It started out with a little old lady, clutching an umbrella, sitting in a parking lot at 7 a.m. on a drizzly morning. I wondered who she was and what she was doing.
I later found out that she was waiting for the bus that takes patrons to and from the Chumash Casino. The bus stop sits just a block from my house and I’ve since seen people there at all hours: little old ladies with umbrellas at 7 a.m., groups of young people at 11 p.m., and everything and everyone in between. So I thought I’d ride the bus, check out the casino, and see who exactly these people are and what it is about the casino that draws them out there.
Then I got a call out of the blue from my mother with an offer. A family friend, casino regular, and now total saint, Monica Evans, was using her casino comp points to buy Ron and me tickets to see the Foreigner concert at the casino, and my folks were being even more saint-like in offering to babysit our three boys. This kind of thing never ever happens—especially in time to coincide with an article I’m working on—so of course we jumped at the opportunity. But they warned us firmly, “Don’t take the bus. You’ll never get there in time.”
“But I wanted to see who ; ” I started.
“Don’t take the bus,” my mom said.
I turned to Ron: “They said not to take the bus.”
“We’ll check into it,” he said.
“They’re going to take the bus,” I heard my mom say off the phone.
“Don’t take the bus. Just use valet and tip the guy a buck,” I heard my dad say in the background.
So we promised not to take the bus and later looked into it and discovered that the bus only runs every four hours or so. I should’ve known. My folks are regulars there—they should know. If I wanted to meet interesting people, I wouldn’t be doing it on the bus.
So we drove to the casino and ended up in Vegas. Or at least you could’ve blindfolded me and convinced me of that. The lights, the fountains, the slot machines—it all had a sort of Vegas glam about it.
We rushed up to The Willows, the casino’s fine dining restaurant, which was lively and elegant and full of class, the sort of place you’d pop into on a Saturday night in San Francisco, when you were dressed to the nines with cash lining your pockets.
The casino has dining options for any mood, including a buffet and a cafe;, but on a rare night without children, and a chance to reminisce with a great ’80s rock band, we were going four diamond.
Even though the place was packed, manager John Blair graciously—and quickly—found us a table on the patio. We sat out there on a beautifully warm night and shared a conversation with good friend, John Fitzpatrick, and a friend of his who were also grabbing a bite before the concert. We talked about John’s photography and his short foray into the winemaking business. The wait staff, Steven and Mark, were attentive, quick, courteous, and, most important, mindful of our need to get to the concert downstairs. The food, prepared by Executive Chef Anthony Minetti, was terrific. Duck confit, Alaskan halibut, a little brandy, a little wine, and our evening was off to a good start.
To be honest, I was a little unsure of what to expect. I remember when the casino was a small building with a tent for the bingo parlor, so seeing it grow up into such an elegant place with a resort and spa was a little hard to believe.
During the bingo parlor days, I sat in on a few games with my parents. Back then, I was always more fascinated with meeting the people who played rather than with the game itself. Curious about the little trinkets people had lined up in front of them for luck, I’d often miss stamping my bingo card, causing my mom to furiously search my cards for the called numbers and my dad to search her cards in turn. It was amazing, and a little sad, to hear stories of people who had systems for winning, who never missed a game, who always won on their lucky number, and, in some cases, were betting their rent money.
This time, however, it was different. I kept searching for those compelling stories, but all we kept finding were people we knew. Sure, there were a few interesting characters at the slot machines, but by and large, there were a lot more people we knew than I think we had expected. Except when we got to the Samala Showroom for our concert.
Foreigner took the stage, but it wasn’t Foreigner, it was Foreigner’s lead guitarist and four other guys we didn’t know. Ron immediately decided he didn’t like these guys. To him, they were unfamiliar, they were young, and they just weren’t Foreigner. But the guys could rock. And once I convinced him to be open minded, it was hard to deny that the concert was really a lot of fun and the band was really good.
In the end, we got to get re-acquainted with a familiar place that has become new, got to know an old band that has new members, and spent some new time with old friends.
Sometimes a little of the same can be a whole new experience.
Arts Editor Shelly Cone just needs ‘B-4’ to win. E-mail her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Oct 30 – Nov 5, 2008.