Pennsylvania Skill Gaming Machines Continue Spreading

For decades, spinning the reels of slot machines - whether at land-based or online casinos - has been reduced to pure luck and, apparently, no skill whatsoever. Players have been at RNG's mercy to either win or lose, which for most was both exciting and somewhat rewarding.
However, new generations have started changing the face of gambling, slots in particular. Moving away from luck as a deciding factor of their wins, these generations have started asking for games that put their skills, reasoning, and capacities to test while still being fun – and that's how skill-based slots arouse.

What Are Skill-Based Slots?

Skill based slot machines are the newer breed of slots designed for everyone who would rather trust their skill over their luck, while still having fun - at least that’s how they are advertised.
The outcome of skill-based slots should be based on the player's ability to play the game rather than how lucky they are. Skill slot machines also allow operators, game developers, and suppliers to design variable payback based on a comprehensive variety of identifiers.
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The outcome of skill-based slots should be based on the player's ability to play the game rather than how lucky they are.

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While regular slots' winnings involve a lot of player's luck and hardly any skill, skill slots are supposed to be predominantly skill, factor-wise. With skill-based slots, players start the game knowing that they will have a material effect on the outcome, i.e. how much money they can win, with better players getting rewarded with higher payback.
Essentially, in answering what are skill machines, it is safe to say that they are games which resemble video poker or blackjack, as they give the player a chance to boost their profits solely with skill.

How Does a Skill-Based Slot Machine Work?

In comparison with how regular slot machines work, it is kind of difficult to give a definite observation on the matter as, basically, they operate the same way.
Unlike regular slot machines, casino skill games feature bonus rounds that require skill to win. Also, some of these games don't necessarily require playing the skill-based round; instead, they offer the option of choosing between free spins and an interactive bonus.

How Slot Machine Skill Games Work?

Say you are playing a slot with a racing theme; this is how you would go about it:

• When the bonus room is triggered, you choose the skill-based bonus
• You race against other cars
• The size of your payout gets determined by your finish

Skill based slot machines particularly stand out due to their unique bonuses.

What is the Difference Between Regular and Skill Based Slots?

Skill based video games, i.e. skill-based slots, are different from regular slot machines because they feature bonus rounds which include a high degree of skill. While the base mechanisms are the same for both, skill-based slots require some skill if the player is looking to score.
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While the base mechanisms are the same for both, skill-based slots require some skill if the player is looking to score.

Regular slot machines work in a way that the player places a bet and spins the reels; then, the RNG (random number generator) delivers a combination, showing the results on the reels. Essentially, it is the RNG that determines the spin's fate. With traditional slots, players have almost no say in the outcome – they only decide the amount they'll bet and when they'll start/stop playing.

How Much is Actually Skill and How Much Pure Luck?

When we speak of skill-based gaming, it's safe to say that both are included, with the difference that, unlike traditional slots, skill-based slots do include competence.

What is the Difference Between Arcade Slot Machines and Skill Based Slots?

The younger generations don't remember it – but arcade games were the thing in gaming. New-age developers have decided to use the old trend, revamp it, and make it the basis of the majority of skill-based slot machines. The reason for this is, predominantly, millennial preferences. Millennials are not interested in luck deciding the course of their actions but are known to believe their own competence and rely on it.
As skill-based slots haven't exactly grown in popularity in the past years, bonuses based on arcade games could be the best way to test if skill based gaming will become the new "it" of slots gambli­ng. ­ ­

Can You Make Money Playing Skill Based Slot Games?

Skill-based slots don't come with guaranteed profits despite the fact that your skills can result in earning more money. Why? When it comes to this type of games, the truth is - you won't raise RTP enough to guarantee winnings even if you're an expert at the bonus round. While players are given the option to include their skill in the whole concept of playing, these games are still programmed to give the house advantage over a player.

The Case of PA Skill Machines (Pennsylvania Skill Machines)

Pennsylvania Skill machines are the games you see at convenience stores, at bowling alleys, local pubs, and virtually all other fun-ga­mes­-an­d-e­nte­rta­inment places. These games are allowed for 18-year-olds, while casino slot machines are strictly for those who are 21 years old, or older.
Pennsylvania skill games are produced by Pace-O-Matic (POM or Pace O Matic), distributed by Williamsport, PA, -based-Miele Manufacturing.
There are several games on offer:

• A hypothetically unlockable bonus session
• A tic-tac-toe-style puzzle
• A "follow me" coloured dot-matching second phase of gameplay

If a player plays the Pace-O-Matic game successfully, they win a total of 105% of the original amount spent to play.
Throughout the years, there have been talks whether the machines developed under the name "Pennsylvania Skill" should be considered regular slot machines or games of skill specifically. In the most recent ruling, it was announced that "video game machines manufactured and distributed by the POM under the name "Pennsylvania Skill" are considered slot machines under Pennsylvania law. However, Judge Patricia McCullough did not state that POM was in violation of the Gaming Act."
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Currently, Pennsylvanian skill machines are considered legal.

But where does that leave things? Are Pennsylvania skill machines legal? Currently, they are considered legal. However, some people argue that the skill aspect is an illusion designed with the idea of floating Pennsylvania gambling laws. The same people, additionally, claim that a player can get lucky on both a regular slot machine and a skill-based one, and win – but that it would be luck in both cases, though.

Are Skill Slots the Future of the Slot Machine Industry?

Discussing whether skill slots are the future of the slot machine industry has to come with a degree of uncertainty as there are still plenty of unregulated and undefined things in this domain. While skill-based gaming sounds like a great idea on paper, the reality is different. Yes, skill-based slots give players the ability to decide their own gambling luck (in a way), but - skill alone doesn't always translate into success.
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Skill-based slots give players the ability to decide their own gambling luck (in a way), but - skill alone doesn't always translate into success.

The optimum is that, based on how things are now, the future of slots looks close to placing an emphasis on social gaming (e.g. Angry Birds, Candy Crush, and Plants vs. Zombies, etc.) and console/computer games. Still, all further changes and upgrades remain to be seen.

Conclusion

Skill-based slots are a mixed bag of elements different to standard slots, but also a somewhat deceiving game as it sounds like it's giving players more power of the outcome than it actually does. Players are potentially able to influence 5% of the RTP through their abilities, but that is pretty much it. Skill slots differ from casino terminals in a way that they include some skill, the accent on "some". Skill slot machines don't actually give players a true chance to overcome the house edge, but that doesn't mean you can't have all the fun in the world just playing!

