughes.
Here’s where business really starts to pick up. As the Hughes roller coaster inches higher up the initial slope, Schumacher stops to describe “what Vegas saw” with a quick chronological survey of contemporary media coverage the Hughes Las Vegas years (1966-1970). The he dives into the real substance of the book–detailed chapters on Hughes in Vegas. These run the gamut from profiles of significant figures such as Hank Greenspun, Paul Winn, and John Meier, to discussions of key topics: the Clifford Irving hoax biography, the Palace Coup that brought Maheu down, and the sometimes-outlandish fight over the estate in the face of competing Hughes wills, none of which was proved authentic. Melvin Dummar’s tragicomic tale–more tragedy than comedy, it now seems–gets ample space, and probably its best analysis yet.
Schumacher then jumps tracks, switching from biographer to critic with a section called “Hughesiana” that features a mix of non-Vegas profiles (Jane Russell, Rupert Hughes, and the RKO fiasco) and extended takes on “Weird Tales” (obscure Hughes texts) and “the Fictional Hughes,” which is an up-to-date consideration of the reams of paper and reels celluloid fantasy that Hughes has inspired.
The book’s key strength is Schumacher’s attention to detail and thoughtful use of his sources. Without an axe to grind, he is able to write a dispassionate book about the eccentric billionaire, a decided rarity. One of the mavens quoted on the back cover commented that few Hughes books are “as lucid as this one.” I think that is an astute judgment by an extremely insightful critic. Since Hughes was far from balanced, he invites wild speculation and still, more than thirty years after his death, an almost messianic fervior. Schumacher immersed himself in his sources without becoming captured by them–a hard task, indeed, where Hughes in concerned.
If you enjoy books about Las Vegas, I’d say that there is room in your library for this book. Unless you are a Hughes-obsessed maniac, I guarantee that you’ll learn something new from it, and you’ll probably find, as I did, that Schumacher is able to make some intelligent guesses that make sense of some of the enigma surrounding Hughes–the Mormon will saga, in particular. Barring the discovery of authentic new documents or revelatory confessions from heretofore silent associates, this book will likely be the last word on Hughes in Vegas.
Book review: Beating the Odds
John McPherson. Beating the Odds: The Complete Dictionary of Gambling and Games of Chance. Docklands, Victoria: Geoff Slattery Publishing, 2007. 708 pp.
This is a very handy and very comprehensive dictionary of gambling. It is expansive rather than focused, with entries covering games including all of the traditional casino favorites as well as backgammon, mah jong, bridge, and board games. McPherson goes far back into history, providing definitions of Roman gambling terms, as well as vocabulary for now-extinct games like faro. So this is more than just a dictionary of current usage–it’s a historic reference that’s sure to come in handy for many researchers.
There is a great deal of information in particular presented on horse racing, running the gamut from the usual to the strange. Thanks to McPherson, I now know that if you divide a horse’s weight by 18, you get the volume of blood in its body. I don’t know what I’ll do with that bit of knowledge, but it’s good to know. McPherson includes definitions for words dealing with the sport of racing and the traditions and rituals of the sport itself, so this is a good all-around guide.
Other subjects are treated equally well. The mah jong terms are a particular highlight. Another is the inclusion of fantasy sports. While, like backgammon, this isn’t usually treated as a gambling game, it is a game of sorts subject to chance, so it merits inclusion here.
As is to be expected in a work with the sheer mass of Beating the Odds, there are some entries that are not exactly wrong, but are not entirely correct, either. Legendary blackjack expect Arnold Snyder, for example, is identified as “Arthur Snyder.” The entry on “The Strip” is a bit shaky, too; it repeats the famous untruth that the Flamingo was the first casino on the Strip, and even says that Bugsy Siegel opened it in 1846. It’s possible the Mormon mission might have stuck around for a bit longer in the late 1850s if they’d have had the Candlelight Room open for their dining pleasure, but I think that’s just a disconcerting typo.
These are minor points, and don’t detract much from the usefulness of the dictionary. I’d strongly recommend this for the library of any gambling enthusiast or researcher, with the caveat that for greater specificity about some of the terms (particularly in the US) you might want to consult sources a bit closer to the action.
Book Review: Six to Five Against
Burt Dragin. Six to Five Against: A Gambler’s Odyssey. Berkeley: RDR Books, 2005.
Six to Five Against is a refreshing, sometimes wincingly honest look at one man’s gambling. Drawing chiefly on his own experiences but supported by Dragin’s investigations into the thrall that gambling holds for many, this is an open, honest, and readable story that will appeal to anyone who gambles or wants to better understand gamblers.
Dragin opens the book with an interesting thought: he’s got a lot in common with Steve Wynn. They were both born in the same year to gambling fathers, and both have had lifelong relationships with gambling, though Dragin admits that the billionaire casino owner has gotten rich from gambling, while he hasn’t. Along the way, Dragin luckily transformed his obsession with gambling into an obsession with gamblers and research into gambling, and the result is this memoir/problem gambling overview.
The short book is divided into four parts. The First, My Role Model, hinges on Dragin’s father Phil, a lifelong gambler. In the second part, Gambling Demons, the focus shifts to the author’s gambling travails. The third part, Profiles, is a series of quick (6 pages or so) sketches of several problem gamblers Dragin interviewed. Part four, The Last Act, is a coda of sorts, describing Phil Dragin’s last years and the author’s final acceptance of his problem gambling.
