Some dads teach their kids how to play softball. Others, how to bait a hook.
My dad: How to double down at the blackjack table, pick numbers on the roulette wheel and roll the hard way in craps.
When other families hit Myrtle Beach and Orlando for vacation, we flew to the Bahamas, Puerto Rico and any place else with sun and gambling fun. Together, we played in the waves during the day, then hit the one-armed bandits at night, dodging security guards intent on busting me and my brother for underage gambling.
Ahh, the memories.
So when the Seminole Tribe opened phase one of its Las Vegas-style Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino on June 17, it was cause for family celebration.
Finally, my parents would have another reason to come to Tampa from Rochester, N.Y. They might even spring for a condo and become snowbirds.
Like a good daughter, I rushed to the casino to scope it out. I knew it lacked the real games, but I figured the slot machines, poker tables and bingo hall would suffice in a pinch.
I picked a Thursday night to avoid the weekend stampede. To my surprise, spotlights beckoned from Interstate 4, and cars backed up on Orient Road to park by valet or in the five-deck garage.
Inside, the casino had the makings of most: bright red carpeting, rows of slots and scantily dressed cocktail waitresses and cigarette girls. In keeping with the Hard Rock theme, gold guitars doubled as door handles and rock 'n' roll memorabilia complemented the sleek decor. Plastered in large letters across a wall: WE WILL ROCK YOU.
Noticeably missing was the clank of coins spitting out of the machines. Because Florida forbids traditional casino gambling, the slots don't pay out in cash, just tickets redeemable from a cashier.
In fact, the slots have an odd link to bingo. Before each spin, the words "Daub Now" appear on the screen, referring to the markers used to stamp bingo cards. I found it kind of jarring, like using a Scrabble tile to play Monopoly.
Obviously not everyone took offense. At 10 p.m., all 832 machines were devouring hard-earned cash, and the wait for the poker tables was 30 minutes long.
To wait out the crowds, I headed to Big Joe's Sports Bar, named after a gigantic gator that roamed Seminole lands. His picture hangs next to the bar with the inscription, "He became one of us, and we revered his strength and spirit." How sentimental.
In full-fledged casinos, the bar would have had Keno on big screens or the latest lines on sporting events. At this one, just a dozen large TVs mounted on a darkened wall and modern furniture too nice for wolfing down a cheap ham sandwich.
Floyd's proved more interesting. Named after Pink Floyd, the restaurant and nightclub has a two-story-tall martini glass with a glowing olive, large mosaic-tiled columns and lights that change color in the bar.
The kitchen serves crab cakes, wild mushroom chicken lasagna, cajun ribeye and more. The mango martini, Floyd's specialty, comes in an orange martini glass with a clear ball at the base. Picture a badminton shuttlecock.
Later in the night, the restaurant morphs into a nightclub with an oversized disco ball and live lounge music. The 11-piece band belted Madonna and Stevie Wonder songs - not exactly the latest repertoire but appropriate for this made-in-the-USA crowd.
Don't expect the South Beach bar scene, as the new ads would lead you to believe. For now, people come to try lady luck. They hit the bar to toast their winnings or drown their losses.
I left $10.37 in the hole (not including the $8.50 martini). Odds are good I'll go again, but I won't be making a habit of it.
