BOB STUPAK TRIBUTE, PART 8

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.

BOB STUPAK TRIBUTE, PART 7

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 7: SOUL SEARCHING IN SIN CITY

“A man’s success is not based on his wins or loss, but on the values he instills in his children. I have three children and I am very proud of each of them,” Stupak offered, showing another gentle side of the more often pugnacious man.

Being in the casino business, have you made an enemies?, I asked.

“The devil,” Stupak said. And he wasn’t smiling.

This turn to the spiritual reminded Stupak that it was time for me to pass another test/quiz before I could extend the interview into its third hour.

“This is a hard question for atheists, but an easy one for people of faith,” he said, the smug grin reappearing on his mug as he ticked off my clues:

“It’s bigger than God.

Rich people don’t have it and they don’t want it.

Poor people have a lot of it.

If it is all you had to eat, you would surely die.”

I struggled for an answer of what “it” is. The intimidator goaded me more, saying most kids under age five answer the riddle correctly in an instant.

Still foundering, I was offered a lifeline. Stupak picked up the business card I’d handed him and began to dial my home number. He proposed a side bet -- $20 – on whether my wife would answer the phone back in Ohio. It was nearly 11 p.m. on a work night back home.

“She may be sleeping,” I offered. “With the guy down the street,” Stupak said with a fat, devilish grin.

The bet was a push because my mother, in town visiting my spouse during my Vegas adventure, answered the phone. My wife was equally stumped by Stupak’s riddle.

My father saved my bacon by coming up with the answer, muttering something about having read the riddle in Reader’s Digest.

“Nothing,” my dad answered.

“Nothing is correct,” Stupak said to me. “You should have known right off the bat that nothing is bigger than God. You must be an atheist.”

I tried to get back to the interview, asking whether Las Vegas had gotten better or worse in the three decades he’s lived there.

“Worse,” he said in that voice as dry and harsh as the Nevada desert.

Why?

“Too big, too crowded, too much traffic,’’ he rattled off.

I asked if gaming had gotten better since the Seventies.

“No. Too big, too complicated, too much,” he shot back. “Too many different people going after the pot.”

I asked if big money drove him away from the Stratosphere, the very place he dreamed of and campaigned for relentlessly when it was little more than an artist’s sketch and a dream in the complex head of Bob Stupak.

“I still go in the Stratosphere occasionally. It’s not like I’m not welcome or I’ve banished himself from it,” was the only way Stupak chose to address the line of questioning.

BOB STUPAK TRIBUTE, PART 6

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 6: LIFE IS A POKER GAME

“Life is a poker game, never forget that,” Stupak said.

He’s always looking for an edge, an angle.

“How tall are you?” Stupak asked with that torched-out voice of his.

“Five-9, maybe 5-9 and a half,” I answered.

Stupak pounced on that, asking me if I wanted to bet 20 bucks that I was within a half inch of the 5-9 figure I first answered with. I said sure and rose to my feet. When he could see I was a good inch taller than his 5-8 frame, he lost interest in the wager.

Later, he explained that the height bet was almost always a winner for him, because men inflate their true height by an inch or more.

When it came time for photographs, Stupak was very fidgety. He joked, but seemed uncharacteristically nervous. Stock seriously, he explained that he’s a movie star – he’s had some speaking bit parts in films and once enjoyed a juicy role on the 1980s television hit Crime Story – and that he needed time to primp and could be photographed only in the proper light.

Very quickly, he waved off my notion of snapping more portraits, barking “you’re done, you got your dash.”

I looked puzzled.

“You know what your dash is, don’t you?,” he said with a churlish smile.

The man with a junior high education had stumped the college graduate who depended on words to make his living.

“On your tombstone, they put when you were born and when you died, with a dash in between,” a fully-grinning Stupak explained. “That’s what you’re doing now. That’s the dash.”

More casino floor philosophy from Mr. Las Vegas – an actual title bestowed on Stupak by the mayor of Las Vegas several years ago.

