Rio de Janeiro scandal shows dark side of claw games

For years, I've referred to Chuck E. Cheese pizza restaurants as "casinos for kids."

The parallels are shocking. Both are noisy and dark, with energy and greed and competition. Some people celebrate, while others bemoan how close they came to winning (money, a stuffed animal or a pencil). There are family arguments over whether to keep spending money or shut it down for the day.

Chuck E. Cheese is a Ceasar's Palace for kids.

Turns out that's closer to the truth than we thought.

And it's not Chuck E. Cheese, which I'm sure has a capable legal department that scours the internet to find everything written about it.  I'm not saying a pizza parlor named after a rodent might be unsavory. Not at all. Mea culpa if you thought that.

But the kind of product you might see at a Chuck E. Cheese establishment – again, I'm not suggesting the vermin-controlled pizza parlor is unscrupulous – is apparently more like a slot machine than a contest of skill.

Consider Rio de Janeiro, where police recently carried out an aggressive sweep of claw machines. Claw machines are those glass-box machines with joystick-operated claws. You try to grab a stuffed animal after dropping in whatever money they require (maybe $2 or $3).

According to an article by The Associated Press, "Officers seized claw machines, laptops, tablets, cell phones, a firearm and – yes – furry friends. They are investigating whether organized crime groups may be the invisible hand behind the claw because they already run slot machines and a popular lottery known as 'Animal Game' across the city."

Organized crime may be in charge of Rio's claw games!

This isn't the first time. A few months earlier, Rio police seized 80 such machines, ostensibly putting a severe crimp in the plans of parents who hoped to impress their 4-year-old with their ability to grab a stuffed penguin.

Police said there were two major crimes involved: First is that machines were rigged to pay off after a certain number of turns, changing them from a game of skill to a game of luck. Second was that the games had counterfeit toys, so a stuffed tiger was even cheaper than you thought.

Cheap payoffs and a fixed game? Other than every single county fair I've attended, that sounds shady!

That couldn't happen in the United States, right?  Right?

Well, there are certain standards we have. According to the AP article, most states consider claw machines games of chance, which is the opposite of what appears to be how they are presented in Argentina. American claw games are specifically exempt from gambling statutes if they comply with certain rules, probably because the Big Claw lobby has so much influence.

Of course, the people running such games also need a certain number of winners, so people keep thinking it could be them – similar to how people who run carnival games make sure a few people carry around massive stuffed animals as a passive advertisement for how great their game is.

Claw game enthusiasts in Rio de Janeiro appear to have a bigger complaint than the consideration that the game is based on luck, rather than skill. They also seem to believe the claw is weaker and can't grab stuffed animals – a scenario familiar to those of us beyond a certain age who find it tough to open a pickle jar. To the Rio claw-gamers, the game got tougher. Too tough.

Rio claw-game enthusiasts are shaken. Skill isn't the thing. The claw can't grab big stuffed animals. And the toys are counterfeit.

I'm sure that Chuck E. Cheese and other such establishments haven't rigged their games to guarantee profitability. The reason is simple: When my kids were young, you had to spend about $30 in gaming coins to win enough coupons to acquire a 50-cent toy. That's a payoff of $60 for the house for every $1 in expenses. If you can do that, there's no need to rig the games further.

Note to the Chuck E. Cheese lawyers: That's a compliment to your business model, not a criticism.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Leaving on a jet plane . . . I'll land with clean teeth and a new tattoo

Hear me out. This isn't absurd.

This might sound absurd. But years from now, we'll look back and wonder why it took so long to do this. Like changing the rules to make baseball pitchers throw pitches within 18 seconds. Or instituting trading curbs to slow stock market crashes. Or creating microwaveable taquitos.

All so obvious in retrospect.

So hear me out, but first, establish the reasoning:

1. Virtually everyone dislikes going to the dentist. Dentists aren't (necessarily) evil or sadists, but if you had an opportunity to get all the benefits of teeth cleaning without going to the dentist and sitting in that torture chair, would you take it? Of course.

2. Consider the colonoscopy, that unfortunate procedure you should have done at least every decade upon turning 50. It involves at least 24 hours of fasting, taking something that "cleans out" your system and having someone drive you to and from an appointment. That doesn't even address the procedure. If you could have the same result without enduring all that, would you do it? Of course.

3. Now think about other uncomfortable procedures. I'm not talking about major surgery, but things like a biopsy or Lasik (is that a brand name? Maybe.). Getting a tattoo. Anything that takes time and makes you uncomfortable. Would you take the result without the discomfort? Of course.

4. Finally, consider long plane flights. If you're going to Hawaii, Florida or the Philippines – or anywhere that requires five hours of sitting uncomfortably in a plane next to strangers, would you prefer to get there without the discomfort? Of course.

So hear me out.

