Hitting It Big In which our author avoids boozing (but not gambling) on his birthday. Delaware Today, August 2002 Last August was my 21st birthday. It's an important birthday among us young adults, typically rung in with small sips of alcohol, so I'm told. I don't drink, though, so I was looking for a "substitution sin" to assist in signaling my climb from minor to major. Picking an apt immorality was tough. Following a round of brainstorming, I saw that turning 21 allows for not just wanton drinking ... but also wanton gambling. No ordinary gambling would do, though. I put on my thinking cap to brainstorm again, and soon inspiration hit: I would hop on an old folks' tour bus to Atlantic City. What a day, I thought — gambling and socializing with grandmas and grandpas! I was giddy. My mom's grammar-school pal Flo, a fan of Atlantic City slots, would also go (as my official casino navigator). On Aug. 3 at 8:30 a.m., Flo and I got on our bus. Glancing around, I saw that a majority of our tour group's slot-hounds had gray hair or no hair at all. I didn't want to land on a blacklist, though — I put on a hat so my full mop of hair would stay inconspicuous. "Hilton!" Flo said around 10, gazing out our bus window at Atlantic City's vast row of casinos. That was our stop. As soon as Flo and I got through a pair of big glass doors, a casino guard put his hand on my arm: "You got I.D.?" In a flash, I had my I.D. out and in his hands. "Happy birthday," I was told following his long analysis of my I.D. card; I took back my card and with a quick wink ran toward a gigantic row of slots. Now I don't claim that I'm all that good at slots, but I soon saw that out of $10 in coins, my slot jackpot was a big, fat nothing. All around, I saw slots ringing and coins clinking, but my bandit was a total tightwad. Was it a birthday jinx? I didn't want to wait around and find out. Across our casino's spacious floor, I saw a brilliant sign: "Blackjack." It was as lucid a symbol as any 21st-Birthday Boy could want — in blackjack, "21" is trump. I sought out a spot with a minimum of $10 a hand — a low minimum, but I had only $50 to blow. I put two $5 chips down. My first hand's sum: 15, a dismal, unlucky hand. With a tap, I got a third card ... and a bust. In an instant, my funds now stood at $40. Four hands till bankruptcy. And four hands was all it took. Mighty Hilton won my last chip during my fifth and final hand. I slid off my stool with a sigh and said so long to blackjack. My birthday jinx had struck again and my gambling was now through. Flo was still busy with slots, though, so I took this opportunity to walk Atlantic City's boardwalk and rack up a hoard of casino "VIP" cards. A VIP card costs nothing — just fill out a form and it's yours. It's officially what casinos track "comps" with, but unofficially, it's a fun trophy that I thought would look cool among my bland VISA and ATM cards. By 4 p.m., Flo and I got on our tour bus again and had a chat on our way back about our winnings. Flo was up $20 — a good day. I was down $60 with nothing but a wad of VIP cards to show for it. But still, as my grin could confirm — a good day. Shaun Gallagher is managing editor of Delaware Today. The above column does not contain the letter "e."