Rock-n-Roll, gambling and such

Although last Wednesday's Fleetwood Mac concert was something of a middle-aged paunch fest, the crew rocked the house. At some point during the show, I came to realize that in spite of the graying pony-tails, high-waisted jeans, fanny packs and dirt-squirrels, a regular old rock concert is infinitely cooler than a casino. In fact, casinos are about as cool as NBC's 30 Rock, or a Friday night meeting of The Young Republicans for America. That is to say, not cool at all. A cool factor of absolute zero. The level at which any cool gene ceases to exist. The entity is incapable of producing or supporting cool. Which is weird, because I find the transference of money from the stupid to the house (as in Blake-Jake, or 21) quite fun. I also find the transference of money from the stupid to me (as in limit hold' em) thrilling. Maybe the sum (of idiots and ace-holes) is greater than its parts (the parts being made up of idiots and ace-holes).

Two weeks ago. I'm playing 2-4 limit hold 'em. I'm up about eighty bucks. A woman, mid-forties sits down. Drunk. Her breasts were enormous. Not measured in cup sizes, but length from stem to stern (which by my estimate was around two and one-half nautical miles). She is drinking wine out of a high ball glass, which basically looks like a juice glass. Since no cup holder was available, she kept the glass, swear-to-God, between her sin sacks. She was a horrible player, going through fifty in chips every ten minutes or so. She kept her cash-you guessed it-, in her bra. But not in the way sassy older ladies do, bills all rolled up and under the strap. No, no. She had loose bills, coins, matches and a bus pass in there, all haphazard like. She would fish around in there for a few minutes, and the come up with a twenty attached to an old boot. "That's where I put it!", she would shout each time.

There was a time casinos were cool. For a few years in the fifties. You remember the rat pack? Tailored suits and classy dames. Single malt scotch. But those days are long gone. The custodians dress better than the players nowadays. It's no wonder Sinatra took his life. And Sammy gouged out his own eye.

Curious

As I was walking to my part-time (does 4 hours a week count as part-time?) job this morning, I saw a pamphlet on the ground titled "Are You Curious About Yourself?" It was some sort of handout from those wacky Scientologists trying to get people to come into one of their facilities and check out their religion. I thought it was interesting that the hook was curiosity about oneself. Scientologists seem to have parted ways with the more traditional "Are You Curious About God?" "Are You Curious About the World?" schtick. This is maybe why so many celebrities are drawn to Scientology. They are probably curious about themselves. What makes me tick? they wonder. They often ponder, Who is going to set me straight about me? I am a mystery.

I think that's stupid. I'm not so curious about myself. I am not an infant delightfully discovering my own toes. I've had a few years to figure some shit out and I think I have a handle on who I am. I am, however, curious about a lot of other things. I'll share a few:

1. I'm curious about how my neighbors managed to move an entire household with one shopping cart. It took them three days, but they did it. Mattresses, couches, dresser drawers, you name it. One shopping cart. And where did they go? Obviously not far, but I haven't seen them since.

2. I'm curious about why it is that the friends I'm least curious about on facebook are the ones who constantly update their status. Like, ten times a day. Every day.

3. I'm curious about why somebody at my "part-time" job makes a pretty impressive mess in the bathroom every time I'm there and just leaves it. I wonder if they think no one will notice. I wonder who it is.

4. I'm curious about why anybody gives a crap what Perez Hilton thinks outside of the realms of self-promotion and making lots of money writing a blog.

5. I'm curious about urine-specimen cup etiquette. I had to provide one yesterday and I tried to hand it to the nurse and she was having none of that jazz. She backed away and pointed at the counter. So I tossed it to her. Bad manners?

6. Finally, I'm curious as to why no one told me I had neglected to zip up my fly after providing said urine sample. I had to find out for myself in the parking lot. Good looking out, Steve.

Pulitzer prize winning photo

Taken Friday night at the Havana Room, downtown St. Pete.

Texting, Gambling, and Such

A friend of mine, we'll call him Chris (not his real name---yes it is---maybe not) likes to play the cards and wanted me to meet him at the Hard Rock (we'll talk about that porn star name in a later post). He texted me "what time on Sunday?" Without giving it much thought, I texted back, "How's about 2-ish?" It was at this point I began to feel uncomfortable. The whole thing started to feel, well, a little fem-bo, if you know what I'm-a sayin'. He responded with a decidedly gay, "see you there". See you there? What, is this a date? As far as I'm concerned, texting is the same as passing notes in class. Chick to chick, dude to chick, chick to dude. There were no dude to dude notes. The teacher never intercepted the following:

Brent: I totally was gonna wear that exact shirt today! How weird (cool?) would that have been? Meet me after class to dish.
Your Buddy, Trevor


Never happens.

Today's Decklaration: No more dude texts.

I feel it is my turn to post. However, I am too angry at the amount of money I need to pay in stinkin' taxes and also I'm hungry.

Enchiladas!!!

Foreign accents and such.

When I meet a person of Latin or Eastern European origin, I find that I match their accent. And then some. "Jace, ees soooo gooood to meet joo, too", or "Das Boot". It's quite fun. Also, it puts my new friend at ease. They take comfort in talking to a countryman. Inevitably, they will mistakenly believe I speak the actual language and transition from broken English to their native Russian or Spanish. Things take a turn for the worse when I scream "No-a-speaka-dy!", or "Nyet-a-speaka-dy!" As I walk away I look back to see not anger, but sadness.