I asked Stupak whether he is motivated by the glory of success or the fear of failure. He paused long, and reflected.

“Probably fear of failure,” he said.

“Lots of times I’ve thought, `oh, what have I done,’ but you don’t count your failures, you don’t agonize over them, you don’t look back,’’ Stupak continued. “Losses are a learning experience. I’ve made thousands of mistakes -- the key is to not repeat them.”

“Sometimes you lose, but that’s what the rules are. You forget about it and move on. You don’t have to hit a home run every time, you just to be satisfied with your own output,” the Zen master-Vegas Guy concluded.

The Polish boy from Pittsburgh was raised Catholic, but he doesn’t practice Catholicism any more. He doesn’t go to church, but he’s deeply religious.

Stupak has said he pays more attention to the Man Upstairs since he was given a second chance at life, after he was spared a gruesome death at the wheels of his own motorcycle in ’95. The drinking, cussing, smoking Vegas guy softened when he explained his private relationship with the creator.

“It’s all between you and your god, it’s all a personal thing. You don’t get judged by other men.”

BOB STUPAK TRIBUTE, PART 5

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 5: WIN THE WAGER OR HIT THE PAVEMENT

Little did I know, I’d soon be wagering – not so much for cash, but for the right to prolong the interview.

About a half hour into my questions, Stupak said a special tape from his huge video library would explain him to me. It was a Christmas 1995 video he made for Phyllis McGuire, when relations were strained between the Vegas Guy and the famous lady from the singing McGuire Sisters.

It showed the couple in Las Vegas and all over the world. They were at galas and special events, pictured in sun, rain, and snow. While sentimental music played, shots of Bob Stupak -- bandaged head to toe and recovering in the hospital from his death-defying motorcycle crash in March of ’95 – were spliced in.

“There are three male vocalists singing on this tape,” Stupak growled, interrupting my voyeuristic viewing of the tender and romantic Bob. “You have to name all three to stay. If you miss one, you’re done, you’re out of here.”

Hey, it was Vegas. And I was sitting in the living room of the Number One Vegas Guy. I took the challenge.

The tune was Our Love Is Here to Stay, the Ira Gershwin standard. I knew the first vocalist in a heartbeat. It was the Chairman of the Board, Stupak’s hero, Frank Sinatra.

Stupak walked back into the room and I said “It’s Frank.”

“Does Frank have a last name?,” he asked, indignantly.

“Sinatra,” I pounced.

“You still have to get two, and you’ll never get the last one,” was his response.

The second singer sounded like Nat King Cole. I wasn’t as sure as I was with Sinatra, but it’s the answer I went with.

Ever the gamesman, Stupak went Regis, asking “are you sure?” and “is that your final answer?”

“Yes, yes,” I said, so Stupak let the tape play on toward the third male vocalist, grabbed his smokes and walked into the kitchen to make a phone call.

“In time the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble. They’re only made of clay,” the third singer crooned. “But our love is here to stay.”

The voice wasn’t as commanding as Sinatra’s or Cole’s, but it wasn’t a rank amateur’s either. I thought about the ego of my host, then remembered that using the name Bobby Star, a 19-year-old Stupak briefly had a recording contract with United Artists. Four decades later, a grown up Bobby Star was crooning. He was appealing to the heart of McGuire, a woman who had been a big Vegas star, scoring hits such as Sugartime with her sisters.

“It’s you,” I said to a stunned Stupak as he walked back into the room. It was the biggest rise I got out of him all night. I earned the right to ask more questions by correctly pegging him as the third singer in the trio of love songs dedicated to Phyllis McGuire.

The video Christmas Card/Valentine must have worked. Stupak and McGuire, 10 years his senior, are still an item.
“Am I in love?, yes,” he said. “Am I going to get married? I can’t think of a reason to.” said the twice-divorced father of three.

Stupak almost didn’t live to see Christmas 1995. On March 31, 1995, Stupak crashed his Harley Davidson going more than 60 m.p.h. in a 35 zone on a city street. The impact snapped both arms and his left leg. Stupak, who almost bled to death, broke every bone in his face.

