Peculiar things, casinos. They’re smelly, loud and their inhabitants wear expressions drained of joy, hope and probably money. Everything you do is furtively watched as you slurk around with a dirty-ass plastic cup filled with an ever-decreasing jangle of quarters. I’ve always felt somewhat guilty going into one. Maybe that’s just my personality makeup. I feel guilty for all sorts of things; drinking a late-night beer in the tub; not always dropping a coin in a collection kettle; saying the word “ass” earlier in the paragraph.