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Thursday, September 17, 2009

Running Like a God 

Sometimes I really wish I had Pauly's case of insomnia. I'd probably find much more time to actually write something meaningful and it might even tweak something inside of me to get something out there with even a little substance. In reality I couldn't function on Pauly's amount of sleep and in the end, no one really gives a rat's ass what I post as long as there are nekkid chicks at the end. Heads up to those readers, no girls today.

I've been stuck in quicksand for the last 5 days, aka the media table at the 2009 Borgata Poker Open. Compared to the WSOP, the hours are just as long but the players are 100 times more anonymous and annoying. On Friday or Saturday there were two fights amongst players with one guy getting a cup of coffee thrown in the his face. We had a complete douchebag get so cheesed off for losing in the $1k NLHE tournament that he entered the Ladies Event (legally nothing to stop him) and winning the whole damn thing. That caused us a bunch of hassle to figure out exactly how to handle it from a PR perspective. Thank god I wasn't assigned to cover that event, I might not have made it through the day with my job.

Once we're done in the wee hours of the morning, my first and only move is up to my room to pass out for a few hours. Very little time has been spent in a proper nurturing bar environment. I did get to spend sometime in the Gypsy Bar when my friend's band played Friday evening. I took some quick "breaks" early to lubricate and was feeling pretty damned good when I was cut. I ran into one of those situations that only happen to drunks like me. Pauly has his Existential Conversations with Strippers but I had a conversation that could have gotten me all jammed the fuck up.

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The band was done and ready to drink. The big upside to them getting the A shift in the Gypsy Bar instead of going last. Then they'd deal with drunk Jersey boys in graphic tees and have much less time for imbibment (copyright pending). I caught their last few songs standing at the bar when an extremely drunk but midly attractive girl recognizes me from a previous booze encounter. We threw back a shot and she introduced me to her friend, a definite step up the scale. She was probably very near the ceiling of "girls in my league", which makes automatic adjustment for the subjects alcohol consumption, tolerance, and self-esteem. As Jim likes to say, "Don't outkick your coverage."

This one seemed to hit the sweet spot, hotter than what I should be able to pull yet tipsy and self-conscious. I was drawing to the nuts.

We smoked and talked. Watched the smarmy act smarmy. Making fun of her drunk friend dancing around the room to music not suited for that activity. We discussed our favorite food, restaurant category. She even went so far as to ask for my number since she'd be down the shore for another week, maybe hit up Bobby Flay's or Wolfgang Puck's or some other pretentious establishment. Things were looking very interesting for the very short very near future.

Thanks to the liberal, lung-hugging, socialist, communist, fascist, goose stepping laws on smoking, we were forced outside the bar for our nicotine fix. With each trip outside she would stand just a little closer, not touching but closer. I was able to get a better appreciation for the freckles bridging her nose. She leaned in to whisper to me, like we were still in the ear splitting rock club. "Do you want to go up to your room and party? I like anything. Weed, coke, E. Really just wanna get high and have fun."

Not exactly what I wanted to hear. I'm all for partying like the world ends tomorrow, I just don't happen to do or have any of those things. It's not that I'm some prudish conservative, bible-thumping, jesus-saves straight edge. My only three vices happen to be booze, bacon, and nicotine. I sure hoped this wasn't a deal breaker. "Nah, sorry. I'm strictly a booze hound. There's always the wet bar."

"That's no problem," she said, "We should get inside to see how Drunky McDrunk is doing". Name obviously changed.

Inside she excused herself to hit the little girls room.

And I never saw her again. Not in the bar, not in the casino, nary a call or text message for that visit to Old Homestead.

I continued to babysit the drunk friend as she went on a streak of striking out with the locals gold chain wife beater crowd. It was an impressive run of rejection previously only seen when I was in my prime. She couldn't reach my previously amorous friend on the phone and very slowly began to sober up. We talked about all kinds of things but I mentioned that I found her friend interesting, it was just too bad she bailed.

McDrunk stopped to look me in the eyes, in that way only drunk people can when they are on the verge of complete unvarnished honesty. "Did she ask you to go up to your room to party? I hope not." I nodded and said I just think she was really drunk, looking to have a good time that I couldn't provide. She shook her head and let out a string of impressive cursing.

"You don't understand. She didn't drink all night. She was sober and she's a cop. She gets off busting guys with drugs, she thinks it's funny. She wouldn't have arrested you, but you wouldn't have known that for awhile."

Well fuck my life, I run like a god.

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