Continuing
“And take your finger charger!” she yells as she heads up to our room. “Don’t want to run out of juice halfway through”.
“Yes, dear”, I reply. That’s a damned good idea. I would have forgotten with all the other shit I’ve got on my mind.
I make a quick call and have my crane operator meet me at the job site. I explain that I need him to lift me and this welding cart right over the transom of the ship and into the very bowels of the ship. I’m heading to ‘shaft alley” and dragging along a heavy, wheeled welding cart with 4 bottles of oxygen and another 4 of acetylene. Plus masks, regulators, tips, guns, rods, and all that fun welding stuff.
Luckily, the ship, or what’s left of it, has electrical power hooked up to the mains for a few more days. I can run a portable smoke rejector, MP3 radio, a45nd my finger chargers all while I sweat, swear, and strain at welding in place twin 36” tail shafts.
He lifts me up and over, with my radio directions, he lands me about 25 feet from my next job site. I unhook everything while telling him “Don’t pull slack!, Fer chrissakes!”.
I detangle the welding cart and all my other accouterments for the night, and after unhooking the jib line from the railing where I set it for safekeeping, it withdraws like a Martian Viewfinder in The War of the Worlds. I hear crane diesels fire up and move slowly away.
It’s quiet, darkish, dank, and somewhat smelly. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I like working like this. Alone, by myself, and with no one else. I dislike kibitzers, nose-poker-inners, and other forms of subhuman flotsam and jetsam.
I pull on my welder’s cap, and then my special welder’s mask, stick a cigar in through the custom-made cigar hole, fire up a heater, and a welding rod. Sparks fly from both at I attack tail shaft number one.
Five hours later, and half my supplies are gone, I’m finished with tail shaft #1. That sucker isn’t going anywhere. I may not be a pretty welder, but when I weld something, it fucking-A stays welded.
I drain 500 milliliters of spring water. Probably my 12th bottle and I’ve yet to have to utilize the euphemism; it’s that close and hot down here.
I was just thinking that I could sure use a quick drink or 11 when I hear the muted roar of diesels and see a figure slowly descending via a crane jib line.
“Es!”, I groan at her mode of entry, “What the hell is this in aid of?”
“Oh, nice. Here I thought I’d bring you some lunch, and with the ship listing at these cray angles, the only way was that your crane guy saw me and offered to put me aboard.”
“Right!” I growl, “Like a worm dangling on a hook? Dangerous much?”
“Oh, but OK for you? Sexist.”
“I’m not sexist, just trained and besides…you’re right. I just don’t want you hurt. It’s not the most conventional form of travel…”
“But I’m in a 9 point rescue harness and Adil was being so careful. Oh, that reminds me, you owe Adil another case of potato juice.”
“Not a problem”, I smile as I take the suspiciously heavy lunch box, “I’d even give up a box of cigars to see you anytime.”
“Oh, OK. I’ll tell him that.”
“Please don’t. With my poker losses, I’m into him and his cronies for too much already.” I smile.
Es keys her radio and asks Adil to come back in an hour and a half or so.
“That’s a long lunch”, I note.
“Well, need time for a little exercise after lunch, don’t we?” Es smiles.
“Indeed we do.” As I lustily attack a turkey & swiss sandwich and a tall frosty Kingfisher.
Three hours later, I’m back welding on tail shaft number two. After lunch and some special exercises, I was about to let the damn thing just hang and ease back to the Raj for a few co-ed laps in the Jacuzzi.
However, duty calls and time grows short. There’s much to do and miles to go before I sleep. Miles to go before I sleep.
Four hours later, I emerge from shaft alley. I’m filthy, tired, and look like hell. It’s got to be 45 to 50⁰ C in there and I’ve just spent the last number of hours with a 6,500⁰ welding torch in my hands. Good thing I brought along the pare fingers, as all the vibrations, heat, smoke, and fuming of the torch must have depleted the dilithium power cells in my normal set.
I call Adil and have him lift just me and my fingers with charger out of the bowels of the boat. The rest of the materials my guys can drag out. Who knows? Maybe they’ll need a welder or MP3 player for some oddly bizarre reason.
I pay off Adil and take a rain check on tonight’s poker game.
I knew I should have never shown them Texas Hold’em…
I see a tap tap nearly whiz by. A thrown rock grabs his attention. Almost immediately, I drop in and instruct him to take me to the gate.
“Just the gate, Sahib?” he asks.
“Well, I’m going to the Raj, but you don’t…”
“The hell Chandrama doesn’t, Doctor Rock.” He smiles.
Fuck. He knows me somehow. This is gonna cost me.
“OK, then the Raj”, I say, “What’s this going to run?”
“Oh, however many rupees you can pare. Maybe a cigar. Maybe some spirits…?”
“OK on all three, but you’ll have to wait a bit. I’m just off work and currently skint.”
“No worries. Dr. Rock is well known here. We will be off.” He toothily smiles at me as he hits the throttle.
I never thought it was possible to pull G’s in an Indian tap tap.
After I pay Chandrama his rupees, cigars, and bottle of scotch; I wearily drag my carcass towards our room.
Esme is already in the library having breakfast.
I wander over and she holds up her hand.
“Not until you shower and change. I can smell you clear over here.” She admonishes.
“By your command, dear”, I say. I head to the bar, create a very large hard-day-down-in-the-bowels-of-a-doomed-cruise-ship-welding drink, and shuffle off to our room.
While I’m in the shower and my fingers are getting their charge on, I hear a knock at the door. Before I could even adjust the water temperature, the door flies open and the chambermaid whooshes in, grabs my nasty work clothes and boots, yells something unintelligible, and scurries out the door.
“I hope that she is going to get them washed,” I say, drying off, “And not burned.”
They were pretty nasty.
Back in the library, in my natty usual work outfit of Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and field boots, Esme and I are discussing our next steps.
“We need to get back to the Middle East eventually”, Esme admonishes. “You’ve got to get to university one of these days.”
“I know”, I reply over eggs, toast, sausages, hash browns, mushrooms, black pudding, and coffee. “But this job is special. Who knows when next I’ll be allowed to blow stuff up?”
“Knowing you?” Es smiles, “About 60 minutes after we land at university.”
“From your lips to my ears”, I say over shoveling of breakfast.
After breakfast, I realize that I’m dead tired, so back to the room for a bit of kip. Es decides that since time is winding down, she’ll go into town, perhaps for the last time this trip, and do a little shopping.
“Go nuts. Tired out. Sleep front blew through.” I say as I hand her my wallet. “Just leave enough for burial expenses.”
Esme scoffs, quickly kisses me and heads out the door to our waiting driver. I didn’t realize just how tired I was, as I drag my carcass back to the room and collapse with an audible THUD.
Around 1100, I awakened, refreshed. During my slumber, someone infiltrated our room and committed another premeditated neatness. They also left my freshly washed, dried, and pressed orange PPEs.
“How convenient”, I smile to myself, as I dress and head back to the job site.
I leave Esme a note that I’ll be at the armory for the rest of the day but will be back in time for dinner. Now comes the design and implementation phase of the project, and I want at least 6 hours of solitude to put the final touches on my plans. Going to need a lot of fabrication and the last thing I need are people around me, even my beloved wife. It’s nut cuttin’ time, and I need to devote some serious little gray cells to the matter at hand.
Later that night, around tiffen, which we take purty durn early round these parts, buckaroo, Esme, and I are wide-eyed over the steaks the Majordomo had procured for our evening repast.
Prime porterhouses. Esme’s steak is about 2” thick, mine twice that. Hers done to a grilled medium-rare perfection, mine just restored to natural bodily temperature or blue as some like to term it.
We have been offered a couple of bottles of 1998 Chateau Lafite Rothschild - Pauillac 1er Grand Cru Classe; which I deem ‘grape juice with an attitude’, but with which Esme is smitten. We somehow manage two bottles that evening.
I cannot understand the goofiness over wine by oenophiles. Now if it were a couple of bottles of Russo-Baltique vodka, I could understand…
Apart from a very simple and very good house salad, sans cucumbers, the nasty, evil things; we eschewed any other form of accompaniment. We’re primarily carnivores and vegetal side dishes aren’t dinner, that’s something dinner would eat.
Afterward, we’re relaxing in the library. I’m smoking a very nice Oscuro Arturo Fuente Opus X from the box Mr. Kannada obtained for me. Esme is having one of the three cigarettes she’s allowing herself until she quits smoking altogether. She is laboring under the impression that I’ll follow suit, and far be it from me to dissuade her of that idea.
Anyways.
Sanjay wanders by.
“There you are”, he states.
“You have a keen grasp of the obvious”, I reply with a puff and a slurp.
“Did you lock out the armory?” he asks.
“Aw, shitsnacks. Didn’t Adil give you the note?” I asked, “I told him to give you the note that I’ve locked down the armory as I’ve been fabricating in there for the big show in two days. The last thing I need is a bunch of ham-fisted clodhoppers wandering around in there and knocking over a piece of my work. That would be…unfortunate…” I said coldly.
“Oh, OK then.” Sanjay says, “But next time, please let me know in advance.”
“Oh, most assuredly”, I assured Sanjay. Although a repeat performance seems highly unlikely.
After a hearty breakfast the next morning, Es is off shopping one last time as I need the entire day, most of is spent hooked to a crane, fumbling around a pair of intricately machined boat screws. Setting a precise and definite recipe of high explosives I’ve designed.
While the rest of the guys are setting and priming charges for after my show, I’m working alone. I’ve cordoned off the aft of the ship as a “No-Go Zone”. I’m laying a few tons of various high explosives, and the last thing I need are gawkers, questioners, or nose-poker-inners.
One thing they know, when Dr. Rock says “Get lost”, one stays lost.
It’s just about dark, and I’m finished. I’ve posted a quartet of guards which changes every four hours, to watch over my handiwork as I’ve now got 5.5 tons of various high explosives set, charged and primed. All the electrical leads are shorted to ground and actually buried to a lead bus-bar in the sand near the stern of the ship. There’s no way I’m letting any errant electrons travel where they shouldn’t ought and cause a short.
That would be, what we in the demolition business call, a “Bad Thing”.
With capital letters.
The next morning dawned clear and bright as it usually does when the monsoon’s not in town. I avail myself of a hearty breakfast with Esme before I’m off for the ceremonies.
“So”, I say over coffee, Greenland of course, and toast, “What was that you were saying last night? Sorry, I was a bit nitro-groggy…”
Es replies, “It's a very busy week. I'm thinking about not going to the demolition.”
“Huh!”
“The kids need me, honey. I’ve got to send off their packages. Khris is having car problems…” she continues.
“Es. We've had these kids for a while now. They've never kept you from coming to the other demolitions.” I reply.
Es continues, “Honey, it's not like I've never been to a demolition before. I just don't think I
can go through all that... I'll just be glad when this one is over.”
I sigh, “Well, you're gonna miss a hell of a show.”
I finish up breakfast, pull out a cigar, kiss Esme and head for the door. I don’t even stop to look back. I know her. She makes up her mind and that’s it.
I’m a little down, but there’s a job that needs to be done. A big, fat, hairy, nasty, potentially deadly, and altogether ridiculously profitable job. Game face on, it’s nut cuttin’ time once again.
I grab the jib line from the crane and have Adil hoist me around like we did all day yesterday. I’m galving connections, re-soldering some Western Unions splices that the salt air and humidity have compromised, just basically re-doing everything for the 1100 show.
Then, once finished, I’ll do it all over again.
The propeller cones on the tail shafts are covered in heavy canvas. I’ve built a special series of shaped charges, just like the ones I’ll be using to spin off the Pilgrim Nuts, but of different materials.
I’ve created six corresponding lines of plastic explosives, parallel to the tail shafts that will detonate exactly 0.25 seconds apart sequentially. This will generate a torque on the caps, and if I’ve used enough boost, will spin them off the shaft and out of the way rather than atomize them.
The procedure is based upon a similar, though smaller, procedure taught to me by one of the more crimson paragons of wild well firefighting. He showed me how to mold shaped charges and align them to break the connection on hammer unions and give them a good spin instead of just gobbing explosives all over and blowing the crap out of the connections.
That way, the caps, unions, and pipes to which they’re attached can be retrieved and re-used.
He was a master of the art. I’m glad I could learn even a little from him.
I’m doing the same thing for the Pilgrim Nuts a bit later in the show, just with about three-quarters of a ton of highly malleable explosive each. Boom, wait a few hundred milliseconds, boom goes the next line, blast, rinse, repeat.
If all goes well, the shock waves are self-reinforcing. The initial movement of the nut on its threads is amplified by each subsequent firing. By the time Number 6 hits, the nut’s free spinning and with the aid of gravity, spins right off the tail shaft and onto the soft, warm sand of the Western shore of the Indian Ocean.
At least, that’s the theory.
OK, here’s the whole show lowdown, at least from my end of the boat.
I’ve rigged the stern of the ship with about three spools of Primacord. That goes first and cleans off all the accumulated sea schmoo and crapola that could interfere with my next shots.
Since I’m an inveterate showman, I’ve wired Primacord around the railing on the distal stern of the ship. I’ll clean that off as well as it annoys me by its very presence.
That will be a hard-wire job and I have the galved leads right here next to me on the stage; tied into my boom-stick or blasting board.
Next, I have several hundreds of pounds of Seismogel in shaft alley. This is a hard-wire job as well. this will not only test my welding capabilities, but shake loose the tail shafts, but not break my welds, I fervently hope. After sitting for so long with all that weight in one spot, the tail shafts and propellers could have damn nigh welded themselves together. I’m providing a bit of a knock to rattle, but not break, them apart. Besides, I like playing around with binaries.
Next, the propeller caps go, as I’ve explained previously. Also, a hard-wired plastique job, and their color-coded leads are right here, next to me on the dais, wired right into the blasting board.
Once those are gone, meaning the sand-capable forklifts have ushered them out of the way, it’s time for the Pilgrim Nuts. Again, hard-wired, and I have the leads already tied into the blasting board. This is going to be one of the big ones, so I re-galv that just to be sure.
So, if all goes as planned, the sand-capable forklifts will have pushed the Pilgrim Nuts out of the way and it’s time for the props to come on down. I’ve done my homework and spoken with Captains, Able-Bodied Seamen, and other forms of Salty Dogs about how this is to go.
There unanimous answers: “Not well.”
Getting the heavy props to slide down the tail shafts, even with gravity assist is everything from “A real pain in the ass” to “A cast-iron bitch.” Everyone I’ve interviewed agreed, this is the hard part. Once a propeller and tail shaft mate, it’s a monogamous union. Let no mand rend asunder.
That’s why I’ve planted a few tones of ANFO, liquid nitro, and a C-4 back-up.
This is going to be the big one. Actually, the two big ones, as I’m tasked with removing two of these 101-ton mothers.
There’s only one thing which has me a bit worried. “Did I use enough nitro?”
I used a special concoction of my own design, I took 3” fire hose that was scrapped off one of the ships and cut it to fit the circumference just behind the hub of the propeller. I filled the those loosely with ANFO. This will give a nice, clean deflagrating, rather than a detonating jolt. I need the jolt for the frozen nitro that I’ve shoved into a 1” hose and threaded through the middle of the 3” ANFO-filled one.
The idea is this: the ANFO will blow and push the propeller initially down the shaft, perhaps as much as 6 inches or so. Perhaps a micron, I don’t yet know. However, almost immediately after that, but a few milliseconds later, the nitro, now compressed approximately 10:1, will detonate.
But in that briefest of time intervals, the hoses will contract heavily due to the heat and I hope will fall in behind the propeller. Once that nitro goes, it has no other way to go but sideways and that should provide the punch I need to ease that 101-ton mother off its seat on the shaft and down, with gravity assistance, to the soft sand below.
Then it’s up to Adil to swing in with his crane and drop the 25 or 30 tons of sand on the prop laying on the beach. Because as soon as he’s the fuck out of the way, it’s time for round two.
If all goes as planned, then I’ll detonate the last couple of hundredweights of PETN and TATB I’ve planted in the power plants of the boat. My guys were having a bit of a time scrapping the huge engine, so I figured as long as I was here, well…
Then, the few hundred dollars’ worth of Chinese fireworks I smuggled in will be lit off.
When the “Oohs!” and “Aaahs” dies down, my job is done. Time to retire from the peace and quiet of the oil industry and back into the hurly-burly of academia.
At least, that’s the plan.
I’m fucking around with the blasting board and setting the frequency, and double and triple-checking it when I feel a tap on the shoulder.
“You fucking Narnie!” I say as I slowly stand and confront…
“Agent Rack! Agent Ruin! What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.
“Oh, we heard it was going to be quite the show. Since we were in the neighborhood, we decided to drop on by to see our favorite Doctor’s handiwork.” Agent Rack chuckled as he chucked me on the shoulder and helped himself to one of the cigars in my breast pocket.
“Oh, yeah. Who told you that”, I smiled.
Agent Rack and Agent Ruin turn 45⁰ and point at someone very, very familiar.
I look over the crowd. I’m stunned by what I see.
“Well, hey, that looks like Esme Rocknocker. But it can't be. She's not coming to the demolition.” I hoot.
“I heard there was gonna be a hell of a show.” Came the reply.
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“Oh. Some guy I know.” She laughingly replies.
“You can't live without me.” I smile as I wag my finger at her.
Sanjay smiles, gives me a thumbs up and escorts Es, and the agents, over to the VIP seats.
It’s 1045 hours, T-15 minutes. I’m a little fidgety. I spark a new cigar and take a long pull off Emergency Flask #2. Just what I need, some dangerous brown liquor. Remind me to smack Sanjay upside the head next time I’m free.
The crowd is coming in heavy now. I see, over in the VIP seats, Goodgulf Greyteeth, Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri, and Mr. Ranganekary. I give them all the high sign to let them know that things are, at this point, A-Okay.
Time marches on. I cannot galv another connection. It’s now or never. Sanjay’s over in eh cheap seats with the video camera, capturing this for posterity.
1100 rolls around. The klaxon blares and it is, for the lack of a better term, Show Time.
I take the podium with a microphone and my blasting board, and back-up radio detonators, covering the small table next to the lectern. I am wearing my freshly laundered and pressed blaze orange PPEs and do a little “Testing. 1.2.3. Testing” to ensure Sanjay has all the proper levels.
He does and now it’s all up to me.
No pressure.
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. We’re so glad you could be here on this momentous occasion of the near-final demolition, via explosives and trained Indian crew, of this Scandinavian cruise ship. But first, let me note that this ship has been taken down to near bare-bones by a freshly trained indigenous crew. They have done so without an LTI or single casualty. They will appear in a few minutes to run you through the safety procedures before we commence with the demolition of this, the last parts of the big boat.”
There are small applause and grumbles of assent.
I go over what I have planned and how it’s going to be a six-part show. I point out the muster area if things go haywire and we have to evacuate. I mentioned I’ve never had to do that before, but I need to point out its Safety First with this crowd.
With that, I introduce my Indian colleagues. They assemble in front of the stern of the craft, face the crowd and proceed to go through the Safety Dance, just like I taught them, first in English, then in Hindi.
At किसी बड़े विस्फोट की चेतावनी देना (Fire in the Hole!), it’s my show.
I hit the air horn, make the announcement of “Hit it!” and let loose the Primacord.
It snakes and swivels most showmanly. It blasts all the loose, and not so loose, crap off the face of the stern of the ship. Then, the blasted-of stainless steel railings drop to the sand.
Silence ensues.
“Round 2!” I holler through the mike and over the PA system, and the muffled blasts of lots and lots of Seismogel is heard rattling the rafters, making things loose for the next series of events.
Round 2 was a bit anticlimactic, so I shout “Round Three” and let loose the plastique composition I created here in the last few days. It was most satisfying to hear six separate, but audible, detonations and watch the propeller cap off tail shaft number one spin itself off the shaft and bury itself in the warm Indian ocean beach sand.
Round Three-B was just as satisfying, as that was even a bit more energetic. The cap spun so well it flew off the tail shaft and burrowed itself into the beach sand.
I checked to see if Adil, his crane, and sand bucket were ready. Once the forklifts moved the propeller caps out of the way, it was Pilgrim Nuts then the big show.
“Round Four-A. The Pilgrim Nuts!” I said and hit the actuator.
Nothing.
Whoops. Got my size 16 EEEs caught in the negative lead. A quick fix and I reiterate: “Round Four-A!”
KER-FUCKING-RIPPLE-BOOM! Six times.
The Pilgrim Nut from Tail Shaft #1 spun off and landed, spinning madly, on the beach.
“Round 4-B!” I shouted through the mike.
“KER-FUCKING-RIPPLE-BOOM!” Six more times.
Pilgrim Nuts no longer concern me as they are being hustled off the beach by the sand-capable forklifts.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, the Main Event. Watch closely as I drop 101 tons of angry propeller down off their tail shafts and onto the beach. Twice.”
Or so I fervently hoped.
“Round Five-A!” I screamed as I hit the radio remote marked “Round 5-A”.
Holy Fucking Hanna. Who says ANFO doesn’t detonate?
There’s this Earth-shattering kaboom followed milliseconds later by a Jupiter shattering kaboom. ANFO followed by pure, raw, liquid, 100% headache-inducing nitroglycerine.
The sounds were atrocious. The noise was horrendous. The smoke was incredible. The KERBLAM of 101.5 tons of finely machined copper-zinc-bronze-unobtanium hitting the sand and shaking the spectators was most enjoyable.
Adil swept in with his crane and expertly covered the first screw with about 30 or so tons of nice, fluffy, dry sand.
Then he turned and skedaddled.
“Great. Another case of giggle water gone.” I mused.
“Who’s up for Round Five-B?” I asked to no one in particular.
A little too loudly, just before I hit the radio-controlled detonator, there could be heard lowly over the PA system: “Eat sand you nasty motherfucker!”
Sanjay caught it loud and clear.
KER-FUCKING-BLAM! The ground shook as the second screw, a little more slowly, a little more deliberately, slid off its tail shaft and onto the soft beach sand below; nowhere near the first one.
Now it was time for some fun.
“Round Six” I said as I pressed the big, shiny red button that unleashed the binaries deep in the power plant of the erstwhile ship.
The earth shaked, the ground cracked, and out stepped Fmax.
Please as punch, fresh as a daisy, he walked tall while the world went crazy.
When he was done and spent with sin, he returned home, as Fmin.
Nothing left to do but the unscheduled Round 7.
Skyrockets splattered in the sky. Pyrotechnic volcanoes spewed forth their sparks, smoke, and bombs heavenward. Roman candles, embarrassed by the previous participants, did their best to color the blue of the day. Hundred upon thousands of firecrackers popped, sparked, and snapped. Then three blocks of C-4, wired together, signaled the noisy end of festivities.
That last one was my contribution.
Once everyone uncrouched, realized it was all over, was a success and everyone had survived, the spontaneous applause, hoots, and hollers we most gratifying. I brought Sanjay and my guys up on stage, had them introduce themselves, better for the CEO to know them, and take a well-deserved bow.
I tried slinking out but was waylaid by Sanjay, Esme, and Agents Rack and Ruin.
“Jesus Christ, Rock”, Agent Ruin exclaimed, “Here I always thought your blasting things to kingdom come was a metaphor. Holy fuck! Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
Agent Rack just stood and smiled. He was glad I was on their side but too proud to say so. I knew what he was thinking, though.
Sanjay told me he got great footage of the show and would compile it all together and send it to Dr. Inzhener Neftyanik straight away.
Esme walked over and gave me a hug.
“I am so glad you’re not doing this anymore. “ she said, “I die a little each time you went out on a job.“
I decided not to tell her about my talks with quarry operators in the state where we’ll eventually be relocating.
Gulfy, Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri, and Mr. Indian Agent Ranganekary all came over and relayed their approbations and good intentions.
Gulfy was smiling like the cat that got the canary. He obviously had a stake in those props and a buyer. That’s good. Good for him. It’ll ease the sting of my bill and the bill for the materials I used.
And borrowed.
There was a combination congratulatory and fond farewell banquet at the Raj that evening. Esme and I could leave at any time, as we had the Indian Government Gulfstream at our disposal. We only had to give 12 hours’ notice for the setting of flight plans and fueling of the bird. Esme and I decided to make a real night of our last night in India, for at least a while.
Sanjay somehow managed a convertible Cadillac for us to take a midnight tour of the place now that the work here was done. Remind me to say something nice about Sanjay sometime in the future.
The next morning, even though Agents Rack and Ruin stayed the night, they were gone by the time Es and I arose for breakfast. It was only 0600 local time, so they must have boogied in the wee hours.
No matter, they’ll show up again, like a bad check or a crooked penny.
Majordomo Kannada and his crew packed for us, after assuring that all our clothes had been washed, dried, pressed and folded, even my grotty PPEs.
Sanjay had sent all the raw footage to my university. It was my sincere hope and desire they found at least some of the material useful.
Esme remained curiously silent about the whole situation.
Later that afternoon, at 54,000’ AMSL, I’m relaxing with a fine cigar and fresh drink. Esme is reading another of her romance novels while working on a glass of white wine.
Mr. Indian Agent Ranganekary decided to tag along to ensure that the Gulfstream was indeed returned to India.
“You Indians are all the same. You have no faith in the essential decency of the white man's culture.” I snickered to Mr. Ranganekary.
“You got that right, Bwana”, He chuckled in return.
We land and are met at the airport by the hotel limousine. Got to hand it to him. Mr. Ranganekary thought of everything.
We part and shake hands, promising to stay in touch, if the accident will.
Mr. Ranganekary just smiled. He knows the accident will one day.
Back at the hotel, I’m relaxing in the Jacuzzi and Esme is looking over the room service menu. Borders are still closed, as are the airports back home. We’re still stuck until this COVID craziness burns itself out.
The phone rings, and Esme answers. There’s a lot of “Yes.” “Really?” and “OK, I’ll tell him” in that conversation.
I think about getting out of the tub, but why when I was just beginning to enjoy it so? Besides if it was anything important, or time-critical, Esme would tell me.
Later, in bed, just as I was about to switch off the lights, I ask Es who was on the phone earlier.
“Oh, that? It was Dr. Inzhener Neftyanik from school. Nothing very important.” She hurries.
“Look, lady,” I say, returning with a scowl, “I’ve known you far too long. Spill it.”
“Well, Rock, darling”, she said. I was braced for the worst.
“He was just saying he received the video footage from India.” She said.
“And?” I demanded.
“Well, he was surprised as it was the first time he’s ever seen you. “ she smiled.
Not having a haircut or beard trim for over 18 months, I can imagine.
“Was that all? What did he say about the footage?” I asked.
“Oh, he got it,” Es remarks, smiling.
“And?” I demanded once again.
“He was very thankful, but he said that there was nothing there they could use. Would scare the shit out of the kids, he said.”
I thought that was a bit high handed.
“Furthermore, he’s not sure some of that footage would be legal to show. “ she continued.
“Well, he might have something there." I mused.
“He also says that he never wants to ever get on your bad side.” She chuckled.
Look. Just because I’m huge and can wire a bomb like Robert Oppenheimer, doesn’t mean that I’m short-tempered. Does it?
Well, does it?!?
“He did say thanks than now they’ll really have something to show at the annual departmental Christmas parties”, Es shrugged and smiled. "He can't wait to meet you in person."
So, at least I have that going for me. Which is nice…

