Tangerine

Yet another story has hit the papers about The Law nabbing a mother for neglect, specifically, for allegedly leaving the rug rats unattended at home while she reportedly went to a poker parlor.

I hope some civics teacher in high school or at Northern Marianas College offers the following survey to some students, or to others who are philosophically inclined: Would you consider the Poker Mom scenario to be criminal child neglect if she had instead left her children unattended so she could go:

1). Shopping for food?
2). Shopping for videos?
3). To church?
4). To college?
5). To a bar?

Discuss among yourselves, class…but spare me any sanctimony. The day has not yet come where I’m bored enough with my life to fret over how other people raise their families…in this specific case, or in any others.

But what I do find interesting is the array of choices that we all have, the manner in which we choose what we choose, and the way that society views those choices. Choice is, after all, the very crux of economic theory. That’s what markets are, mechanisms for choices.

Which brings me to the poker market. Personally, I don’t get the whole poker thing. When I first heard about poker parlors, I envisioned snazzy, compelling dens of iniquity where scantily clad cocktail waitresses handed out free Harvey Wallbangers while guys in velvet tuxedos played renditions of “I did it my way” and “Tangerine.”

So I once tucked a hundred or so bucks into my Levi’s, picked a poker place with a big neon sign, and breezed through the door, ready for some fun.

I must have made a mistake. I wound up on a stark and cheerless room that was as dark as a dungeon.

No cocktails here, just an old Chinese guy with an eyepatch and a mole sprouting two-inch long hairs.

No guys in velvet suits.

No music.

No Harvey Wallbangers.

And worst of all, no old strippers in high-slit dresses strutting around the room barking “Cocktails, cocktails, cocktails” in stage whispers.

* * *

Can you imagine the tales those old Vegas strippers could tell? The ones with the hoarse, two-packs of cigarettes a day voices? One glance at those soft-boiled eyes and gravitationally elongated cleavage lines you know there’s a cubic mile of lost dreams, broken delusions, and disturbing insights that could be mined by a cynical writer seeking a spicy and dark narrative.

Instead, it’s just mined by and for lechers; the insurance salesmen from Dayton on their incentive tours, out to Vegas for three days of boozy gambling, and to tickle their fantasies of having a fling with any of the faded strippers who troll for tips near the blackjack tables.

“Cocktails…”

After that, it’s back home to the dumpy wife, the television room, and the recliner.

The only thing that sucks more than pathetic fantasies is pathetic realities.

* * *

Vegas doesn’t really sell sin. It sells the fantasy of sinning.

But Saipan can’t be charged with that rap, can we? Sinful fantasy? Our poker parlors don’t stoke such notions.

No booze. No old strippers. Just the guy with the mole looming behind the counter. My fraternity offered more sin, temptation, and danger than that, even on a slow night. And my E-Trade account can suck fifty grand out of my pocket in one click of a mouse, a far more dangerous financial proposition than feeding quarters into a machine that looks like a flat beer keg with lights.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pick up the kids. I left them guarded by my bit pull, next to my knife collection. I had to leave so I could get some quiet and do some writing on my computer.

Blame it on the computer. Maybe we should outlaw them.

(Ed Stephens Jr. is an economist and columnist for the Saipan Tribune. E-mail him at Ed@SaipanEconomist.com.)