Emergency room physicians were sure he would not live, or if he did, he’d be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life. But after five weeks, Stupak emerged from his coma. After a more than a half year of rehabilitation, he began to regain his health. The once babyfaced Stupak remains scarred from facial reconstructive surgery.

His eyes were damaged to the point where he can’t see well enough to ride a motorcycle again. He wants to ride, Stupak told me, but he’s not crazy enough to get on a bike without two good eyes. The twisted wreckage of the Harley is chained to a post at Stupak’s carport, like some kind of trophy won in his contest with death. It sits alongside display cases that once showed off a bogus $100,000 bill and other mementos from his casinos.

BOB STUPAK TRIBUTE, PART 4

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 4: DEGENERATE GAMBLERS AND LOVE AFFAIRS

That’s great, I thought. But a life that includes winning a million dollar Super Bowl bet, hobnobbing with Frank Sinatra, surviving a horrific motorcycle crash, romancing Phyllis McGuire and starting all variety of casinos from scratch deserves more than a two-word kiss-off.

Then came the silent treatment and a scowl that said Stupak wished I’d disappear as quickly as his bank roll did at Caesars in ’64, or his $100 million stake in Stratosphere stock vanished when the place went bankrupt shortly after opening.

Oh he’s a character, I thought to myself. A rattlesnake of a character. A grumpy, contrarian, intimidating old cuss who is going to bat me around the way a cat plays with a cornered mouse. The more questions I asked, the more I would prolong my agony.

“Regrets?,” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Sure,” Stupak replied, fidgeting with his glasses, then fumbling with his cell phone.

“Examples?,” I requested.

“Relationships,” was the next one-word answer from the man whose life could be explained with two words.

“Specifics?,” I pleaded.

Stupak rolled his eyes, snuffed his cigarette.

“Hey, I regret ways I played certain poker hands. I have a lot of regrets, but I don’t look back on them, I don’t obsess on them,’’ he said. “The past is history, the future a mystery and now is now.”

Finally more talkative, Stupak admitted that he regrets not selling his Stratosphere stock before it plummeted.

“Of course, if you blow $100 million, that means you had $100 million to blow,” he blurted out with typical Stupak bravado.

Struggling to find some common ground, I talked about growing up in the Midwest. Stupak came of age on Pittsburgh’s South Side and I am a product of suburban Cleveland. His late father, Chester, made a living running illegal crap and other games in the family’s gritty, working class neighborhood.

Although he often ran afoul of the Nevada State Gaming Commission, Bob Stupak made his fortune through legal gambling. And he made it with an eighth grade education.

“The world is full of educated derelicts,” he observed.

This is a common Stupak theme. He lives to show you up, to prove he’s better than you and your college degree. Once, I began a question saying “I assume” and he blistered me the rest of the night with the old “when you say assume, it makes an ass out of you and me” axiom.

I asked about his house and Stupak said it’s the house he used to have years ago. He moved back into the seedy neighborhood after his $600,000 house on swanky Rancho Circle burned. The base of operations in the old neighborhood was filled with antique slot machines, a gallery of photos with Stupak in them and a library with thousands of video tapes of Stupak’s appearances, like the time he appeared on CBS’s 60 Minutes.

In the foyer, a Boomer Esiason jersey is on display. It’s a souvenir from Super Bowl XXIII.

Stupak bet $1 million on the Cincinnati Bengals in the 1989 NFL championship. The underdog Bengals lost, but covered the point spread, making Stupak a winner. At the time, it was the biggest sports bet in history.

BOB STUPAK TRIBUTE, PART 3

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 3: FEAR STRIKES OUT

That second day, I rose early and aimed my crappy little rental car out of the Las Vegas sprawl and into the Nevada desert. I drove into California and roamed through Death Valley. The stark openness was deadly beautiful and the long ride killed plenty of daylight hours. By late afternoon, I was back in town. I exited the highway and found a phone booth in a shabby part of town. Little did I know, I was a few blocks from Stupak’s present home.