That reminds me of a story.
♫ “And the D-I-Y rocket’s red glare… The homebrew bombs exploding in air…
Our vodka 150^o proof through the night…That we somehow still had our hair…”♫
The Fourth of July!
Or, as we veteran pyrotechnicians call it: “Amateur Night”.
However, before we display our prowess afore these once-a-year pyro-tyros, we need to turn back the clock a few months, because, to quote a sage philosopher of the day: “What a long strange trip it’s been.”
Moreover, we need a little time to plan our annual gross physical salute to our wonderful nation, in this pre-Bicentennial year.
The principal development was that the gang of four was reduced, albeit temporarily, to the gang of three.
We’re still not certain who fired this particular arrow of time, so the establishment of causation in such non-experimental designs is difficult. However, we can describe the outcome.
Ron’s parents, after a long, though suspiciously unknown to the neighborhood, estrangement, had divorced. Evidently, the pressure of Ron’s father’s profession as a traveling musician proved too much strain for the marriage to bear.
Mrs. Ron’s Mother was returning to Oklahoma to be with her aged parents until she could determine which direction she wanted her life to take. Since she barely possessed a high school education, no work experience outside of the home, and relied exclusively on Ron’s father for virtually everything in life, there were few illusions as to how this would turn out. Church groups would weigh heavily in her future.
Ron’s father would continue touring with his several bands. He was quite the polyphonic musician, writer, and manager; so was never at a loss for work. Which was a good thing as Ron would be accompanying him on the road; since Ron decided that high school was no longer a necessity and he’d learn his life lessons via The Freeway of Life.
Ron was leaving our little slice o’ heaven here in Baja Canada, forever as it turned out, for a life on the road. We never really knew or, be fair, cared that Ron was somewhat of an accomplished bass guitar player; though he couldn’t sing worth shit. This helped tip the pile of results towards Ron’s father when the whole issue of child custody raised its ugly head.
For whatever we have done, and whatever we can still get away with; in the eyes of the law, we’re all still minors.
Really busy, inquisitive, downright dangerous, and determined minors, but minors nonetheless. At least, for a short while longer.
I am certain the fact that Rhonda found herself pregnant had no impact on the decisions made by Ron’s parents.
After three months of blissful togetherness, and Ron’s retreat from reality due to his insane jealousy, Ron and Rhonda had become officially “an item”. Casting a single shadow, one never saw one without the other, throw one rock and hit two; that sort of thing.
Rhonda decided that pursing courses at university for her journalism career, being at Ron’s constant beck and call while being his ‘significant other’, and being an Assistant Manager at Quakey’s Olde Tyme Pizza Parlor and Saloon was simply too tough of a row for her to hoe.
Something had to go.
And that something was higher education.
Pity.
Except for Ron’s completely unsolicited and violently insane displays of unrequited jealousy, the situation between Ron and Rhonda seems just this side of idyllic. That is if idealism came with a side of suspicion, distrust, and cynicism.
Rhonda would gently bring up to Ron that she wanted to visit with her pre-Ron girlfriends, had to attend a mandatory meeting with coworkers at the pizza joint, or just wanted to attend a study meeting at university; Ron would board his personal crazy train.
A usual Ron/Rhonda exchange would evolve like something along these lines (Ron first):
“You’re going out to go cheat on me!”
“No, I’m not. I’m meeting with some friends from Journalism class…”
“Oh, so you’re going to meet with more than one guy? Want to look like a whore?”
“No. I’m just going to the Gasthaus so we can go over our notes before the midterm.”
“Oh, so you’re going to go out and get drunk! Cruising for sailors?”
“No, the Gasthaus has those big tables so we can all meet around them together.”
“Oh, so you like it in the dark so no one can see what you’re doing…”
And so on, and so on…
We were surprised Rhonda let Ron get within 30 feet of here.
Evidently, she did; and he did. Several times, evidently.
And now Rhonda was pregnant.
So Ron did the ignoble thing: he did a runner. The callous prick.
Rhonda cut all ties with everyone, though somewhat confided in me during our final tutoring session. There was very little chemistry teaching that day as Rhonda offloaded her trainload of travails in my direction.
What could I do? I wasn’t a counselor, psychologist or psychiatrist; hell, I was still technically a minor, fer Chrissake. This is a fuckload of freight to dump on some guy who’s not even getting any sort of special benefits; not like I was looking for any at present. But, I could listen and provide a literal and metaphorical shoulder on which for her to cry.
Yeah, I was a bit uncomfortable as Rhonda ran down the sordid history of her and Ron’s relationship; especially the sections on oral and other varieties of sex.
Never, in a fucking million years, would we have figured Ron to be the jealous, conniving, indignant, evil son-of-a-bitch he was. It’s actually a good thing he headed off down the road; there is no way any of us would trust this asshole with as much as a Lady Finger firecracker much less real explosives.
Rhonda hadn’t made the decision of whether she was going to keep the baby or exercise her Roe v. Wade prerogative. I really had no horse to back in this race so all I did was console her as best I could and let her use me as an impartial sounding board. It seemed to help. She was going off to Wyoming to be with her Grandparents until the situation “sorted itself out”.
We parted as good friends that day, promising to stay in touch.
We never saw nor heard from the other ever again.
We all wish her well with whatever decision she made; we hope she’s happy.
Odd, never heard again from Ron either; probably because he absconded with all our company petty cash, but that seemed an appropriate action for him at the point. We did see some small mention of him in his father’s obituary some years later. We all wished him hell.
Moving on.
The gang of three decided that we had been whistling past the graveyard in the automotive department for too long. We bit the metaphorical bullet and took Driver’s Education in High School. Considering by then we could perform perfect Bootlegger J-turns at speed and could parallel park blindfolded; we reluctantly shut up, read our outdated Highway Safety books, and tried not to laugh too loudly at the grislier parts of such Driver’s Ed classics as “Red Runs the Asphalt”.
We all got our licenses. We were, in the eyes of the law, mostly legal.
Insurance? Well, that was another matter. For later.
Inexplicably, even though Rick’s idiot brother Rance couldn’t drive since he was unable for some reason to hold down a job, his car was needing more and more automotive attention. Reason? We were beating it to death. We did most the wrenching on it over at Ike’s garage, with the help of Earl, Ike’s recently Army honorably-discharged from SE Asian activities, older brother.
I think the more astute of you out there see where this is headed…
Ike noted that since we’re doing more demolition work, now its summer, we need to return Rance’s car to him and find our own transportation.
[Snapping alternator bolt] “GOD DAMN IT! I hate this piece of shit! Rick! Rock! When are we going to find a new car? I hate this piece of shit! I hate Rance! And I really hate fixing Rance’s piece of shit for him!” Ike lamented.
“We're combing the ads. The only ones we found that might work are either too clapped-out or too damned expensive.” Rick noted.
“I have to agree, though. We’ve pretty much knackered Rance’s car. I say we quit fucking with it, give it back, and spend our time finding something more suitable.” I said.
“HEY LOSERS! What it be?” asks Earl as he invades the garage.
“Oh, hey Earl. We’re going to junk this piece of shit and find something we can all use. Got any ideas?” I said.
“Me? Fuck no. Hey, I just got back to the world. Tell me again what the fuck you losers are planning on…”
“We are the ‘Gang of Three R&D (Renovation & Demolition) Co., Inc.’ ‘No job to big, no fee too big’. ‘Around the world, around the clock’. ‘We blow your headaches away’.”
“OK, so we’re still working on a catchy slogan...” Ike clarified.
“So you fucktards go out and blow shit up for money? And that’s legal?” Earl wondered.
“Not only is it probably not legal, but it is profitable; it gets you out in the open air, and it’s a fucking load of grins as well. Hey. Wait. ‘We blow shit up for SCIENCE!’ How’s that?” I brightened.
“Keep working on it…” Earl chuckles as he helps himself to a beer and one of my cigars.
Oddly enough, the idea for our truck came from Mr. Armstrong.
We were all down at the hobby shop, probably purchasing more cannon fuse when we related our tale of woe.
“We need a good truck or panel van, but they’re either shit or too expensive. There’s nothing in the ads and the older ones we find are so rusted, they’ll give you tetanus.” Rick related.
Mr. Armstrong says: “Why don’t you try out Anchor Ace’s Auto Auction out on the Interstate? They take in everything from classic cars to total wrecks. The put them up on the block and people bid on them. Highest bid, bingo; and Bob’s your uncle. They take in stuff from distress sales, police confiscations, and all sorts of good stuff. That’s how I got my truck. At a damn good price, as well.”
Two weeks later and we’re paddle number 298. We paid $25 for the paddle, that is, the right to bid, but we’d get that back if we won any auction. There was a number of really cool vans, trucks and other vehicles that would all fit our pistol. And we had a whole $300 left in company funds to spend. We’re not walking the fuck out of here…
It was an Open Auction, no reserve; meaning bidding started at US$0.01 and if that was the highest bid, you’re the winner. Basically, that was the only way we could have hoped to even come close to some of the vehicles we were lusting over.
After seven different bids for vehicles we wanted were stolen out from under us, there came on the dock a strange vehicle, an odd vehicle, a vehicle no one in the in their right minds would have wanted.
We lusted after it.
It was a panel van built on a truck frame. It had been previously employed in the business of foodservice and even though it was old, it had relatively few miles on the clock. Best of all, it was getting late in the auction and the day so many potential competitors had already secured their vehicles and left.
Bidding started and we just stood there, stock-still, silent, waiting out our opposition.
If three minutes elapsed with no bid, that auction would be closed and deferred to another day.
At 2 minutes 50 seconds, Rick lost his nerve and paddled up $50.
Tic, toc, tic. We waited for any other bids. So far, so good.
“$100.” some troublemaker bid.
Fuck, we had competition.
“$150.” We countered.
“$200.” Came the reply.
“$250.” We responded.
“$300.” Came the next bid.
We were fuckered. That was the extent of our cash. Damn. Have to wait another two weeks for the next auction…Fuckbuckets.
“$400!” came in an offer from a new bidder.
“What the fuck?” we wondered.
“$400? Once…twice…three times…SOLD! To number 298.”
WHAT THE FUCK! We’re number 298!
Earl comes wandering over, all smiles, and says “OK, boys, pony up your $300. I just invested a hunnered [sic] bucks in your company. Guess I’m your new partner.”
Here a picture of a truck similar to the one Earl bought us that day:.
Yeah, it’s going to need some work.
We pay up and wait until dark to drive the truck back to Ike’s. We weren’t embarrassed, much, we were just being prudent. We didn’t have any insurance and the signature was still wet on the title. Earl’s title, as it turned out. He wasn’t a minor…details, details…
We all stood around looking at the newest member of our troupe, and just shook our collective heads, wondering what our next step would be.
Earl broke that dam with: “Guys. Since I’m now a partner, I suggest I go ahead and strip the paint off this goofy truck and gut the interior. I know a couple of guys here in town that are pretty good mechanics and one even owns his own van conversion shop. You still have obligations school-wise and I’m not keen on finding a job just yet. It’ll give me something to do. Whaddya say?”
As if we had a choice.
“Yeah, but our cool company name “Gang of Three R&D” won’t work any longer. Unless you plan on being a silent partner.” Ike hoped.
Earl stopped to ponder. “Well, that’s not going to happen. We need a new company name. “Gang of Four” sounds good. But “Gang of Four” what?”
“’Gang of Four Sleazy Whores’ since we’re in it just for the money?” Rick jokingly suggested.
“Yeah, that’ll look good on the truck and in the Yellow Pages. Folks will be knocking down our doors with job offers...” I said.
“Gang of Four: Trees No More”? Rick suggested but was vetoed as we’re not strictly arborists.
More failed suggestions:
“Gang of Four: Cause We’re Poor”.
“Gang of Four: Hear Us Roar.”
“Gang of Four: Demolishing More.”
“Gang of Four from Surface to Core.” Odd foreshadowing, at least for some.
We finally settled on: “Gang of Four: World Tour”, even though the rhyme was really forced.
We decided to go with a sort of musical motif and capitalize on AM radio for advertising.
Earl thought it was great since it was his idea. He told us to get lost for a couple of weeks as he and his cronies could attack the truck to transform it into something a little less cartoony.
If only… If only…
Time progressed and we were called to assemble back at Ike’s garage. The only note we had from Earl over the previous fortnight was regarding some locking cabinets we had asked him and his guys to leave in the truck, as we’d have to do some redesign after the fact for strongboxes and explosives storage/transport. Oh, there was one little request for him to spend a last few extra company dollars on the exterior artwork. Seems multi-colored 70’s-era van exteriors must, by law, contain 300 or more colors.
Earl was fairly happy. ‘Happy’ meaning he had free beer for the last two weeks, an unlimited weed supply, and was groovin’ on the fumes from his buddies airbrushes. He was absolutely light-headed to spring his “surprise” on us for the company.
Rick, Ike and I grew more uneasy by the minute.
“Man, you guys are gonna fuckin’ dig this so much. I’ll bet the [local news rag] will send photographers to cover the scene, it’s gonna be so epic. Everyone will know ‘Gang of Four’!” Earl gushed.
Any time, Earl. Let’s have the unveiling.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Here, just a minute.” Earl went and did something absolutely unnecessary, for no particular reason.
“Earl? The truck?” We asked.
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Give me a minute to get the keys.” Earl remonstrated.
“Um, Earl. They’re in your hand.” Rick noted.
“Oh, yeah. How about that?” Earl examined them like they were new versions of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
“Ike seems Earl’s had a bit too much happiness today. Can you open the garage and back the truck out before we all go a bit spare?” I ask.
“Earl. Keys. Now.” Ike declares.
Grinning goofily, Earl hands over the keys to Ike and goes to swing open the garage doors.
The truck was covered from the rear to front with a sheet of tarpaulin.
“Gotta keep the surprise until the unveiling”, Earl grins slightly unsteadily.
Ike carefully backs the truck out of the garage and about halfway down the driveway until he stops, choreographed by Earl’s frantic waving.
“There! There! Stop! Oh, perfect. This is gonna be great!” Earl was absolutely giddy with excitement. “Wait. Wait. Wait. Let me pull the tarp. I get to do the unveiling!”
“OK, Earl. Take it easy. Sheesh. OK. Go nuts.”
Earl gathers up the end of the tarp, yanks with a mighty SWOOSH and hollers: “TA DA!”
Umm.
Yeah.
Well.
It was unique.
It was, well; colorful. It was, err; interesting. It was, ah; Picasso’s waking nightmare.
It was, in reality, a very 1970’s-ish muralized, Yes-meets-Pink Floyd-meets-Emerson, Lake and Palmer-meets-Jethro Tull-meets-King Crimson-meets-Led-Zeppelin concatenation of album covers, in a whore’s dream of a color palette. It showed off our company name and logo; we didn’t even know we had a logo, and lurid, pseudo-3D air-brushed depictions of virtually every type of combustion known to man. From early Cro-Magnon man rubbing his two sticks together to the Eniwetok Atoll nuclear test, it was…busy.
“Fuckin’-A, man! Ain’t that SO fuckin’ COOL?” Earl gushed.
It was so cool, in fact, we had drawn many of the neighbors outside to see what was scaring their children.
The interior was much better, although it was done in a sort of muted brown-meets-beige-meets-mauve; which is a neat trick for any artist to manage.
It also included faux-leather captain’s chairs for the driver and co-pilot. It boasted fully-gauged instrumentation, a work table, work area, locking steel-reinforced storage cabinets, a medical center (first aid kit and fire extinguisher), tool racks, restroom facilities (i.e., a place to piss), sink, dual battery setup, running water, 110 VAC outlets, and a small refrigerator. The crowning touch was the addition of a polished cherry wood humidor, mounted directly amidships between the drive and co-pilot.
It was a work of art. Violent? Depends on what you were drinking the night before.
Earl and his friends didn’t neglect the mechanics of the machine either. They tweaked that big block straight-6 cylinder engine with all sorts of junkyard liberated goodies. New carbs, new camshaft, new valves, and new transmission.
Earl was proud that he “Dumped that slush-box (automatic 3-speed transmission) for a new high-performance slap-stick 4-speed.” He also fine-tuned the suspension with new air-shocks, ladder bars, traction control arms, mag wheels, and new tires all around.
“Earl, this is great, although I don’t think we really wanted to test it out at Union Grove”; the local dragstrip, Ike noted. “How did you pay for all of this? Shit, the labor alone must have cost us a fortune.”
“Oh, not to worry, brother-mine. We nabbed most everything from midnight-boneyard trips. My buddies were glad to get off their asses and actually have something to do. Frank (the van conversion guy) had loads of leftover parts from when folks came in and upgraded their rides, so we got a lot of shit for free. See the perimeter lights?”
He flicked a switch and the interior lit-up like a disco.
“Earl. Really?”
“Yeah. Came from this one dude’s van. He wanted track lighting and we couldn’t let this go to waste.”
“So, how much do we owe?” Rick asked.
“Oh, not much. Just some free rides and a couple of guys want to come with next time you blow something up…” Earl explained.
“So, we’re clear on this monstrosity?” I asked.
“Yep. Consider it a gift from your new partner.” Earl crookedly grinned.
The next weekend found us all, that is Rick, Ike, Earl, myself and two or three of Earl’s army buddies, out in some not-so-local cow pasture. We had been hired, though almost fired immediately when we rolled up on location: “What the hell is THAT!?!” I believe was the direct quote from Farmer Brown, our current employer.
Once we explained ourselves, Farmer Brown settled down and the job particulars were laid out. We were to remove some pesky glacial erratic boulders from the farmer’s south-40 pasture.
It was an easy job, for which I was glad. I told Earl and company that: “Here, I’m the boss; just ask Rick and Ike. You do what I say when I say it, or you are gone. It has to be this way.”
“Do we have an understanding? “ I asked Earl and his buddies.
“Hey, Rock. No problem. We’re all ex-military; we know the score. We can probably show you a thing or two…” Earl replied.
“Good. Being ex-military, you absolutely know the value of chain-of-command. We green here?” I ask.
“Green as grass” they reply in unison.
I made a show of mapping out our quarry [ahem], drawing circuit diagrams and calculating just how much explosive, and the type, to remove the offending boulders.
“Hey, Rock. Why not just plant a half-dozen sticks of dynamite on the perimeter and blast the fuck out of the bastards?” Earl asks.
“Because we just want to evict them from their earthen homes, not shatter them into a million pieces. They’ll be easier to load up and transport out of here if they are in more or less one piece. Besides, that’s what Farmer Brown ordered.” I reply.
“Oh, I see. Gotcha.” Earl notes.
“OK, Rick and Ike, this is a job for C-4 and Primacord. We are going to have to dig down around the peripheries of the boulders to get charges under them to give them a boost. Farmer Brown has a backhoe we can use, who’s up for that while I do the paperwork and prime the charges?” I ask.
Earl jumps down from our truck and volunteers. “I ran all sorts of heavy equipment in the Army, I can do that no problem.”
Well, he is technically a member of the team. Sure, why not?
“OK, sounds good. Ike will go with you to show you where the backhoe is kept.”
“Back in a few!” Earl cheerfully gives a thumbs-up to his buddies as he and Ike take our truck over to the barn to retrieve the backhoe.
I work at our portable worktable as Earl’s buddies ooh and aww over our collected pyrotechnics. Of course, numerous blowing-shit-up Army stories came filtering out.
Earl and Ike show up with our truck and the backhoe. Rick gets spotter duty to tell Earl exactly what we need done.
I have to admit, I was impressed. Earl handled that old Case tractor like a pro. We had all 5 boulders trenched, exposed, and ready for charging in less than an hour.
Ike backed the truck up to a safe distance and told everyone not directly involved with shot setting to back off, keep their hands in their pockets, and just watch.
Surprisingly enough, they all did.
This would take three separate shots. One for the big block of rhyolite, one for the big granite erratic, and one for the three smaller remainders.
Good. That would give most everyone here a chance to play with Captain America.
I decided to prime and set all three charges together. They were far enough apart that they wouldn’t interfere with each other and other than the cost of a few hundred feet of demolition wire, would save time and money.
After all was set and ready, I took some small red flags out of the truck and planted them in the pasture.
“Under no circumstances, does ANYONE go past those flags except me, Rick and Ike. Ground is HOT! If there’s a misfire or hang fire, stay put. Do we have an understanding?”
I was greeted with a solid chorus of “Sir! Yes, sir!”
Shit. That’s more like it.
I told everyone gathered the procedure: Clear, clear, clear. Fire in the hole. Blast on the air horn. Wait for the high-sign from the blaster. Push the big, shiny red button. Duck and cover...
“Earl, would you like the honors of the first shot from our new blasting truck?” I asked.
And ear-to-ear grin signaled that yes, he would like that. Very much.
Checking! CLEAR?
CLEAR!
CLEAR?
CLEAR!
“OK, Mr. Earl, please give the call, three times, as loud as you can.”
“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” x3.
BLAAAT!
I did one last quick visual check; all clear. I point to Mr. Earl and yell: “HIT IT!”
Earl mashes down on Captain America’s big shiny red button.
“PWOOMPH!” Ground shakes, there’s a little tremor. A puff of surface dust.
We look over to see a 5-ton boulder sitting on top of the pasture like it actually belonged there.
“Excellent. Next?”
We ran through the next two extractions clean as you please. We had 5 boulders just sitting there, basking calmly in the warm northern noonday sun.
“Ike, would you and Earl take the backhoe back and bring Farmer Brown out here, please?” I ask.
“Sure. Back in a few.”
Farmer Brown shakily disembarks from our truck. “I didn’t know what to expect when I first saw that truck, but golly-damn, boys, you did a fine job.”
“Thank you, Sir. Want to take a look?”
So we examined our handiwork, and Farmer Brown demurred a bit.
“Well, sons, these three are OK, but these other two are bigger than I thought. Gonna be hard to load. Can you knock them into a few pieces so I can get them loaded with the backhoe?”
“Sure, not a problem, barely an inconvenience. That will, however, cost a bit extra.” I reply.
“Yeah, I know. No problem. Go ahead and we’ll settle up back at the farmhouse.”
“We’ll be done within the hour.” I replied.
I had lots of help from Earl and his buddies when I went over to inspect the two large boulders to size them up for reduction. The boulders both had nice fracture systems, so setting a little molded C-4 would make this job go easily.
“OK, now it’s nut cuttin’ time. We’re going to be shattering some rocks here, so Ike, turn the truck around ass-first if you would. That way, even if some shrapnel gets loose, we won’t need a new windshield. Gents, everyone not doing something directly on the shot is to be inside the truck when we fire. No arguments, safety first. Right?”
“Right, Rock” came the replies.
“Rick, get a couple of blasting mats, the heavy hemp ones, that’ll keep stragglers home.”
“Got it.”
I decided to do both at once, and since it was a pretty good collection of C-4, blasting caps, boosters, and Primacord, I dragged out ol’ reliable, our plunger detonator.
“No fuckin’ way. You’ve got one of them? Far out, movie time. Can I try it?” one of Earl’s buddies asked.
“Well, I’ll run the demo wires to the inside of the truck, and tie it in. I guess there’ll be no problem. Why not?”
He grinned like a Cheshire cat.
The shots went off as planned. The blasting mats contained any flying bits of igneous rock and the two big boulders were now a collection of several smaller pieces of big boulder.
“That’s it. Wait! Hold it!” I yelled.
Earl and his buddies wanted to trek out and check our handiwork. I told them of the danger of smoldering stragglers and how we wait at least 30 minutes for the all-clear.
“But in the meantime, I’ll do the paperwork and you can pour me a drink and fetch cigars for all so inclined. “ I added.
Paperwork done, we checked our work and found it more than satisfactory. We didn’t bury the smallest chunk of rock and had cleaved the big boulders down to more manageable sizes.
We packed up and were getting ready to go when I mentioned it would be a few more minutes. Final inventory had to be done and everything had to tally.
“Jesus Christ. You guys are pros. In the Army we never did any of this shit; just blew things up and went forward. I’m impressed.” Earl noted.
“Well, here we don’t have people shooting at us.” Ike replied.
“True that.” Earl and his buddies agreed.
Over the next month or so, we had jobs every weekend. Boulder removal here, tree knocking-over there. It went fairly smoothly and Earl was a creditable asset. At least we didn’t have to worry about him getting jealous over who was driving the truck or any such shit.
“Hey, Rock. Next weekend it the Fourth of July. Let’s put on a show to display our new truck. Maybe even get a little free advertising.” Rick said.
“We can do that.” I agreed.
We spent the next week at Armstrong’s Hobbies spending a good portion of our non-incorporated, non-licensed company’s money buying up cannon fuse, rocket kits, and loads and loads of various chemicals. I had just figured out how to synthesize PETN. It was a similar, though different, method to making nitroglycerine; but this time avoided any loss of outdoor park furniture.
We built kit rockets for their one-way trips. We had iron oxide, copper, phosphorus, sulfur, powdered aluminum, as well as a rather large selection of other compounds that make pretty colors when they detonate.
I built some M-80 and M-100 equivalents out of cardboard tubes, PETN and cannon fuse.
We had Earl and Ike bike down to a state adjacent to ours with more liberal fireworks laws to purchase a load of bottle rockets, firecrackers, and other assorted commercial fireworks.
These, of course, were the raw materials for our own designs.
I worked up a spectacular secret finale. Just for Earl, it was a surprise.
The Fourth rolled around and we just laze around the shop, drinking beer, smoking cigars, and waiting for dusk. Earl had a number of his buddies show up just for the show. Several dollars changed hands during the poker games that spontaneously erupted.
Just before dusk, we rolled the truck (which still didn’t have a name) over to the high school yard. It was a huge, open grass field with a running track to the north, a small stadium due east and a large patch of open nothing where we were going to fire off our show.
As I noted earlier, the local cops turn a slightly blind eye to fireworks on the Fourth, so we took the opportunity to make it a show. We had music blaring from the truck, fire extinguishers set up to deal with any sort of incendiary problem, brooms and garbage bags to clean up any mess we might make.
We just exuded professionalism.
We fired off the first salvo of rockets and were rewarded with ohhs and ahhhs from the folks who lived in close proximity to the high school.
Several thousand 1” firecrackers gaffer taped under pressure together make a nice display when they detonate all at once. Sounds like some small South American countries.
M-80s and M-100’s make one hell of reverberating racket. We decided to keep those to a minimum. PETN is fucking loud.
Firing 1,000 bottle rockets in succession like a Russian Katyusha rocket-launcher provided for one hell of a display, especially since we were using an old chain-link fence gate as the launch pad.
We had loads of spinners, floaters, screamers, laughers; a whole galaxy of various colored-flame spitting and exploding ground effects devices.
The best was our payload rockets. These were launched from the inside of an 8” diameter piece of PVC pipe. It was like a steroidal mortar. Light the fuse, drop the single-stage rocket down the 10” tube, and rapidly set it to 80^o in the custom jig Earl ginned up. The rocket would roar out of the pipe like it was the little cousin of the Saturn 5.
Then it would explode at altitude.
The neighbors loved them.
Our stocks were depleting and Earl’s buddy was snoring in the co-pilot’s seat. I figured that since I planned the finale for midnight, now might be a good time to button everything up; just leaving me to set up the finale.
One of Earl’s non-drinking buddies was elected to drive the truck the mile or so back to Ike’s and lock it down for the night. They would walk back, with wheeled cooler in tow, to await the witching hour.
They took off with the truck and I got to work. I made a wee nest out of the sandbox-sand I had acquired earlier. Just a simple raised circle of sand about 350 meters from where we’d be watching. I ran demo wire back to where our lawn chairs sat and wrapped the ends around the leg of one chair.
Then, I pulled out my bag of special goodies: one-half kilo of homebrew C-4 plastic explosive with the added magic ingredient pentaerythritol tetranitrate.
Five gallon-sized Ziploc-style bags each containing a gallon of 90 octane gasoline, two blasting caps, two blasting cap boosters, and a length of Primacord. I wired all this together and set the bags of gas on top of the C-4 charge. Galved everything, found it good to go and retired to lawn chair central to keep an eye on everything until everyone returned.
I had the Captain America blasting machine set and ready to go. T-15 minutes and it’d be midnight.
The local cops have been cruising by about every 15-30 minutes. They would occasionally stop and watch; even giving us a toot on their PA for one particularly spectacular rocket salvo, so I knew they weren’t going to be a problem. Or so I thought. Shift change came at midnight.
Ike, Rick, Earl and a few of his Army pals showed up just in time. I was out of beer and they brought the trail-along cooler. It was T-7 minutes now.
“So, what’s the plan?” asks Earl, popping a cold one. “What’s your grand finale?”
“Oh, yeah. The likes of which few have seen. And fewer have survived to speak about.” I replied.
Realizing now that I was talking to a bunch of very recent ex-Army characters, I probably should have re-designed the finale…
T-5 minutes and counting.
“OK, let’s have a look.” Rick produces a powerful flashlight and scans ground zero.
“Clear.”
“OK, T-3 minutes. We’ll take another look at T-1, OK?” I note.
“Gentlemen, the sign is given. The refrain, please?”
“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” was sung in 7-part harmony, three times, at volume and with gusto.
The grounds were scanned and re-scanned.
“Clear?”
“Clear!”
I hand Earl Captain America, smile crookedly and say “It’s good to go. HIT IT!”
Earl mashes down on the big shiny red button.
As we’re picking ourselves up off the ground, we hear sirens headed in our general direction.
The grand finale went off great; if great is defined as “deafening fuel-air-gas explosion”.
The C-4 detonated a wee bit slower than I had calculated. It blasted the gasoline straight up and straight out, instead of combusting it more or less in place. I was looking for a huge cinematic-style fireball, not a bunker-buster.
The gasoline vaporized, as best I can figure, and spread out vertically and laterally in a huge cloud of noxious 90-octane.
When it reached 9-14% in air by volume, something, probably a hot piece of wire or smoldering blade of grass, set it off.
The shock wave was incredible. It flattened all of us, right on our asses. It scorched a nice, big patch of ground out on the high school sports area. It broke a few windows, but luckily most houses in the area were shielded by topography which worked in our favor as it focused the blast wave up and over most local domiciles.
The cops were the first to show up. They were less than amused.
The fire department, called by several homeowners in the area, also arrived.
We had a little explaining to do.
No, I had a little explaining to do.
These were not the cops we had dealt with previously, these were the new shift and were not pleased with us being their first call.
The fire department guys surveyed the area and hosed it down just for good measure, even though there were no open fires, just some small areas of smoky, barren ground.
They were impressed. “Hmmm…call in an airstrike? Not bad for the Fourth of July.”
The cops were not impressed.
I was arrested, cuffed and tossed unceremoniously into the back of the squad car and transported downtown.
“Why me? I wasn’t the only one there!” I protested.
“Yeah, but you were the only one with the Captain America detonator in your pocket.”
Damn you, Earl, you sneaky bastard.
The next day I was facing the judge of the local circuit court.
“Ah, Mr. Rock, it’s you again. Didn’t we see you about six months ago in this very room?” as he goes over the evidence and police reports.
“Yes, sir.”
“So, you haven’t learned your lesson, have you?” the judge rhetorically asked.
“Oh, yes sir, I have. After some research, I’ve been able to synthesize all sorts of new…” I trailed off not realizing that the judge was speaking rhetorically.
“You leave me no choice, Mr. Rock. I hereby sentence you to 180 days…”
Oh, fuck.
“At the DeSoto Technical College. You seem to have an aptitude for science and things of that nature. Maybe some structured discipline will help contain your…’enthusiasm’.” declared the judge.
“Sir, but I’m still in high school…”
“Not any longer. You’re going to be attending DeSoto in lieu of high school; and if you complete the course of study there, it will be counted as your high school diploma. You fail, drop out, or otherwise skive off, it’s the county lock up. Got that?”
“Yes, sir. I will not fail.”
“It is so ordered.”