Six to Five Against works because Dragin is able to coolly, almost dispassionately analyze himself as well as his subjects. His honesty about his gambling is refreshing, and it puts him in a league with Dostoyevsky as a writer who can bring his own gambling to bear on his writing–in Dostoyevsky’s case fiction, in Dragin’s memoir/creative non-fiction–and produce something both eye-opening and thought-provoking.
Dragin’s father’s life parallels that of many men who ended up in Las Vegas one both sides of the table. Growing up in an immigrant, Yiddish and Russian-speaking household in Cleveland, he spurned hard work and sober devotion for the gambling underworld, which included Moe Dalitz’s Harvard Club and an entire stratum of pool rooms, racetracks, touts, and bustouts. Calling it Runyonesque is almost an understatement. Indeed, Dragin pays homage to Damon Runyon in the book’s opening pages, embracing him as a kindred spirit (his title is taken from a particularly pithy gem from Runyon’s “A Nice Price”), and its easy to see how he made a strong emotional connection between his father’s war stories of Cleveland’s gambling scene and Runyon’s memorable characters.
Moving to Los Angeles, Dragin’s father enjoys a bit of good luck, followed by years of hard work, frustration, and disappointment, including more than one arrest for gambling. Dragin follows in his father’s footsteps, trying to balance the demands of adulthood with an unstoppable need to gamble. In the end, father and son seem to reach a rapprochement with their “gambling demon” that contains, but doesn’t entirely banish, it. As a simple family story, Six to Five Against is not only touching, but transforming–the reader is challenged to consider how gambling both tied together and tore apart the Dragins.
As remarkable a document the Dragin story would be as a simple memoir, it’s much more. Throughout, Dragin interweaves personal experience, interviews, and historical research quite effectively. As a historian, I’ve got to concede that the historical background isn’t as well-plumbed as it might have been, which in a few cases hinders Dragin. For example, Dragin just repeats the description of the Flamingo as “the first ornate palace” in the Nevada desert, completely ignoring the earlier El Rancho Vegas and Last Frontier. Worse yet, he doesn’t even mention Billy Wilkerson, whose story would have lent considerable weight to the narrative. Wilkerson, after all, was the brilliant promoter and compulsive gambler who first conceived of the Flamingo, and whose inabilities to control his gambling (combined with Siegel’s predatory avarice) forced him to lose the casino shortly before it opened. There’s also a bit of editorial sloppiness as Giralomo Cardano’s name changes to “Cordano” and back a few times on the same page. But these miscues don’t mar what is a powerful and convincing book.
Dragin is unflinchingly honest, talking candidly of his own struggles with gambling while admitting that no one held a gun to his head and forced him to gamble. Not willing to call himself a victim, he still grapples with an obsession so powerful that it must be biological. He includes many details that a less honest and courageous writer might not have–particularly a heart-breaking exchange between him and his father towards the end of the book–and our understanding of gambling is richer for his risk-taking.
I strongly recommend Six to Five Against for those who want to learn more about the gambler’s psyche, particularly because Dragin is adept at blending the psychological literature with interviews and biographical sketches. Necessarily anecdotal, the book provides rare insights and a highly personal account of one gambler’s journey. It’s a must for any gambling researcher’s bookshelf.
Craps, faith, and paradise
In what will hopefully be the first of three, I’ve got a new review up in, predictably, the review section. It’s about an excellent, excellent novel called God Doesn’t Shoot Craps:
The book is the story of Dante Alighieri “Danny” Pellegrino, a direct mail scam artist, who earns his bread from peddling holy water, chunks of the Blarney Stone, and “can’t miss” gambling systems, staying barely ahead of Richard Goldman, a criminal investigator for the US Postal Service who would like nothing better than to catch Pellegrino in an out-and-out fraud. Pellegrino’s life changes when he decides to test a system forwarded to him by one Virgil Kirk (are you seeing a pattern here). The system, based on the theories of Spanish physicist Juan Parrando (and therefore called “Parrando’s Paradox”) posits that, when properly combined, two losing games can yield a winning strategy.
This is, of course, the Holy Grail to any “serious” gambler, who knows that, in the end, the odds favor the house. I’m not going to pretend to understand the theory behind the paradox, or the Brownian ratchets that play a mysterious (for me) but nonetheless integral role. Pellegrino initially plans to send out a direct mail blast and make a tidy profit from selling yet another doomed “can’t lose” system. But while testing the system (not to see if it works, but merely to better appreciate its failings), Pellegrino discovers that it actually works. From there, the story really takes off, as something as mundane as a craps betting system (there are at least hundreds of them out there) becomes the Maguffin that speeds the plot along.
Armstrong knows how to create and maintain suspense, which keeps the reader not only in appreciation of the outstanding characters that populate the book, but eagerly anticipating the next twist, and the final resolution.
I can’t say much more about how impressed I was. You can check out the book’s website for more information.
I’m off to tape an interview for “Face to Face with Jon Ralston,” which should appear on Las Vegas One tonight.
FYI, I’ve been called out of the office for a few days, so don’t expect any posts for the next week or so.