I dialed nervously. That same jaded voice answered, again on the first ring. To my surprise, the irascible one gave in. I had an address and was to show up at 6 o’clock sharp. I hurried back to the hotel and showered away the desert sand.

Stupak’s house is quite modest by casino owner standards. It’s a large ranch, but the neighborhood is worn and tired. He’s actually just a few blocks east of the Naked City, an area so-named because Fifties showgirls used to sunbathe nude at their cheap apartments there. The area could just as easily get its nickname from the cluster of strip joints, porno book/video stores and hourly motels that dominate Las Vegas Boulevard north of Sahara Avenue.

I went up to the gate, pushed the buzzer, and a worried-looking Bob Stupak showed up at the door. He sized me up for a minute, then buzzed me in. I was bursting with questions to ask, but he shushed me after ushering me through the foyer and into his large living room.

He was watching the end of a film on American Movie Classics. While the Mitsubishi big screen flickered through the final minutes of Fear Strikes Out (the true story of Boston Red Sox outfielder Jimmy Piersall, who battled mental illness), I looked around to see a house decorated in a stereotypical Vegas Guy motif. Big black leather coaches, tacky statuary, casino memorabilia and dozens of framed pictures of Stupak with celebrities defined the decor.

The stench of nicotine was everywhere. A long-time chain smoker, Stupak had an ash tray on the coffee table, another on the armrest, and a third on his lap. All were overflowing with ground-out butts.

As the movie credits rolled, the interview subject I’d pursued for days -- actually, years -- turned to me while lighting another cigarette.

“There’s a book, it’s all in there,” Stupak said with a pained look.

“I know,” I shot back. “It’s called No Limit. I read it and besides, they don’t pay writers to copy other people’s work. If I’m going to profile you, it’s got to come from your responses to my questions.”

Still looking pained, thumbing the TV remote and giving attention to anything but the stranger he’d just invited into his home, Stupak said his life could be summed up with two words:

“persistence and determination.”

BOB STUPAK TRIBUTE, PART 2

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 2: LUCK BE A LADY TONIGHT

In early 2000, I left 13 years as a newspaper journalist – the only career I’d ever had – to pursue book, magazine and Internet opportunities. On a Friday, I ate my “goodbye” cake in the newsroom and cleared out my desk.

On a Monday, I was on an early morning flight to Las Vegas. Sure, I’d gamble, drink and maybe even drive out into the desert to contemplate my new life under the broiling sun. But the visit to Vegas would be a total loss without a meeting with Mr. Bob Stupak.

I left armed with a phone number and the same audacity I used to talk my wife into supporting a solo trip to Vegas for a husband who just walked away from a very secure job. I was determined to track down Las Vegas’ most flamboyant casino operator.

Encamped in a cheap downtown Las Vegas hotel room, I took out the scrap of paper that I’d scribbled Stupak’s number on.

With Lady Luck on my side, I dialed. That cigarettes and Pittsburgh voice answered on the first ring. A little groggy, he demanded to know why I called so early. Realizing you don’t phone Vegas Guys at 10 a.m., I apologized and said I’d phone after lunch.

Stupak was no more accommodating when I phoned later that day. Gruff and growly, he made fun of my hotel choice, recounted how busy he was and questioned why his precious time should be wasted “on some writer with a wing and a prayer.”

Not wanting to show weakness, I hid my concern and staunchly pressed for a meeting time. “Call back tomorrow, I’ll be around.” Stupak said in his unmistakable sandpapery voice.

That first night, I killed time tracing Stupak’s steps through his adopted home town. I visited plush Caesars Palace, where he’d blown a $12,000 bank roll in less than an hour during his first visit to Vegas as a young man in 1964. I drove past 2000 Las Vegas Boulevard, where Stupak started in the gaming trade with the tiny Million Dollar Historic Gambling Museum & Casino. I walked Fremont Street, the newly spruced-up main drag downtown that was showing its age in the mid-`70s when he opened a hole-in-the-wall casino there called Bob Stupak’s Glitter Gulch.