What if there was an airplane flight where they would anesthetize you and then do every medical procedure you need: Clean your teeth, do a colonoscopy and give you that tattoo you've wanted. When you wake up, you're in Honolulu or Miami or New York City. It feels like you just got on the plane, but  your teeth and colon are both clean (presumably with different doctors and with hand-washing between), while you've got a new "Fanilow for Life" tattoo on your back with a picture of Barry Manilow.

It's a hybrid plane/surgery center. Brilliant!

The finances would work. Would you pay extra for that? I would. Would doctors and their assistants do that? Sure, they'd get free trips. Would an airline do that? They could charge more, so the answer is yes.

The hybrid plane/surgery center is the greatest idea since microwavable taquitos! We must make this happen! It's so obvious.

One day your grandchildren or great-grandchildren will be shocked to hear that we used to make an appointment to get our teeth cleaned or to get a colonoscopy. It will seem ridiculous.

"Why wouldn't you just take an airplane flight?" they'll ask.

You'll shake your head and give no answer as you eat a microwaved taquito.

The great ideas come around only once in a while.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

A surprising percentage of your neighbors fear tornadoes

I hate to tell you this, but you probably know someone who is irrational.

You may already know that, based on your acquaintances' views on politics or sports or pizza toppings or whether Milli Vanilli should have been forced to return their Grammy award (after all, the award goes to the musicians, not the lip-syncing guys). But now you know for sure.

According to a survey by the good folks at Yougov, 6% of Californians think tornadoes are a "major problem" where they live.

Yes. Roughly one out of 15 Californians live in fear of tornadoes. Of course, that's not the main natural disaster we fear. That is earthquakes. According to the survey, 32% of us consider earthquakes a major problem– which seems a bit low to me, since 70% of California's population lives within 30 miles of an earthquake fault.

I mean, I'm not afraid of earthquakes. I'm not afraid of anything other than the clothes in my closet when they seem to take human form after we turn out the lights. (Two major fears of my childhood: That Charles Manson would escape from prison, come to my Humboldt County home and kill me; and that I would inexplicably go down the drain of the bathtub. By the time I was in my 40s, I had conquered those fears.)

But to repeat. One-fifth as many Californians fear tornadoes as earthquakes. Despite there being zero recorded deaths due to tornadoes in California's history.

That begs the question: Why?

Part of it may be some anxiety that we Californians embrace. After all, only 3% of Oregonians, Nevadans and Arizonans consider tornadoes a major problem and only 2% of Washingtonians consider tornadoes a major problem. (And yes, I was anxious about how to spell all those words.) We're twice as anxious about tornadoes as residents in our neighboring states.

The concern may come because so many Californians moved here with a baked-in concern from their home state. Maybe a decent chunk of that 6% includes people from Kansas or Nebraska or Oklahoma (all part of "Hurricane Alley," which constituted the former Big Eight Conference). 

There's also the possibility that movies ("Twister," "Twisters," "The Wizard of Oz") have given us a sense that tornadoes can crop up anywhere. In rural Kansas. In urban Oklahoma. In Vacaville. In Cordelia.

But 6% of Californians consider tornadoes a major problem. Also, 8% consider hurricanes a major problem (also unlikely, but more possible) and 32% consider earthquakes a major problem. Significantly, 63% of us say none of the above, which makes it clear that there is a lot of overlap in fears. The same people who fear hurricanes and tornadoes likely also fear earthquakes.

The good news is that most things we fear never happen. The economy hasn't collapsed. Steph Curry hasn't reinjured his ankle in a long time. That clicking sound in your car engine went away. 

So a fear of tornadoes is not, in the current pseudo-spiritual language, likely to manifest tornadoes.

How do I know? I never went down the drain and Manson never came for me. As far as I know. Although maybe he was coming for me but was swept up in the great Southern Humboldt County tornado of 1973.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

When worlds collide: Is our galactic collision avoidable?

So we may avert disaster.

Whew!

For the past 112 years – give or take, depending on when you became aware of it – we've had a feeling of impending doom. Disaster was coming. It was just a matter of time.

Since 1912 (the same year the Titanic sunk and Fenway Park opened in Boston), astronomers believed Andromeda and our Milky Way galaxy were on a collision course. It would be a terrible crash, like when Scott Cousins ran over Buster Posey in 2011 and ended Posey's second season.

They didn't have a precise timeline for the collision, just that it would happen in the next several billion years. But, like global warming, colonoscopies and Raiders fans being irrationally confident about their team, this had a sense of inevitability.

One day we'd be living our lives and BAM! We'd slam into Andromeda. Or vice-versa.

The anxiety of that could be called the Andromeda Strain, if that wasn't already been the name of a book by Michael Crichton that was made into a movie starring Arthur Hill as Dr. Jeremy Stone.

But enough about that. According to an article on Science.org, we've known about the coming collision since, "(astronomer) Vesto Slipher noted that (Andromeda's) light is blue-shifted – squashed toward shorter wavelengths by the Doppler effect, in the same way that an oncoming ambulance siren whines with a higher pitch."

