A week or so ago, I got an e-mail from an old friend from high school and college. He had, like many of my old friends, lived with me and others in one of the many housing situations I've been through. He slept on the floor of my brother's room for a summer. The message was simple: my wife and I are coming through town and will stop at the Sandia Casino for a few hours.

There are a few things I do for friends that I normally wouldn't do. I don't go to strip clubs, but if a friend really wants to go, I will accompany him (I've been to two strip clubs in my life). I don't go to the big outdoor amphitheater in town, but I went with a friend because he had tickets and really wanted to see Depeche Mode. And I don't gamble (except the occasional Powerball--which is really just giving a few bucks to the state's educational fund), don't go to casinos, but I will meet a friend there. See what all the hubbub is about.

On Friday, I told one of my co-workers (he is an avid gambler and goes to the Sandia Casino regularly) that I was breaking one of my rules. And that I was going to teach myself a $100 lesson. My co-worker doesn't understand my rules (or why I don't play fantasy football for that matter), even though he is a mostly devout Christian and actually has many more rules about living than I do. It's just that my rules are about things he likes to do--so he doesn't understand why I would purposely exclude these things from my day-to-day living.

But despite my rules, on Saturday my brother and I ventured north to the beautiful Sandia Casino around noon. My friend, who lives in Denver, said he would make it there between noon and one. After we got there, we realized that it would mean they had to take off before six in the morning (they didn't make it there until around two or so).

The first thing I noticed when we walked in was the high hum. This continually building high music that seems to imply that you are almost to the peak--except the music never breaks, it is continually building, trying to contain that excitement. After about five minutes, you lose this high hum in all the other noise, but it's always there, pushing you to think everything could get just a little bit better.

Neither my brother nor I are good at gambling, and we don't really know the rules. Here are some of the rules we discovered: Don't change your money for chips at the change counter--do it at the table. Don't hand your money to the dealer--put it on the table. We had to learn the hand movements for blackjack (gambling is a surprisingly silent affair between the participants--all done with hands and looks, so we can all deny that it occurred later, I guess). We sat down at a $25 a hand table (because it was empty and the dealer was a cute girl) and were reminded that each table had a minimum bet (we moved to the $5 table). When playing roulette, don't take your winnings off the table until the little glass marker has been removed. Don't say "I'm trying to count cards," it's kind of like saying "bong" in a head shop. Luckily the dealers and casino managers are nice about these sort of faux pas and gently remind you of your mistakes.

We got there way before our friend and his wife. And after losing a little over $50 in about ten minutes (collectively), my brother and I were tired of gambling. We did a tour of the casino (it's really not that big) and settled down at the bar. Unlike Vegas casinos, in the New Mexican Native American casinos you can't drink and gamble at the same time. You can drink and then, when you're done, go back and gamble, but you can't hold a drink and cards at the same time. I don't think I'd be a better gambler if I had a drink at the same time I was counting cards.

The final breakdown of my $100 lesson was like this: $60 gambling (roulette and blackjack, about fifteen minutes of time) $40 food and drinks (about five hours and fifteen minutes of time) I'm a much better drinker than a gambler.

I found out the difference between gamblers and everyone else when my friend arrived. You see, he has a system. All people who gamble on a semi-regular basis have a system. Having that system makes them believe that they can beat the house--because sometimes they do beat the house. I have no system, so I don't believe I can beat the house. The house always wins my money.

Every gambler I know has a story about beating the house. How once (or maybe more than once) they paid for their rent with one trip to the casino. And they love to tell these stories. But they don't always tell me about the other times when they lost the rent money. They don't talk about the times they go and break even with the house. No, the stories are always about winning. Because the winning makes them believe in their system. And the system makes them believe they will win.

My friend won--eventually. He did go down a few hundred bucks before he made it back (and then some on top of that). His system of playing roulette is pretty good. But it took him hours to accomplish this--so his wife, my brother and I spent most of the time he was doing this in the bar. Because we realized that our standing around watching him was not good luck, and we also knew that we were better drinkers than gamblers.

And isn't life all about learning your limitations, as well as what you excel at?

Matt Worley is a big winner, but not at the casino.