[Very long, but I know you have nothing better to do] [EDIT: Tried to fix formatting. And for those who live in terrible places - take a joke!]
When NBA players reach the rare points of their careers when they actually have the unfettered discretion to choose where they want to live and play basketball, they choose different places for different reasons. Where would he have the best opportunity to contend for a championship? Who can pay him the most money? Where can he be the number one option and play the way he wants to play? Who has the best coach and front office? Which city has the best weather? Which city has the best clubs? The best strip clubs? Proximity to models? Proximity to Kardashians? Where did he grow up?
Recently, every slight compliment that Kevin Durant bestows on a team or a town leads to wild speculation of where he will play next season. As the biggest free agent since Lebron took his talents to South Beach in 2010 and since he took his somewhat fading talents back to Lake Erie in 2014, there is good reason to speculate about KD’s future. In all likelihood, his carefully crafted decision will lead to five years of playing for the Larry O’Brien trophy no matter which jersey he dons.
The complexities of the Collective Bargaining Agreement, the increasing intelligence of most front offices in the league (sorry Sacramento), and the ability to be marketable from anywhere in a globalized economy have changed the way that players make decisions. It is no longer about forcing yourself to the biggest market, which historically, have been the places where a player was most likely to win. A monstrous television deal that will only increase in the next couple of years has leveled the playing field. As has a CBA where a team actually has to plan and make smart decisions to manage their salary cap situation.
But let’s pretend that it’s just about the city and the history of the franchise (but not the active basketball operations, coach and players. So – for example – we can say Michael Jordan played there! But, we cannot factor in Fred Hoiberg, the general current management of the team or the fact that you can play with Jimmy Butler). All else being equal – which NBA locations/teams are the most attractive to NBA players? Remember, we are looking at this from the perspective of young millionaires.
BIG CITY, BRIGHT LIGHTS:

Los Angeles Lakers

It used to be like the rap wars of the mid-1990s. East Coast or West Coast? Biggie or Pac? New York or L.A.? Los Angeles had Hollywood opportunities (What if I told you that you get play a 7 foot genie, star alongside Francis Capra and Da Brat and be directed by the genius behind The Cutting Edge and three episodes of Miami Vice?) Jack Nicholson watching courtside, young actresses (and aspiring ones) flooding the Forum Club and then Hyde at the Staples Center. You could have a mansion in Beverly Hills or on the Strand in Manhattan Beach. A player could enjoy the finest well-done steaks at Mastro’s.
Or you could live in a Park Avenue penthouse. Give high-fives to Jay-Z. Get your boy a guest spot on Law & Order SVU. 4:00 a.m. nights with models in Tribeca and SOHO. And most importantly, being in the center of the media universe could make you as marketable as…Patrick Ewing?
But times have changed. In the age of Twitter and Vine, League Pass, and nationally televised games, no matter where you are, players don’t needNew York. They don’t need L.A. But they still want L.A. The perfect weather and the pull of Hollywood, which remains the epicenter of the entertainment industry. A place where you can blend in and be afforded a little more privacy because residents are more excited by encounters with Jax fromVanderpump Rules.
Los Angeles remains the place where you can play for one of the two most storied teams in the league, while being able to roll along Pacific Coast Highway in a convertible maroon Bentley on a 78 degree January afternoon.
It is the Lakers history that puts L.A. at the top. Veterans grew up watching the late Magic years. Younger players grew up watching the Kobe-Shaq dynasty or the Kobe-Pau years. The games under the Showtime lighting, framed yellow jerseys and 16 championship banners just feel different. It is one thing to be an NBA player. It is a whole other to be a Laker.

Miami Heat

It’s pretty much Los Angeles, but with the occasional hurricane, worse humidity, and Cuban telenovelas instead of big-budget motion pictures. Miami still has the beach and the clear and beautiful warm waters of South Florida. NBA players love neon lights and other bright shit, making South Beach a favorite. There are the palm trees and the waterfront mansions. A player can still date models. Prime 112 has tempura lobster (A Jalen Rose favorite).
Alonzo Mourning and the late 1990s teams brought legitimacy to a new organization. Dwyane Wade and Pat Riley turned them into a premiere franchise and Lebron and the big-three era catapulted the Heat to arguably becoming the most marquee NBA franchise, other than the Lakers and Spurs, in the post-Jordan era.
Also, in case you forgot every Cribs episode, never underestimate an NBA player’s adoration for Scarface.
BIG CITY, NOT AS BRIGHT LIGHTS:

Los Angeles Clippers

Basically the Lakers, but with selfies hanging inside Staples instead of championship banners and nostalgia for Eric Piatkowski instead of Magic Johnson.
The trash organization gained legitimacy when the NBA evicted their slumlord owner and brought in a tech billionaire whose products are not used by a single person in Los Angeles, most of whom are working on Broad City spec scripts at their local coffee shop.
The marketability factor is still present with opportunities for players to be the king of insurance or mid-tier Korean family sedans.
It’s still Los Angeles and a player can always go out on Sunset and pretend he is on the Lakers.

