Peccadillo - a small, relatively unimportant offense. A trifling fault. We all have our superstitions at the craps table, and if you're like me, we are all quietly trying to educate the newer players about proper etiquette, the timing of the exchange of funds and placement of bets, and general polite behavior when a game is in progress. Here's a list of my favorite peccadilloes when I'm shooting. 1. Throwing cash on a table while a shooter has the dice. I will never understand guys who walk up to a table and regardless of how many people are playing, or who has the dice, or whether or not a point has been set, and just toss a wad of cash on the felt. The lack of situational awareness is stunning. As is the total lack of couth. Yesterday I was playing at Harrahs Cherokee, my regular haunt. I shoot straight out, like to see the whole table, read all the players, be able to have long conversations with the dealer. Had a good roll going--the details of which are totally inconsequential to the story I am telling--and I go through my pre-shot routine, school the dice once, get my set and grip, glance up once to make sure the runway is (relatively) clear and throw. Guy throws a wad of cash two from stick and the cash hits the dice midflight. It was like a Pixar movie, I could see it happen in slow-motion. The cash enveloped one die like a wet blanket, and it fell into the come, totally buried in hundred-dollar bills. Everyone leans forward looking for the dice. Only one is visible. There's a wad of cash with a lump in it where my poor little cube is smothered. The supervisor stands up from his little rolling chair and starts peeling back bills. It takes a while because he doesn't want to disturb the current orientation of the die. Meanwhile, I really don't have to say anything because the rest of the table has my back and are berating the guy. Plus, I don't like to change the energy by calling someone out during my roll. But this guy is defiant, like he didn't do anything wrong. "Dude, you buried the dice with your cash." I am staring daggers at him but remain silent. The die is found, the numbers are tallied, an inside number is called and paid. I lightly touch my frog talisman on the rail but don't say anything. Try to keep my good energy flowing. But I'm pissed. First of all, it's not five twenty-dollar bills or something, so it's not some newbie who doesn't know the game. That's an easy pull the guy aside next time you see him and tell him to wait until the puck is off. This is upwards of several k, so the guy has a bankroll and should know the game. Supervisor has the cash and starts counting, stick asks me if I want the dice. "Naw, count his money," I say sarcastically, still looking at the guy. If you're going to interrupt the game, let's really interrupt the game. Everyone rocks back on their heels from their respective places on the rail, stick drops the stick. I take a sip from my coffee. New dealer comes and taps in. "Oh great," I say, "now we just need the cute cocktail server to ask me if I want a drink, the fire alarm to go off, and the PA system to announce the Covid safety rules to hit all my favorite peccadilloes." I turn to my right. There is Constance standing beside me, pretty and smiling. "You want a drink hun?" The whoop whoop of the alarm sounds, and the white strobe light that will flash for what seems like an hour begins, and the PA announces fire alarm protocol which everyone ignores because only once in the last decade have they made people walk outside when the fire alarm is triggered. I look to Jimmy, my dealer and say, "I can't make this stuff up." He laughs. Meanwhile, new stick is impatient and keeps asking if I want the dice. "No, pay the man," I say defiantly. They push his chips across the felt and still I wait. The dice are shoved toward me and I'm still looking at the guy, coffee cup in my hand. "Don't you wanna place a bet?" He shakes his head and looks down at the rail. "All that and you're not even going to play?" *Nothin'* "What's the point of buying in mid-game if you're not going to place a bet?" "Dice are out!" Stick repeats. I return my drink to the rail and sigh. School the dice a couple of times, sevens. Frustrating. I school them a third time. Seven again. I glance up at the guys straight out across from me, catch one's eye and wave my right hand a little, like scoot to the side dude. He looks down at his chips on the felt and starts to figure out how to move them and I say, "No, no. They're good. I just don't want to hit you." "Oh..." he smiles and steps aside. I throw the dice in a high arc and hit the rail, one does at least, the other is gone. That's hard to do, by the way: purposefully throw the dice so that one leaves the table and one stays on. I find it resets negative energy to chuck 'em off the table. But if you throw both off, sometimes the supervisor will tell stick to pass the dice. "Same dice," I call and reach for my coffee. The die is found, inspected, and returned to me. The music resumes. The cocktail server makes her way to the next table. The stick has already changed. The white light is still strobing from a dozen pillars around the floor, but what can you do? I reach for the dice... Back to work.