Del Lago

(That head is a link, readers.)
“This is the first time in my entire life I been here, so I don’t know yer rules of engagement.”
I was talking to the attendant in the parking garage of Del Lago Casino and Resort. I was there to share Christmas buffet with a niece, my only remaining Rochester relative.
“Do you want self-park?” the dude asked.
“I was told I could park in here free because I have a handicap-tag.”
“You mean valet parking? We valet-park yer car for nothing.”
I handed over my keys.
“I see elevators. Is that where I go?
It looks like yer casino is way over there.”
“That’s the hotel,” he said. “The casino is right upstairs.”
Into the fray!
“It looks you guys are guarding the property,” I said to two attendants at the casino entrance.
The ringing din of slots washed over me.
“Enter here,” one of the attendants said.
“I’m headed for the buffet,” I said.
“Over there,” they pointed. The casino was HUGE, about the size of an airport-hanger. Ceilings looked 20-24 feet.
I ambled past bank-upon-bank of noisily ratcheting slots. Overweight geezers with oxygen lazily caressed lighted buttons — no levers, just buttons.
There also were gaming tables and a wheel-of-fortune. I noticed a fountain of water dripping from the ceiling.
“My guess is there’s a discount,” I said to the buffet cashier. My niece wasn’t there yet.
“$2 discount with a playing-card.”
“Where do I get a playing-card?”
“Other side of the casino at ‘Promotions.’”
Another long hike. At least I can still do it.
The line at Promotions was long, at least 30.
“Wanna just get a playing-card?” a uniformed attendant asked. “You can also get one at the Front Desk. Why wait in line? I don’t know what they were thinking.”
I turned and headed for the Front Desk. A flat-topped older minion was guarding.
“I was told I could get a playing-card here,” I said.
“You’ll hafta get that at Promotions.”
“They told me to come here,” I said.
“Easy now. Don’t get upset, sir,” flat-top snapped (“call Security”). “What you want is Promotions.”
“And they directed me here,” I said.
Back to Promotions to get back in line. By leaving I lost five places, but the line was much shorter.
Playing-card purchased I ambled the quarter-mile back to the buffet.
All this for a $2 discount.
“Got a pasta-bar?” I asked a buffet attendant. “I was hoping for spaghetti, since I never get to make it; too time-consuming.”
“No spaghetti.” Score one for Finger Lakes Racino.
“Hi, my name is Angela. I’ll be yer server.”
By now my niece arrived.
Angela walked away.
“Looked like a waitress to me,” I said to my niece.
“So what do you think?” my niece asked.
“Too far,” I said. “Over a hour getting here, and no spaghetti either. Finger Lakes Racino is 15-20 minutes, and they got spaghetti.”
I had already eaten when my niece arrived — they overshot their Thruway exit (ya gotta use the Thruway to get to Del Lago).
My niece’s boyfriend got dessert.
“What’s that?” I asked pointing to a tiny something on his plate.
“Mousse,” they said.
“Smallest moose I ever saw. Usually they’re the size of a horse, 1,200 pounds or so.”
On-and-on it went. Yada-yada-yada-yada. Driver’s license/ID renewal, cable-TV upgrades, etc. It had been months since we last got together. And my niece’s twenty-something daughter wasn’t there, which meant I could control my temper — which I wanted to control. She set me off once before.
“Mention rabbit-ears to a millennial, and they think yer talking about rabbits,” my niece said.
“And I remember when TV was on-the-air, and there were only three channels,” I said.
“Plus TV reception was via antenna on yer roof,” boyfriend added.
My niece is in her late 40s. Her mother is my wife’s brother’s first wife. My niece lives with her mother. My niece is divorced from her first husband.
“I used to visit my father every year during childhood, but he doesn’t remember that,” my niece said.
Alzheimer’s: I don’t think so. He just doesn’t remember. My niece’s mother, who also came along, noted she has failing short-term memory. Like me she’s also in her 70s.
But I don’t think it’s Alzheimer’s. I call it CRS-syndrome — Can’t-Remember-Shit. I have it myself. Too many memory-banks to peruse, and slower doing so. Often anything forgotten surfaces later.
We hung around about two hours, then decided to leave. My niece and her boyfriend would walk me to the parking-garage. I had a scanner ticket to notify valet-guy I was coming, so he could get my car.
“Just put it in the slot,” boyfriend said; a ticket-scanner was upstairs. There were two other slots, plus a large opening that apparently was ”the slot.”
“I’m glad you know how to do it,” I said. Everything is by machine any more; technology that often frustrates. I’d figger it out; it’s interesting.
But not right away. I got so I could do the off-site parking-pay machines at my wife’s hospital. Also the U-Scan machines at my supermarket.
This reminds of once in Altoona (PA) with my younger brother, ordering subs electronically. My brother interjected: “I speak English,” he bellowed, sending the counter-help ducking for cover.

• The “Thruway” is a toll interstate from New York City to the Pennsylvania state line west of Buffalo. It’s the main east-west highway across New York state. —It more-or-less parallels the Erie Canal, avoiding mountains. Across western NY it’s Interstate-90. South of Albany to New York City it’s Interstate-87.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.