New York Knicks

We pretend the Knicks are the unheralded kings of free agency. That everyone dreams of playing at the Garden and living in New York. But unless you grew up in the five boroughs - no one liked Ewing, Starks, Oak and Anthony Mason (RIP). Most NBA players would not know if Bernard King played on the Knicks between 1983-1987 or 1963-1967. The oldest active player in the NBA (the professor, Andre Miller) was born approximately three years AFTER the Knicks last won an NBA championship. Sorry, the Knicks aren’t a premiere NBA organization. And this is without even mentioning James Dolan.
And - contrary to popular opinion - New York City is not the premiere place to live if you are an NBA superstar. A player would rather live in a sprawling 8,000 square foot mansion with a regulation sized basketball court, shark tank, nine-hole golf course, and a Ritz Carlton quality pool than pay $10 million for a 2,000 square foot apartment or brownstone.
Your average NBA player would rather eat at The Cheesecake Factory than the awesome hole-in-the-wall Pho spot or David Chang’s latest Michelin rated restaurant.
NBA players aren’t known to spend Saturday afternoons strolling the Museum of Modern Art or checking out trendy and provocative performance art projects in Bushwick warehouses.
It isn’t 1981, so nearly every NBA city has some semblance of nightlife where a player can enjoy a bottle of Dom P, VIP area, and have a flock of jersey-chasers clamoring for attention.
NBA players don’t fuck with the Subway.
New York is really cold during approximately 80% of the NBA regular season.
But even though I spent approximately 300 words shitting on New York, it’s still New York. Just ask JR Smith.
[NOTE – THIS ABOVE PARAGRAPH DOES NOT APPLY TO YOU IF YOU ARE MARRIED TO LA LA].

Brooklyn Nets

The team’s history is buried in a swamp in New Jersey. The legacy of the team since it has moved to Brooklyn centers around former stars who were collective decades removed from their primes.
NBA players are not Lena Dunham.
It’s still New York, but not quite.
Basically the New York Clippers.
Having a Russian Oligarch multi-billionaire for an owner is pretty cool.
NOT L.A. OR MIAMI, BUT THE WEATHER IS NICE

Houston Rockets

It’s hot. There is good food and lots of chain restaurants. Huge houses for cheap and no state taxes. Paul Wall, Mike Jones (who?) and Chamillionaire were at the height of their popularity when most of these guys were in junior high and high school.
Hakeem might help you with your footwork.
Allegedly, great strip clubs.

Dallas Mavericks

It’s hot. There are quality steakhouses and lots of chain restaurants. Huge houses for cheap and no state taxes. Unfortunately, no strong rap history.
No one to help you with your footwork, but Cuban provides the best perks (remember when he put a Playstation 2 in every player’s locker back in 2002?)
A lot of players are Dallas Cowboys fans because they are front-running assholes who grew up with the Irvin, Emmett and Aikman teams.
Allegedly, great strip clubs.
And if Chandler Parsons chose to play there you know it is a good time.

Phoenix Suns

It’s really hot. There are lots of chain restaurants. Huge houses for cheap, but there are state taxes. Unfortunately, no strong rap history.
NBA players treat Phoenix as if it is a distant suburb of Los Angeles.
Few models, but plenty of surgically enhanced cleavage and Arizona State Coeds.
More NBA players than you think golf.
Pool parties where players can wear socks, rubber Nike sandals, and two pairs of oversized basketball shorts.
The Steve Nash teams revolutionized basketball and rescued the NBA from the 84-79 point games era. Barkley took them to the Finals against Jordan and maybe a player can get invited to his poker game (hope he makes a max-level salary!)

Orlando Magic

Players have been known to live on lakes and jet-ski to each other’s houses to play Madden, which sounds like exactly the kind of life I would have liked to have led when I was 17.
The weather is really nice and it’s almost tropical.
It’s basically Miami, but rednecks instead of Latin people and New York retirees, lakes instead of the ocean, and strip malls and Disney World instead of any semblance of nightlife. Those D12 teams were underrated (beat Lebron in his prime), but no one has ever said “Dwight Howard did it, so you know it is a good idea.” Some goodwill remains from the Penny-Shaq era. Everyone forgets that T-Mac and Grant Hill played here.
THE CITIES THAT SHOULD BE HIGHER

Atlanta Hawks

It is a mystery why Atlanta is not a more popular NBA city. You would think Atlanta would be at the center of the Venn diagram of where rappers and NBA players want to live. But apparently, NBA players don’t care too much about fraternizing with 2 Chainz, Outkast, Ludacris, Jermaine Dupri, Gucci Mane, Lil Jon, and Young Jeezy.
It isn’t San Diego, but the weather is nice. The food is good. You can buy a Southern estate for about the price of a condo in Inglewood. You might be able to get a cameo on The Real Housewives of Atlanta.
Freaknik is in Atlanta, even though its heyday has long since passed.
It’s at the top of the list of where traveling NBA players play like shit. Atlanta has arguably the best clubs of NBA cities that are not Los Angeles, New York, or Miami.
Of course, I have to bring up The Gold Club, where you can feel free to hang around a little bit and talk to them, then leave.
It’s one of the two major African-American metropoles in the country.
Highlights of the Hawks history are basically limited to the 2015 team getting swept in the conference finals, that time Joe Johnson hit a three, and Dominique Wilkins almost (he should have) beating MJ in the 1988 dunk contest. Maybe that’s why guys don’t want to play here.

Washington Wizards

Affectionately nicknamed Chocolate City.
But basketball has really never mattered in DC outside of Georgetown hoops.
THEY ARE REALLY GOOD AT BASKETBALL, BUT THAT’S ABOUT IT:

San Antonio Spurs

What would San Antonio be without the Spurs? The answer is El Paso. No one wants to live in El Paso.
This is a good reminder that this list does not consider the strength of the present-day organization, but it does factor in the history of the organization.
Therefore, the Spurs get a bump for having five titles, four of which no one cares much about. There’s a better chance of Fox News covering a Bernie Sanders rally than Hardwood Classics ever airing a game from the New Jersey Nets and San Antonio Spurs 2003 Finals.
San Antonio is, in essence, Dallas or Houston, but they tend to fare worse in the most obese cities rankings, more residents speak Spanish, and the chain restaurants are next to a dirty river.
I am not sure any NBA players remember the Alamo.
REMEMBER THAT WE ARE NOT FACTORING IN STEPH CURRY:

Golden State Warriors

Two years ago you would probably agree with this placement. Now you probably think I am insane, stupid or both.
But in my completely arbitrary and not very well contemplated rules for this exercise, you don’t get to factor in playing with Steph and company, but you do get to factor in the insane current popularity of the franchise, which has been propelled by Steph and company. So – ummm – make sense?
Until this ongoing Warriors run, Golden State was akin to Milwaukee west.
The years of Run TMC were all too brief and the most prominent superstar (before Steph) claimed by this franchise shot free throws underhand and is widely regarded as the most despised Top-50 player and champion in league history.
And as much as tech-bros are popularizing Northern California, NBA players aren’t exactly swayed by the most European of NBA cities. Other than Boris Diaw and Tony Parker, not many NBA guys would enjoy a nice red at a sidewalk café on a foggy San Francisco afternoon and coordinate team day-trips to Napa.
BIG CITIES, SHIT IT’S COLD:

Chicago Bulls

The greatest of all-time wore number 23. No NBA team’s identity is as much ingrained in the image of a single player. The Lakers are the Lakers even without one of Kareem, West, Wilt, Magic, Shaq, or Kobe. The Celtics are the Celtics even without one of Bill Russell, Bird, KG, or Pierce.
The Bulls are the Timberwolves without Jordan. MJ has rewritten the history of the franchise so extensively that people forget that they were one of the league’s most dogshit franchises when they drafted Jordan out of North Carolina.
To play in Chicago is to follow in Jordan’s footsteps, but unfortunately, the shadow he casts is so large that players are hesitant to fill those Air Jordan’s. Lebron – allegedly – scoffed when Chicago’s pitch to him in 2010 was exactly that. The Bulls sent him a pair of Jordans with an accompanying message: “Do you dare to fill these shoes?” We know how he answered. “Fuck no!” And that seems to be the attitude that modern superstars hold.
Why would I go to a team where – no matter what I do and how many championships I win – I’ll never be Michael?
Chicago is the pride of the prairie. It’s the grandest American city outside of L.A. or NYC. But it is also the windy city and the most frigid big city in the country, where gusts off of Lake Michigan will literally pain your bones. Unless you are an opera connoisseur, it doesn’t hold much appeal over many of the NBA’s mid-sized cities.
There’s a reason in Kanye West’s Good Life, he raps: “The good life, it feel like Atlanta, it feel like L.A., it feel like Miami. It feel like N.Y., summertime Chi, ahhh, now throw your hands up in the sky.”
Summertime Chi. As in – great place to play for the Cubs! But stay the fuck away during the NBA season.

Boston Celtics

How can the team with the most championships in NBA history be as low as 15? Why are the Celtics ranked below the Bulls when they have 11 more titles?
Because even though Boston has the richest basketball history in the NBA, it also has - well - Boston history. Just ask Bill Russell about that.
Even if Boston is a more friendly city to African-Americans in 2016 than the city was in 1966, it still has never been a free agent destination. The recent Big 3 era was orchestrated via trades rather than free agency, even if KG ultimately agreed to join Pierce and Jesus Shuttlesworth to win his first and only ring. But he was apprehensive, even calling Bill Russell to seek advice.
Boston is a tremendous place to live, to go to college or graduate school, to be Irish, and the optimal place to be if you’re a fan of the Dropkick Murphy’s, where bagpipe-punk ballads are bar staples on far more than just St. Patrick’s Day.
Memories of the Garden and Bird and the other several hall-of-famers certainly serves as a strong recruiting factor.
But when New England poet Robert Frost poses the question about two roads diverged in a yellow wood, the NBA millionaire is not going to choose either road that leads to the frigid Boston winters, no matter how pretty the foliage when the season begins.

Toronto Raptors

It is Canada. Which is not the United States. Which means it is a pain in the ass to deal with currency conversion. And you have to file taxes (which are higher in Canada) in two separate countries.
Toronto is possibly the most metropolitan and lively large North American city outside of New York. Because I have not been to Toronto as an adult, I Googled the best clubs in the city to get a feel for how well those Canada nights complement the life of an NBA star. Number one as of July 2015 was Uniun, which sounds like a failing Vegas club at New York, New York, which not so successfully attempts to emulate some chic Manhattan spot. Here is the description: “Owned by the Ariana Grande of the Toronto club scene, Charles Khabouth…” So yeah, apparently a Lebanese Canadian club owner and hotelier in his fifties is the Ariana Grande of the Toronto club scene. Makes sense.
Some other Union gems:
BEERS ON TAP: None, but bottles of Heineken, Coors, Corona, and Molson Canadian.
BAR SNACKS: None as of yet.
WHO GOES THERE: Dressed-up fans of electronic music, beautiful people in their 20s and 30s.
That place sounds TERRIBLE. I bet Jonas Valanciunas has a standing table reservation.
In Toronto, English is still the primary language. While perhaps too similar to the Bratislava clubs in Eurotrip, there are numerous nightlife options. There is an abundance of diversity. Most importantly for NBA players, there is a Benihana!
But it is cold. Really cold. Like colder than Boston, Chicago or New York cold. And if you’re learning anything from this list, it’s that NBA players do not like being in the cold. Which is a primary reason that the Western Conference has been dominant for two decades.
Even if NBA players have a debaucherous time on the road when traveling up to The North - it’s hard to shake the perceptions that are formed in childhood. And nearly every NBA player grew up thinking of Canada, even places like Toronto, as an uninhabited frozen wasteland with the occasional igloo and Eskimo.
Three years ago Toronto would be ten spots lower on this list, but it’s helpful to have your ambassador and biggest celebrity fan be the most popular rapper on the planet. Drake might be worth more to this franchise than Lebron is worth to Cleveland.
MEMPHIS:

Memphis Grizzlies

It’s a smaller town than the warmer cities listed above and the weather is less desirable. It’s one of the top cities for BBQ in the country, and perhaps, the best of any NBA city. Beale Street is apparently fun.
It is more of a blue-collar city than NBA players typically prefer, but at least it is not in the Rust Belt.
It is rated higher than similarly sized and geographically located cities Charlotte and New Orleans because the grit & grind era gave Memphis a distinct basketball identity that resonates with fans. The three most exhilarating things currently in the NBA are Russell Westbrook attacking the rim at full speed, Steph Curry pulling up from 40 and the Memphis PA system bumping Whoop That Trick during a crucial fourth quarter playoffs timeout.
If only NBA players were bigger fans of Elvis.
THE GREAT OUTDOORS:

Portland Trailblazers

The last remaining frontier of professional basketball in the Great American Northwest. Portland, as a city, has undergone a surge of popularity among America’s twenty-somethings, inspiring such articles as the Washington Post’s Why quirky Portland is winning the battle for young college grads.
Oregon has lakes, streams, rivers, trees and picturesque mountains. It also has one of America’s most infamous foodie scenes and thousands of clones of young Bill Walton, albeit the political and socially-conscious new anti-yuppies of Portland lack The Big Redhead’s size and athletic ability. But riding a fixie bike does keep those quads strong.
While natural scenic beauty and hiking have not historically been strong sellers to NBA free agents, Portland - or at least nearby Beaverton - does have one thing that turns the heads of young athletes…The Swoosh.
The Blazers also boast an NBA title, one of the better logo/color scheme combinations in professional sports, a devoted cult-like local following, and hall-of-famers across multiple generations.
If only it did not rain so fucking much.

