Friends Jim and Kay accompanied Sharon and I to Blackhawk, a formerly a quaint old mining town, situated some thirty miles west of Denver, and 8000 feet above sea level. When we visited many eons ago, it seemed every old storefront, church, barn, bar, and residence, had been converted into a “casino”. Any quaintness Blackhawk possessed some twenty years ago, vanished when legalized gambling was introduced in Colorado.If there is such a thing as “casino quaintness”, then some of those first establishments may have qualified; a half dozen slot machines, maybe a blackjack table, and a front door. That’s all it took to a casino make—then.
When we checked in at the 34 story Ameristar Casino Hotel, we found no quaintness; we were greeted at a check-in counter suitable for a Las Vegas landmark, and a bellman. Our rooms were beautiful, certainly as nice as most up-scale Nevada offerings.
By now you’re wondering about my hellish evening—it all began with a dinner at the hotel buffet. I was eager to partake; in fact possibly too eager, for I loaded up my plate with much more than I would normally eat, crammed that down, then headed to the dessert bar. I think that was my undoing. Two hours later, I had the granddaddy of all indigestion attacks. Although I’d packed everything I could think prior to our departure from Loveland — tea samovar, crutches, machete, even my normal medications; but, I neglected to include some Tums, Rolaids, baking soda, or a fire extinguisher.
Friend Jim came to the rescue; he fetched a pill bottle from his room, and had soon dumped the contents on the table in front of me. “I think those little pink ones are the Zantac.” Said Jim, as he pushed them my way. There were so many varieties in the collection, that I was less than confident in his choice. There were no brand names imprinted on the pink pills, so I Googled the cryptic information stamped on one, and, it was Zantac. “So, what do you suppose these little triangular pills are?” I asked. And Jim became curiouser, and curiouser; once more a Google. And once more an answer: they weren’t Zantac, or anything that would rid me of my misery.
Sadly, the Zantac didn’t work, in fact, I think it merely stoked the flames, for I spent a miserable night waiting for the distress to pass. It did, and some 11 hours later—I felt almost normal; normal enough to head downstairs, and throw some money away in a slot machine.
And almost normal enough to hit the breakfast buffet.
And here’s a gizmo for your perusal.