Great description, presumably. Apparently that signaled a collision with the Milky Way, a possibility that became more terrifying when we (by that, I mean Vesto Slipher and I) discovered that Andromeda is actually a galaxy, not an expansion franchise in the Milky Way. Stated simply, Andromeda is not the astronomy equivalent of the Miami Marlins.

After 1912, things continued to change. A 2008 study suggested that the collision between the galaxies would happen in the next 5 billion years. That collision would create a bigger galaxy, but with some stars (possibly including our sun) spinning off and out into space, like when Google buys a competing tech company and becomes bigger, but cuts loose thousands of employees. Sort of. (I don't understand business or astronomy.) The study suggested Earth and the sun would be absorbed by the new galaxy, the kind of optimism that those Google-purchased employees would have shortly before discovering their key cards no longer work.

I know what you're thinking. 

Well, other than, "That guy sure doesn't know much about business or astronomy." You're wondering how likely the collision is, because you have plans for 6 billion years from now and want to know if it's worth adding them to your calendar.

Well, the new study finds that several factors (the motion and mass of the galaxies, the inclusion of a third galaxy, late money coming in on the Raiders) dropped the odds of a collision from overwhelmingly likely to about 50-50 and pushed the potential date of the collision to 8 billion years from now.

Good news: You can add that event that's 6 million years from now to your calendar, you can rest for another 8 billion years, you can drop the name "Vesto Slipher" into casual conversation and most importantly, you get some bonus news.

Should Andromeda and the Milky Way collide and create a new galaxy, astronomers already have a name: Milkomeda.

So we've got that going for us. And by "us," I mean you, me and Vesto Slipher.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Offsides, QB1, nickel defense: Understanding dumb football terms

I'm old enough to remember when I knew what offsides meant in football: Virtually everything.

I don't mean it was that valuable. Back in the day, "offsides" had varied meanings that covered a variety of circumstances. Back then, football penalties had simple descriptions. Now, the officials sound like scientists when they describe a penalty.

America's most popular sport returns this week. We'll have NFL games every Thursday, Sunday and Monday (with some Fridays, Saturdays and even one Wednesday – Christmas! – thrown in) until late January. And we'll hear officials and broadcasters use terms that would confuse a time traveler from the 1970s or 1980s.

Some examples:

• Offsides. When I was a kid (when Red Grange was running wild through defenses before the launch of the NFL), "offsides" was the call if the offensive or defensive player was ever on the wrong side of the line of scrimmage. Now we have a series of different calls that you'll hear an official make:
• Neutral zone infraction. This is when a defensive player lines up in the area paralell to the ball. In other words, offsides.
• Encroachment. This is when a defensive player lunges past the line of scrimmage before the ball is snapped. In other words, offsides.
• Unabated to the quarterback. This is when a defensive player gets past the offensive line before the ball is snapped and has a clear shot at the quarterback. In other words, offsides.
• False start. This is the opposite of the three previous examples: This is when the offensive player (usually an offensive lineman, although it can be someone else) starts forward before the ball is snapped. In other words, offsides.
• QB1, QB2. This is the starting quarterback and backup quarterback. I suspect this comes from fantasy football, where people look at their roster with their first and second quarterback. It's not clear why QB1 is a better phrase than "starting quarterback" or QB2 is better than "backup quarterback," but it's also not clear why , the best solution to an electronic device not working is still to unplug it, count to 10 and plug it back in. Somethings are not for us to understand.
• Nickel defense, dime defense. This isn't new, but still confusing. A nickel defense is when a defensive team brings in a fifth defensive back (they usually play four). It's the fifth, so it's a nickel, get it? A dime defense, therefore, should be when they bring in 10 defensive backs, right? But that would leave only one other player, so it's not true. A dime defense is when there's two extra defensive backs . . . or two nickels, which makes it a dime. Hmm.
• Mike, Sam, Will. In the old days (before we said QB1 and QB2), we called the three linebackers in a standard defense the middle linebacker (self-explanatory), strong-side linebacker (lines up on the side that the offense has a tight end, which is the offense's "strong side") and weak-side linebacker (the side without a tight end). Now we use words that start with the letters that begin middle, strongside and weakside. You can figure them out. I'm not sure why they're better than "strong," "weakside" and "middle."
• Hook-and-ladder play. OK, this is a personal choice. People call it a "hook-and-ladder" play when a wide receiver runs a button-hook pattern (runs out and quickly turns around, like a button hook), catches the pass and then laterals the ball to another player. If you read that, you should see the problem: It's a hook-and-lateral play, not a hook-and-ladder. There is no ladder on this play, there is a lateral. 

The takeaway: Feel free to correct your friends the next time they say "hook and ladder." It will bring joy to someone who still wants the refs to say "offsides" for when someone is offsides.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.