Denver Nuggets

I’d personally rather live in Denver than any NBA city outside of Los Angeles, but I reckon I enjoy snowboarding, the mountains and IPAs more than your average professional basketball player.
My team-building strategy for the Nuggets would be to target all Euro stars and convince them that living in the mile high city is like residing in an eighties ski movie, which it probably is for Gallinari. Vail and Aspen are surely suitable stand-ins for the Swiss Alps.
I would also try to work on getting Kendrick Lamar a residency at Red Rocks.
Unfortunately, among the most forgotten teams and players from the eighties were the really fun Fat Lever and Alex English led scoring machines. Fresh in the minds of most players is Melo’s slow and painful mid-season exit and there’s no other recent period in Nuggets history which serves as a draw for free agents.
But once the NBA gets out of the weed regulation business and ceases testing for non-performance enhancing drugs and non-narcotics, you can go ahead and bump the Nugs up a spot or ten.
THE PROCESS:

Philadelphia 76ers

The city of brotherly love is the fifth largest United States city. But just because it is big doesn’t mean that there is anything notable about the town. No one talks about the restaurants or the bars or the museums or anything that has really happened since the 18th century. There is the liberty bell, so that’s cool? Most people only know about Philadelphia because of Ben Franklin book reports in fourth grade.
Alllen Iverson was just interviewed by Complex Magazine and said his favorite thing to do in Philly was go to TGI Fridays.
But people remember Dr. J and Moses Malone. And more recently, Allen Iverson had his best years in Philly and brought them to the Finals and I am not going to underestimate AI’s impact, as he is up there with Jordan as one of the most iconic and culturally transformative players to ever pick up an orange ball.
Too bad Sam Hinkie has worked his hardest to demolish a once proud franchise’s reputation.
At least Philadelphia is not Milwaukee or Detroit.
NICE CLIMATE, TOO REGIONAL:

New Orleans Pelicans

I don’t have a lot of history to go on here, since The Big Easy has been a permanent NBA town for about a decade.
It seems like a pleasant enough place to live. It is inexpensive. The cuisine is excellent. You can hear the best Jazz of your life on an unassuming street corner. You can legally walk down the street with a drink in your hand. You can legally gamble. No one seems to mind if you urinate outside a bar in the French Quarter at five in the morning. There are Southern mansions and a quieter life available in the burbs. Cash Money records reps the 504, but unfortunately, I’m not sure Lil Wayne carries the same weight in 2016 as he did when he ruled the aughts. There’s an NCIS here now.
The weather is mostly mild during the NBA season, but the worst natural disaster in United States history likely still looms large in player’s minds.
Even if it is home to Mardi Gras and is essentially the Vegas of the American South, it’s still a very small town and that historically has not played well with NBA dudes.
I just have the feeling it’s more likely for a player’s bachelor party than it is as a permanent residence. But New Orleans’ place on this list should be revisited in five or so years.

Charlotte Hornets

Everyone in Charlotte is a bank teller, financial analyst at a large commercial bank, works for the Federal Reserve or worships at the altar of Dale Earnhardt. I am surprised that the professional sports teams in the state don’t have a permanent 3 patched onto the breast of the team jerseys.
Charlotte is where SEC and ACC grads end up if they didn’t get jobs in Atlanta.
Other than middle-management at a regional office and NASCAR, when I think of Charlotte, one other thing comes to mind - college hoops. Jordan, Worthy, Stackhouse, Vince, Sheed and Dean Smith. Tar Heels versus Blue Devils.
Pro basketball has already died once in Charlotte, but was singlehandedly resurrected by the greatest basketball player of all-time who just so happened to be from the state. If MJ was raised in Detroit, L.A. or Chicago, the Charlotte Hornets would be the Seattle Sonics 2.0 or the Kansas City Jayhawks.
But every male between 30 and 35 years old, no matter where they grew up in the U.S., had a teal Hornets Starter Jacket. If the Hornets want to increase their free agency rankings, they need to go back to their early-to-mid 90s LJ and Zo throwback attire. They also need to make Grandmama the permanent mascot.
And at least for the next five to seven years - the front office can lure free agents with 50 yard line seats to see Cam Newton.
FACTORY TOWNS AND KIND OF A CALIFORNIA TOWN:

Detroit Pistons

The epicenter of the desolate remains of once proud American manufacturing. If you sign with the Pistons, they may be able to hook you up with a good deal on a Ford Explorer.
Living options are between a dilapidated warehouse in downtown Detroit or a 10,000 square foot mansion in a Pleasantville-esque suburb, which are similar to the Northside burbs of Chicago, but if Chicago itself no longer existed and it was even colder.
But the Pistons do well with adopting the persona of Detroit toughness. From the Bad Boys to the Billups-Rip-Tayshaun-Sheed-Ben Wallace squad.
So a player can feel good about being perceived as a badass, but will soon learn why everyone respects his toughness and resilience, he has to live in Detroit.

Sacramento Kings

It sounds appealing to work and live in the capital of California, until you realize that the capital of California is Sacramento.
The current Kings arena – Sleep Train (formerly Arco) – is located in a cow pasture.
The best thing about Sacramento is the approximate 100 mile distance to Lake Tahoe and 90 mile distance to San Francisco. When your best selling point is being located not that far away from better places, it does not speak all that highly about your city. Sacramento…at least we’re not Barstow.
The Maloof bros sold, so there is no longer access to free Vegas depravity.
The Webber-Bibby-Peja-Vlade years were fun, but the franchise has since slowly slid into complete chaos and incompetence.
They should just ditch the new digs and move to Orange County (which would immediately be a top three free agent destination), where players can live in Newport and Laguna Beach and not have to wait until retirement to hit on cougars at Javier’s.

Indiana Pacers

Reggie Miller scoring eight points in nine seconds and miming the choking sign to Spike Lee single-handedly keeps the Pacers out of the bottom of the barrel.
Aside from Hoosiers, Bobby Knight, Peyton Manning before the neck, Andrew Luck, Parks and Recreation, the beginning of The Jackson 5 and the non-NASCAR kind of racing, I don’t know much about Indiana. I know Notre Dame is in South Bend, but the Irish pretty much exist independently of the State.
Apparently you can fish there, which Roy Hibbert and Paul George taught us that a friendly team fishing expedition can heal deep wounds.
So…here we are. Indiana!

Cleveland Cavaliers

I’ll start with the obvious – if I was factoring in playing with Lebron, the Cavs would be near the top of these rankings. Although, Kevin Love and Kyrie Irving might argue differently.
Before Lebron Round One, the most iconic Cavs moment was Jordan nailing the double-pump, buzzer beating jumper in the 1989 playoffs and sending Craig Ehlo crying to his knees.
During the early Lebron years, the Cavs are most remembered for wilting twice in the playoffs and being subsequently deserted by The King for the number two squad on this list.
Cleveland rests on the shores of water so disgusting and polluted, that Lake Erie has caught on fire MULTIPLE times, including the 1969 Cuyohoga fire that played a major role in inspiring the formation of the EPA and the Clean Water Act of 1972. That same fire even had a cameo in Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax.
The stench of failure is so strong in Cleveland that the Indians were the franchise chosen to be featured in Major League. Other than Jim Brown, Otto Graham and Lebron, Roger Dorn is probably the city’s most treasured professional athlete.
At least there is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, which is basically a Hard Rock Café without the food.
ONE DAY WE SHALL FIND OUT:

Oklahoma City Thunder

One of my good friends and former college roommates is from Oklahoma City. His dad is an incredibly nice and smooth man who happens to own an oil and gas business and whose world view is equally shaped by attending college in Austin in the 1970s. If he were so inclined, I’d let him frack in my living room.
Here is what he has to say about living in Oklahoma City: We may not have the beach and we may not have the mountains, but people sure smile and say hello when you pass them on the street.
While it may have warmth and friendly strangers, I don’t know if that is enough for NBA free agents. And until Durant and Westbrook are no longer in the Sooner State, we will not find out.
THAT KG FELLA WAS REAL TENACIOUS, DON’T YA KNOW?:

Minnesota Timberwolves

It is cold in Detroit. It is cold in Milwaukee. It is cold in Chicago. But only one United States city has an entire downtown system of enclosed pedestrian footbridges (Minneapolis Skyway System), so residents can walk in a climate-controlled environment year round. How fucking freezing does it have to be for a city to build an infrastructure so people never have to feel the outside air?
Minneapolis is one of the more underrated American cities, but that designation mostly applies between Memorial and Labor Day. A July day on Lake Minnetonka is a Kenny Powers wet dream.
But unless you’re an ice fishing enthusiast, there are better places for the young and absurdly rich to spend their winters.
It does not help that the most notable retired former Timberwolf is Wally Szczerbiak.
Light Beer and Sausages:

Milwaukee Bucks

Kareem played here, but after six seasons, forced a trade to the Lakers. In return, the Bucks received four guys I am certain you have never heard of. Oscar Robertson played here, but played the majority of his prime in Cincinnati. Ray Allen played here, but was traded after six and a half seasons along with a collection of spare parts for old Gary Payton (who left the next offseason) and Desmond Mason (who would play two more seasons for the Bucks). Expect to see the Bucks trade Giannis in three years for Deron Williams and Frank Kaminsky.
The Bucks did have one of the better forgotten runs in NBA history between the 1970 and 1974 seasons, where they won an average of nearly 61 games per year. Their 1971 championship run led by Kareem and The Big O was among the most dominant in history, where they went 12-2 through the playoffs including a finals sweep.
Most outside of Milwaukee forget that the Bucks’ success continued after Kareem and Oscar departed, when Sidney Moncrief led them to a decade of near excellence in the Reagan era. But their strong eighties teams have been greatly overshadowed by those great and better 76ers, Celtics and Pistons squads.
As for the rest of Wisconsin - it is shitty beer, the Packers, cheese, Madison and whatever the hell is going on in Manitowoc County.
The New Orleans Jazz Moved to Utah, Where They don’t Allow Music:

Utah Jazz

The State of Utah is about 61% Mormon and 91% white. Approximately 1.27% of the population is African-American. No other U.S. state that has an NBA team has a smaller African-American population.
If the Jazz could guarantee the NBA players/budding film producers that their projects would be admitted to Sundance, they might be able to field a dangerous team. A Baron Davis/Kobe/Lebron core could perhaps secure the 7th seed in the West.
The Jazz do boast a rich history and a rabid fan base. But the very smart and talented front office knows that they operate in Utah, so they are better served building through the draft, where you can retain players against their will.