Next, I went to the Stratosphere. Its grounds were once occupied by Bob Stupak’s Las Vegas World, a tacky, space travel-themed casino that was low on luxury, but high on virtually no limit gambling. Stupak made a fortune, perhaps $100 million a year, hosting high rollers at his dumpy Vegas World. That same corner -- on Las Vegas Boulevard a full block up from the Strip’s northern boundary of Sahara Avenue -- was transformed into the 1,049-foot Stratosphere Tower in 1996.

The casino-hotel, home to the tallest tower west of the Mississippi, is a crashing failure. Not only is it not centrally located, it’s plopped down on the edge of some of the seediest real estate in Sin City. Unpopular with visitors and locals, the Stratosphere can look frighteningly unpopulated on a weeknight at 10 p.m.

I’d seen sparse crowds at the Stratosphere before, but on this balmy early April night, the joint was dead. Unlike thriving casinos, where the half-enchanting, half-annoying sound of whirring slots and clanking coin payouts rings out from every corner, the main gaming floor in the Stratosphere was a calm, but depressing quiet. For a $14 investment, I was handed tickets for (1) a ride to the top of the Stratopshere, (2) a ride on the High Roller roller coaster and (3) a ride on the Big Shot, a thrill ride that sort of slingshots passengers up the top of the Stratosphere’s crowning needle.

I thought about Stupak and the joy he must have felt when he led journalists on an opening day tour and took the first rides in the High Roller coaster that gives a 360-degree view of fabulous Las Vegas below, and the Big Shot, which jolts riders high above the neon-lit Strip. Stupak’s shoot for the moon stamp was all over these higher than heaven rides. Strapped in for a High Roller ride next to some salesman from Duluth, I thought about how I’d con the casino man from Pittsburgh into seeing me the next day.

BOB STUPAK TRIBUTE, PART 1

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 1: JUST PLAYIN' THE ODDS

By Steve Wright

Bob Stupak is the kind of man who could drive his biographer to drink, maybe even to a mental ward.

He’s intense, driven, controlling and uber-competitive – and that only begins to describe him.

The Pittsburgh native also is a high stakes gambler, maverick casino boss, devoted father and spiritual man. He is a smallish man who casts a huge shadow.

Steve Wynn is more famous, Kirk Kerkorian more wealthy, but Bob Stupak truly is the last of the throwback Vegas Guys. Fueled by dreams and determination rather than an East Coast education or junk bond fortune, Stupak has more in common with the horse traders who rode into Las Vegas with a bank roll and a lust for life than the art collecting casino kings of today.

Stupak is at once a shameless promoter and a borderline paranoid who antagonizes interviewers and fends off any question aimed at getting to the heart of the man who built the Las Vegas landmark Stratosphere Tower.
Although he had been ousted from the Stratosphere board and lost $100 million in stock when the casino struggled, a life-size statue of Stupak had stood on display in the Strat’s Wall of Fame, proclaiming him “Mr. Las Vegas.”

Bob Stupak is an anti-hero and he not only relishes the roll, he downright makes love to it.

God only knows why I sought an audience with such a man. I think it’s because I’ve always been intrigued by characters, even pain in the ass ones.

Ever since I saw Stupak’s battered mug on a trash TV program on Las Vegas in the mid-90s, I’ve been drawn to him. He spewed Sin City philosophy out of the corner of his mouth in an unmistakable Pittsburghese accent. Looking up at his smirk, his defiant self confidence, I knew I wanted to interview that Vegas Guy dominating my TV screen.

In spring 1999, I visited the Casino Legends Hall of Fame at Tropicana Resort & Casino. I noticed the gilded Stupak statue had been moved from the Stratosphere to the Trop. Looking up at the roughly 5-foot-8 Mr. Las Vegas, I vowed that I would meet the living legend. I later read No Limit, a 1997 unauthorized biography of Stupak written by John L. Smith of the Las Vegas Review-Journal.

The die was cast.


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