On the second floor of the luxurious Kensington Park Hotel (once home to the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Elks), Ron Hawking has transformed Theater on the Square into the Chairman of the Board's Copa Room. Palm trees, cityscapes, and night skies shimmer across the ornate concert hall. The flawless, 14-piece His Way Orchestra -- led by Sinatra's former arranger, Bill Rogers -- glides downstage on a dais, nestled behind carnation-pink His Way music stands. Hawking's caramel-toned baritone tumbles out from under a rakishly angled fedora. He sounds decadent and Rat Pack sure. The well-dressed crowd cheers as if it's the real thing. "I Get a Kick Out of You," "Ring-A Ding," "The Lady Is a Tramp," "Too Marvelous for Words," "Fly Me to the Moon." Hawking's mimicry is eerie. (You might recognize his voice from television jingles as StarKist's Charlie the Tuna, Progresso Soup's Louis Prima, Hershey's Nat King Cole, or Subaru's Ritchie Valens, but sight unseen you wouldn't guess at the talent.) With a simple prop -- glasses, handkerchief, cigar, cocktail glass -- and a tilt of the head, Hawking fills the theater with Sinatra's best pals: Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Jimmy Durante, Harry Belafonte, even George Burns and Carol Channing (?). He toasts the crowd, wishing them "health, wealth, and plenty of it," and saunters into "Under My Skin." A downy-haired gal at my right brushes a tear from her eye. There are whistles and standing ovations, and you wonder what kind of deals are being made in the back room. Afterward, the San Francisco skyline is disappointing as hell -- no tumbling neon dice, no twirling chorus girls.
I set out in search of a poker game. Sure, Artichoke Joe's is no Sands, and San Bruno isn't exactly Sin City. Still, it's only 15 minutes away and, with 54 tables and an 83-year-old reputation, it is one of the largest and oldest card rooms in the Bay Area. By 9 p.m., the sprawling brown-and-gold casino is bustling. Blackjack, California Low-ball, Hold 'Em. Heavy traffic on the Pai Gow tables. The crowd is a no-nonsense jean-and-T-shirt lot. (Sequins, fedoras, and boas seem slightly inappropriate, but not completely unappreciated.) It's early and not everyone has been swallowed by the dead-eyed wagering stare; the room might even be described as congenial. Hearing of my "Lost Vegas" plans, Harry Lou -- a 43-year-old apple-cheeked man playing Double Hand Poker -- offers some advice: Always leave the table after four losses, and never sit at a table unless you can cover at least 20 bets ($200 for a $10 table). Taking his own advice, Lou picks up and clears out, but not before reminding me that America was built by gamblers.
Outside Lost Vegas -- held in an undisclosed location -- a small group of seedy lounge lizards, dime-store gangsters, and overtly tan blondes waits in line to spin the "Wheel of Fortune" (commonly referred to as "Chicken's Fortune" since the wheel is supposedly weighted, causing folks to pay $10, but which typically, pathetically, lands on $5 or $7). Each "invited" guest receives a handful of chips for his trouble, and a warning not to behave. Somebody stumbles past saying it's sinful to piss in the alley.
Inside the casino, a roiling jumble of tinselly beauties and gold-toothed smooth-talkers crowds around the gaming tables. Cheap booze flows like water, once you've stood in line awhile. Mr. Lucky & the Cocktail Party dish up some sweating-and-betting tunes, with horn-blower Ralph Carney wearing a red plaid jacket that outdoes the fez he wore onstage with Tom Waits two nights before. Large-and-lovely go-go dancers from "Stinky's Peep Show" gyrate on the balcony above. Chicken John squeezes through the crowd in a suit covered in broken mirrors, greasing palms with drink tickets and shouting, "Don't touch me or I'll cut you!" The Rev. Hal Robins performs short-duration marriages by the power invested in him through the Church of the SubGenius, and folks rush upstairs -- past bribable security -- to consummate on the couches in the "Peep Show," where a masked marauder named Senor Bueno forces young ladies to pick cards out of his deck and, failing to levitate the correct card, rushes the bodacious Tigger Le Twang onstage. Miss Twang straddles anyone with green in his hand or a suit on his back; she deep-throats a corn dog, does a backward somersault, and rips off her top, revealing the nine of clubs. The gin-impaired are stupefied, again.
Downstairs, the Devil-ettes, an adorable 14-gal cancan troupe with guns in their holsters and high-cards on their asses, are engaging enough to pull most of the gamblers from the tables. I slip over to Rat Roulette, place a $20 on the seven of hearts, and watch the wheel. Round and round she goes.
Molotov drops a dappled rat named Petey on the wheel. The rat runs and runs, nosing my number, but ducking his head into the ace of clubs hole. A loser. Three more times, then, remembering Mr. Lou's rule, I cut my losses and head over to the racetrack. Insecta and Beekeeper take bets and place the chargers at the starting gate. I put all my money on a large indigo emperor scorpion named Tinkerbell. She's a long shot, having lost every race of the night, but she does well by me, beating Cupcake by a pincer.
The giant Madagascar hissing cockroaches -- Pink Lipstick, Hold All Bets, and Belle Bestial -- look sodden, so I breeze over to the craps table. The craps crew is cutthroat, shouting, "Watch those hands!" in case the superstition about sevens and hand scuffs is true, and enacting the "Virgin Principle," in which virgin dice rollers are very hot players. After a warm streak, I'm up several grand. I think about cashing in my chips for junky trinkets (that may or may not have come from my own house), but decide to double down, instead. I lose it all.
I hit the bar hard.
Someone tells me, "It's Chicken's world and we all just live in it." I order a double. Somewhere in the night I end up married to "Stinky's" chief flesh-peddler Audra Angeli-Morse. She takes me for everything I've got -- or everything I've got left.
Dame Fortune 600.
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By Silke Tudor