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Date: 2012-03-11
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Questions	Answers
The biggest weakness in a safe or a lock is that it's meant to be opened. If you know how the insides work, it makes it easier to open. Is this true of the lottery? Is there such a thing as "inside trading" among lottery corporate? You guys know more about the system then anybody else. How easy would it be for you to ensure a winning ticket for a friend, etc. If a lotto insider wanted to, would he/she be able to successfully generate a winning ticket after the numbers are drawn?	I love this question. Thank you for asking it. The lottery industry operates like Las Vegas. In other words, the whole thing is governed by an extreme separation of duties and access controls. Every lottery has a security division that exists for the sole purpose of catching crooks - both internal and external. It's virtually impossible to "rig" a drawing or generate a winning wager post-draw without collusion on the part of at least five or six people. And even then, it would take a miracle to get past audits, system checks, etc. I'm not saying that people haven't tried, regardless. I'm not even going to say that it hasn't happened. I will say it's a one-way ticket to federal prison, though.
Do you know of any situation like this that has happened?	I know of one situation in another state where an employee got caught trying to rig orders on instant tickets by working with a friend who was a night shift clerk at a convenience store. They got caught and did two years apiece.
Extreme hypothetical here. Let's say someone has figured out a way to transmit information into the past from the future. They bide their time, wait for a big win to come along, perhaps in Canada where no tax is taken off the winnings. Then they get greedy and try to take two wins, maybe three or four. Maybe hand guaranteed winning numbers to family. I assume the extreme improbability of such an event would get someone's attention. I guess what I'm working up to, is there any sort of protocol in place to attempt to deal with information gained from the future, or for dealing with a time traveler? Would it even be illegal?	No. There is no protocol for this - legal or otherwise. If you figure it out, you're in the clear.
Has anyone ever won a high tier prize and not ever come to claim it? Do you get to see people claiming their money/ their reactions? How did you even get into this industry in the first place? Do you play the lottery yourself?	Yes. It happens all the goddamn time. You wouldn't believe how often, actually. Yes, I get to see people claiming money on occasion. I've seen it all: poker face, tears, hysterics... and one guy who busted out in a full-on dance routine that would have shamed even Michael Jackson. I fell into my job. Seriously. It was an accident. I was in the right place at the right time. I used to buy instant tickets on occasion. I can't play as an employee. I will probably play occasionally again if I ever leave the industry.
What stops you from buying tickets at a corner store, and then having a friend or family member claim winnings if they're big?	Nothing, really. I'm sure this has happened. But if you get caught benefiting from a win like that... bad news.
Are you allowed to buy lottery tickets?	No. I don't know of a single state that allows lottery employees to buy tickets.
Is the lottery just a tax on poostupid people?	As far as being a tax on poostupid people, I hear that argument all the time. The truth is that people from all walks of life play lottery games. If anything, the most frequent players are older retired folks who don't have anything else to spend their money on - not poor people.
Any interesting stories of fraud you can tell us about?	Dozens. You'd be shocked at how often retailers steal tickets from players by telling them that their ticket isn't a winner. A few states have even gone so far as to set up an undercover team that specializes in catching these people. What they do is present retailers who players have complained about with "marked" tickets and then have them arrested when the retailer comes in to claim the prize. It's a big program in California. They've caught a lot of people. I've also seen several cases where a retailer is mass producing draw game wagers and re-selling them overseas on the Internet for huge mark-up - sometimes as much as 1000% of face value. That's a quick path to prison, too. And then, of course, we get idiots who do everything they can to make losing tickets look like winners hoping to get an idiot convenience store clerk to "sight validate" the ticket instead of scanning it in the system to see if it's a win. We discourage the hell out of that behavior. Clerks should never pay out based on a ticket they THINK is a winner. I will never understand why they don't just scan the damn things.
It's funny that you wrote about this tonight. Not sure if you caught Dateline NBC but Chris Hansen did a special where he had an undercover crew go into retailers, present 3 tickets (2 losers and 1 winner say $7500) and see what the retailer would do. Some of them would tell them that they won a big prize, others would say "All losers" or "You won $5!" then they would turn around and try to claim the prize for themselves. Needless to say Chris Hansen would walk in and say "Why don't you have a seat right there..." It was a great special to watch, did you catch it?	That special is part of the reason I started this thread. It was actually the second time Hansen has done a piece on retailer scams. The first one sent a shockwave through the industry and caused several lotteries to create programs due to outcry from players following the revelation that people steal things.
I worked at a small grocer that sold lotto tickets and our machines made these stupid sounds whenever a winning ticket was processed. I asked my boss if we could turn it down, but he said their lotto ticket license could be revoked because it could aid ticket stealing. Is this common?	Yes. This is very common, in fact. That sound is loud and obnoxious for a reason. :)
What is the best strategy to win the lottery? Or am I better off just not playing at all? Do you know what happens to most lottery winners? Do they go crazy and spend it irresponsibly or do most of them end up being smart?	It all comes down to odds. In my state, for example, we have several daily draw games that have relatively low set jackpot amounts but the chance of winning is exponentially higher than the rolling jackpot games. As far as scratch (also known as instant) games go, stay away from $1 and $5 games. Everyone buys them, so the chance of winning a top tier prize is low, and the top tier prizes are normally not enough to warrant playing. You've got a good chance of winning big on $10 games if your state sells them. Nobody buys those. I don't even know why some states even bother with them, honestly.
What about the $2 and $3 ones?	Anything is better than the $1 games. Those are designed to be low-return impulse buys that you win one out of twenty times. You'll never win enough to make playing them worth it over the long term.
What about the $5 instants with top prizes of around 2 million (California's Set for Life or something)?	All of the "set for life" games are pretty damn cool, if you ask me. Low odds but it really does set you up for life.
When a scratch ticket claims that there are "win for life winners" or there are "10 $2 million prizes" do they actually have those already printed? I always think that they will wait until the last second to print those then distribute them. I mean it would be bad for business if all grand prizes were won at the start. Also, do they continue to print tickets as they go along or all tickets for a game printed at once, distributed and that's that?	The lottery usually has a designated liaison or a team of some kind that works with the jurisdiction's instant ticket vendor to come up with the art, prize structure, etc. (Lotteries don't print the games themselves. This is done at a high security location owned and operated by an outside vendor. That's a world all on its own.) The game is printed all at once. It isn't done in phases and a game's prize structure doesn't change once it's set. In other words, it is possible for the top prizes from a game to be claimed within the first few weeks after a game ships. Speaking of shipping, scratch games are almost always shipped from the vendor to some sort of distribution facility owned by the lottery for which the game was printed. Tickets are shipped out to lottery retailers from there. Every instant ticket game has a set expiration date (usually printed right on the ticket) and some states have laws requiring that the lottery to post information about which prizes have already been claimed on their website and/or at their office(s). Most people never think to check this, though, and they just keep buying even after all "top tier" prizes have been claimed. Most lotteries have a set monthly or quarterly schedule for new instant games. That's all relative to the size of the state and how popular instant tickets are there. There are only a handful of companies in the world that print instant tickets both because it's incredibly expensive to do and because trust is paramount in the lottery industry. The two largest and most trusted printing operations are owned by Scientific Games and GTECH, which also happen to be two of the most popular draw game vendors.
What about distribution? Does someone know where the top tier winning tickets will end up? How do they spread them out so that all of the best ones don't end up at the same liquor store on the corner?	No. The vendor knows which packs contain the high tier winners. The lottery doesn't. And vice versa for where the packs are shipped. As long as that balance is preserved, everything is kosher.
Am I being a complete boob when I play these?	Chances are, yes. But then again, you could pop a $1,000,000 winner one day when you least expect it. I just had a chat with a guy a few weeks ago who stopped to buy a newspaper at a gas station, decided to get an instant while he was at it, and ended up walking away with $500,000. Paid off his house, car, and credit cards.
Someone told me that the best time to play a new scratch off game was RIGHT after the game comes out. Why would that be?	Your best shot at winning a high tier prize is in the first week or so after a game launches because a lottery doesn't pull an instant game out of stores just because all of the high tier prizes have been claimed. They get pulled when they expire. Otherwise, the lottery simply lets the game sell through.
Also, what software platform do you use?	Can you be more specific about your question regarding software platform?
You could write a book on it, but it's largely speculation? Wut?	Coughjustsayingspeculationtocovermyassit'sactuallytruecough*
What is your state's policy if a valid, winning ticket was sold to an illegal alien? IE do you have to be a US Citizen or valid resident to win?	In our state, you have to provide proof of identification and we have to be able to run a debt check on you in order to pay a prize. Taxes, etc. must be paid as well. In other words, I don't think an illegal alien would be able to claim.
A debt check? For what reason?	Most states require a debt check in case the person trying to claim the ticket owes a debt to the state. (Court fees, child support, etc.) If they owe, the debt is subtracted from the win and the winner receives the difference.
How is the payout of large jackpots usually structured? Does the lottery "own" the money it pays out, or does the Lottery itself have debt and borrows money to finance the winning payouts?	This is a complicated question. For in-state games, the lottery "owns" the money. It's taken from sales. For multi-state games (Mega Millions and Powerball), payouts on the big jackpots are covered across all of the participating states. It's a complicated process that I'm not entirely familiar with, as I don't work in finance.
If the winner is given the option of taking a discounted, lump-sum payment versus an annuity or monthly payments, what discount factor does the lottery use to determine the lump-sum payment?	Most of the time, you have the option of either an annuity or a lump sum. Most people take the lump sum. Annuities seldom make sense - and there's always the chance that you could die in a freak accident. Your win isn't transferable to an heir in most states.
Are income taxes automatically deducted or do you offer some sort of tax planning advice to the winner?	Taxes are pulled up front. You still have to report at the end of the year but - at least in my state - you're issued an income statement to use.
Do you offer any sources for financial/legal planning to the winners to utilize after winning, such as CPAs, lawyers, or financial planners?	We provide players with general advice on what to do next. We're not allowed to recommend specific people or firms, though. Most people head straight to a financial planner, surprisingly.
As a Computer Engineering student, I never understood the idea of how an algorithm could be completely (100%) random. It does not make much sense. If someone is writing an algorithm it must not be random because it was written by a rational human being with the idea of producing something completely random. But that does not mean it is random to the person who wrote the algorithm. If someone knew the algorithm why would they not be able to predict the results?	Without delving too deep into industry secrets that could probably get me sued or killed, I will say that you are absolutely correct in that an algorithm alone is never completely random. And that's why there's more to it than just a software algorithm. There's also specialized hardware involved that would leave your jaw hanging were I to explain how it actually works. It has to do with time, white noise, and an absolutely incredible control environment. () I'm only half-joking. Anyone who thinks that organized crime isn't still involved in the lottery industry on some level is a complete fool. This is another topic I could probably write a book on.
You had me at "jaw hanging". elaborate a little?	I've only seen the inside of a draw game machine once. But the process by which the numbers are drawn gave me a bit of a nerdgasm. Without going into too much detail (again, trying to avoid a lawsuit), the design of the machine is nothing short of brilliant. It's a sophisticated combination of toggling hardware, RNGs, and algorithms all working in an elaborate sequence to kick out a random data set. The science behind it is crazy.
Are you familiar at all with the 666 scandal in the PA lottery back in the early 80's? How did something like that happen, and what would prevent it from happening again?	Never heard of it before. Way before my time. I'll have to do some research.
Care to explain more about why they're so incompetent?	They got blown to bits in an audit. They were told to fix their operation. They categorically failed to do so and as a result other lotteries across the country have had to deal with intense public relations fallout.
What is the easiet type/brand of lottery to win? If you were allowed to play which would you play and how often?	It's all about the odds. In my particular state, I'd be playing the $10 instant games. I'd also be playing two of our draw games, which have low relative jackpots but high payout rates.
Why can't we buy lotto tickets online?	That's almost entirely a result of two things: politicians who stand on the anti-gambling soapbox to get votes from the religious right and tribes who spend millions lobbying against it because they know it will kill their casinos.
Twenty, or so years ago, a friend (who's good at math) said to me that if one were to get an organization together with the funds to bet all the possible numbers on a big drawing, a tidy profit was assured. Then (years later) I heard that this was actually done. An organized group had tickets pre-filled-out and went to multiple stores and bought every possible number combo, on a big multi-state drawing, and their strategy worked. Then lotteries have altered their drawings since then. Do I remember this correctly, or is it urban-myth?	It's possible, I suppose. I've never heard about this before but if it did happen, the game was flawed. The lottery industry operates on the same "house always wins" model as Las Vegas. A few people take home the big jackpots here and there but in general, lotteries are designed to generate revenue.
What are your thoughts on the state having a monopoly on lotteries?	Not all states have monopolies on lotteries. It really depends on each state's own laws, whether they have a strong tribal presence, whether they have an independent gambling commission or other regulatory boards, etc. To answer your question, I don't personally believe that any state should be able to hold a monopoly on gambling.
So what percentage of lottery winnings actually goes to the school system? And how is that money distributed to the schools? Do they just choose schools who need it most, or is it based on where the ticket was bought?	Beneficiaries vary from jurisdiction to jurisdiction. I work for an education lottery. The percentage that goes to them changes every year, it seems. And the school system here is a pile of crap, so they just burn it, anyway. It's sad. As far as which schools get the money - that's not a decision we make. I have no idea how it's divvied up.
Last time it was hacked?	The lottery I work for has been around for decades and we've never had a significant "hack" of our gaming system. Our website has been defaced twice, however.
Verification?	I'd prefer not to say which state I work for or what I currently do. (Not sure my boss would be happy about this thread.) It'd be kind of hard to make this up, though. If you can think of a way for me to verify myself, please let me know.
Message a mod with a pay stub?	My pay stubs are all electronic but I'll work on making this happen.
Whats up with the second chance draw on scratchers? Does anybody actually win those prizes and how do they select the winners?	Yes, people DO win. The point of those drawings is to keep players interested in playing even if they don't win anything from the game itself. Those drawings are just as controlled as any other - at least in my state.
Here, lottery machines are set up with a customer-facing monitor *and a sound output so that it's never in doubt.* So it would announce "You've won $5,000,000!" to everyone within earshot?!	In most states, if you win over a certain amount ($20,000 in mine) the system doesn't tell you how much. It simply says, "Take this ticket straight to a lottery office." If you ever see that message at a terminal in a store, you know you just won a life-changing amount of money.
Wow! I can't believe nobody has asked: What should you do if you win? I know I would be equal parts happy and paranoid. Do I call a lawyer first? Or an accountant? Put the ticket in a safe deposit box?	I'm surprised that nobody has asked this, too. Sign the back of the goddamn ticket. DO THIS. Keep it somewhere that you know is safe until you claim. (Safe, etc.) Seek the advice of an accountant, investor, etc.
Maybe you aren't the one to answer this, but: If one were to win the lotto, what right to privacy do they have? Do I have to have my stupid picture taken and name published?	Your win is public information in most states because the money is coming from a government agency and it was, at some point prior to you receiving it, considered public money.
I know someone who has bought more scratch offs than I care to even think about. She lives on a fixed income and spends a significant portion of it on these tickets. She truly believes that this is her way out of poverty. And I'm torn because it seems to be her only chance of getting enough money to live comfortably. The irony of it is that the system she's counting on to get her out of poverty is only helping to perpetuate it. Last week I saw her win $25 on a $1 ticket (she almost exclusively plays $1 tickets) only to turn around and buy--I kid you not--25 more $1 tickets with it. And that makes the situation even more sad, because even when she wins she quickly squanders all of it away trying to win even more. Yes, she obviously has a gambling problem, and I've tried talking to her about it, at which point she becomes defensive and says that she just plays for fun. I've tried to explain about probability and how the lottery isn't some system you can invest in, and it's soul crushing every time because it feels like I'm trying to kill her dream of finally getting out of poverty. This is someone I love very much who I feel is being exploited by this system. It seems that she wins just often enough to keep her playing, meanwhile she's either unable or unwilling to account for her losses. I guess I'd just like your take on this. How do you respond to the argument that the lottery is a system that exploits people of low income (and by extension people who aren't well educated/may be prone to superstitions/addictions)? Thanks for your time	I've never believed that lotteries are exploiting anyone, myself. People are going to gamble whether we exist or not.
I heard a rumor that the lower the number on a scratch off the more likely you are to win. is this true? also in Pennsylvania the machine scans it but doesnt make any sound. however every single time i have lost i was offered my ticket back. is that protocal for PA?	No. Not true. And yes, clerks should always give you your ticket back regardless of whether it's a winner. If they don't, there's a good chance that it's a winner and they're trying to steal it from you. Always get your ticket back.
What kind of algorithm do you use for number generation?	This is one of the few questions asked here that I simply won't answer for legal reasons. Sorry.
I'm surprised, after reading through your responses, nobody has straight up asked this.	Yes. Occasionally. Just for fun. Maybe a few bucks a month at most?
All things considered, moral/statistical/your personal insight, if you left the industry, would you play the lottery?
Would buying a roll of a new scratch off game increase the chances of a profit or grand prize?	Most states sell their games in shrink-wrapped packs, not rolls. Retailers are the ones who put them on rolls in some jurisdictions. As to your chances of winning, I can tell you that every pack of instant tickets does contain at least a few winners. The amounts vary wildly, however, so it's possible to buy an entire pack and lose a lot of money.
Has anybody been denied a win, even though the have the ticket/scratch card, because of some absurd reason?	I've seen people lose incredible amounts of money to debt checks. In one case, a guy lost a full $250,000 to back child support. No joke. That was probably the most absurd situation.
If I ever win the lottery, can I remain anonymous?	You can claim via LLC in many states. Or you could work out a deal with a lawyer to have them claim on your behalf.

Last updated: 2012-03-16 05:19 UTC
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