Take notes. In the bedrock heart of America, there’s always Vegas. It’s the highwire act in the middle of the dog and pony show. I was doing a magazine piece, and I was stuck in Vegas. There was a long row of one-armed bandits. I wanted this one on tape. I just went down the row of slot machines, asking each player: What do you think. Four words. There was only one response. “I think I’m going to win.” Release the doves. If I say Vegas, I mean America. We are the bandits. Robbing ourselves. By not recognizing that polls and forecasts do, indeed, have a moral element that has been hijacked by the glitz of prediction. A psychotic comes along. He wants to be president, and we shrug. What are the odds. Pollers have been trying to convince us for years that the existence of the undecided means something. But not this time. There is no such thing as the undecided. They are a myth. Beware. The Undecided. It’s a pathology. Why do I feel like I am being jerked around when people say they are undecided. What are you – three. My three-year-old was definitely not undecided about what she liked (the color pink) and what she didn’t like (boys and broccoli). I took a poll. What are the issues that most concern you. You mean me. “Yes. I think they should all vote for me.” She’s not kidding. Kids think what their parents think. Poll them. In the world of physics, prediction is an art. In the world of the casino, a fake Eiffel Tower says everything.