AN INDEPENDENCE DAY TRIBUTE TO ONE OF THE MOST INDEPENDENT AND UNIQUE AMERICANS WE EVER BEFRIENDED -- THE LATE, GREAT BOB STUPAK 1942-2009
Editor's Note: In 2000, we abruptly changed careers by our own design. Before relocating from Ohio to Miami, we toured the nation -- interviewing legendary characters. Bob Stupak, the Casino King, stood out more than anyone else.
But he agreed to an interview only on the condition that it be published after he died. Though he was more than 20 years or senior, he had recently beaten the odds by surviving a horrific motorcycle crash. He was always lucky, so he probably figured the story would never see the light of day -- because he would somehow beat the house odds and outlive an interviewer young enough to be his son. He lost this wager, succumbing to leukemia less than a year ago.
So now his cantankerous soul can mutter in his Pittsburghese accent from the great Stratosphere in the sky "dat SOBing reporter got nothin' right about me and now that I can't sue 'eem, he's gonna print the whole #$%@ing story without recourse." The following is the whole bleeping story, frozen in Las Vegas in the year 2000:
PART 8: CRAP SHOOT
Today, Stupak gets daily calls from other dreamers interested in marrying his name to their project to resurrect some deadwater casino off the Strip. He listens, but doesn’t invest.
Stupak has some Internet gambling operations in development and he has a patent on a slot machine that would only payoff in a big jackpot after the player has several consecutive spins that produce no winnings. He calls it Lucky Loser.
Otherwise, his only stake is in the Thunderbird Hotel and Casino, a careworn World War II-era motor court in the heart of the seedy Naked City. The hotel bar is downright scary and the casino has a handful of slot machines.
The marquee out front of the Thunderbird enthusiastically says: “stay on the Strip in Las Vegas for $129 plus tax a week.” It’s not really the Strip, but the address is on Las Vegas Boulevard – the part south of downtown known for hooker-infested hotels.
When I asked how his statue got from the Stratosphere to a museum in the Tropicana all the way at the bottom of the Strip, Stupak had another patented one-word answer.
“Miracle?,” he asked back with a smirk.
He could tell I was amused by the humor, but miffed at the lack of explanation.
“I used to have a sign in my office that said: what you think of me is none of my business,” he offered.
About that time, Stupak’s only son arrived. Nevada Stupak is a polite young man who deals craps and 21 at Bellagio, the upscale Italian-flavored hotel-casino developed by Bob Stupak’s friend, Steve Wynn.
Nevada Stupak offered me a much-needed beer and provided a buffer against his entertaining, but often antagonistic papa.
The senior Stupak insisted that I unpack the same Nikon outfit he shunned hours earlier. He had me set up the flash and exposure and further insisted that I pose for a few pictures with Mr. Las Vegas. Stupak is used to posing. Walls in practically every room of his abode are lined with Stupak posing with Las Vegas’ rich and famous.
“Smile, this will be your most treasured memento,” Stupak said out of the corner of that wrinkled, reconstructed and acerbic mouth of his.
I decided it was time to call it a day and head for the pathetic Chevy Metro rental ride that I’d hidden on a side street. We shook hands and I bid Vegas Guy and son a good night.
Making my way out of Stupak’s residence, I paused in the warm, magnificent Las Vegas night air. I looked up and saw a perfect view of the neon-lit Stratosphere Tower.
Financially, the Stratosphere symbolizes Bob Stupak’s rise and fall. Spiritually, it’s a 1,049-foot monument to the two qualities that make the man: persistence and determination.
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