Sunday: Bloody Sunday

The first thing I did when I woke up Sunday morning was math. I vaguely recalled my craptacular flameout at the table the previous evening and wanted to know exactly how much it cost me. The second thing I did was decide not to drink for quite some time, at least until later in the afternoon.

I was barely coherent and was lucky to have Chad and Bobby around in order to make it to Mandalay Bay for kickoff. Left to my own devices, I'd probably still be wandering around Luxor. I did have the good sense to buy a couple bottles of Gatorade first.

"You wanna drink," Bobby asked me...oh...27 times. "Leave me alone," was my usual answer. I felt awful, but the game was instantly compelling. As Garth is my witness, I called Zindane going with the "cheeky chip" on the PK. I should bet on things like that--and Roshambo with Iggy--rather than my crappy poker cards.

I had put a hundred on Les Bleus, my reasoning being that the game was essentially a coin flip, so France was the price play at +140. I was exactly correct. In fact, France was an underserved loser after their complete domination of the second 45. Not that it won me any money. Gambling is dumb.

Despite the full-body rebellion against the previous evening's (morning's, afternoon's) excess, the match was enjoyable, thanks to the attacking play and the company of a dozen or so bloggers. One surreal moment came when the big screen flashed a shot of President Clinton (white wine in hand) in the stands, causing the sportsbook to erupt in cheers. Did that just happen? Another time, the camera panned to the French President, Frenchy McFrenchman, and Bobby The Rooster screamed out, "Fix your economy!"

As you all know, the Italians won in penalties, their first such triumph in the World Cup (see that, England, Holland?) and took their trophy back to the Mediterranian to face criminal charges, demotions and expulsions. Nice. I took my stupid ass over to the Cafe, along with Bobby, April, F-Train, The Heads and The Kid, for a $20 double cheeseburger. It was very good, the first food I'd had since a stromboli about 24 hours earlier, but it only served to further illustrate that what I really needed was sleep.

This is a hurtful revelation to me, a man who has spent many Vegas weekends without the slightest shut eye. Guess I'm feeling my age.

I was awakened a couple hours later by a phone call from a girl. Hear that ladies?

I shower and call ANOTHER girl (damn, how does he do it?) and she says,

"It's roulette time!"
"April?"
"What?"
"Did you just say...?"
"Roulette Time!"
"It's NEVER Roulette Time."

Except when it is. Soon, we had commandeered the entire table, save one spot (shout out to my main man, Jorge!) April had a massive stack. Iggy's was bigger. Bobby, as you may or may not have heard, was running a little poorly that weekend, a fact he helpfully pointed out to the rest of us so we could bet on numbers he didn't. In fact, it soon became apparent that whatever number hit would be adjacent to the one he put a fiver on. So, each time he placed a bet, there was a frenzy of activity to surround that number. It was like the monkey cage at poo-flinging time. Such advanced strategy kept me--and my buy-in--alive for a good 90 minutes. Maudie and The Princess would soon join us, the latter showing special skill at both roulette and knocking over my beer (three times!). I eventually had to hold my Heine above my head and give her the Heisman with my off arm to keep the precious barley and hops safe. Dawn and Penner happened by and called out winning numbers for us. I was all-in on half a dozen occassions and still managed to keep playing. My favorite number, 17, hit five times. I played it one of those five. I played it 20 other times to no avail. Clearly my roulette game is rusty.

The surprisingly long roulette session led to us chasing The Heads to Casino Royale for some cheap craps (a decadent choice made over drunken bowling at the Orleans). By the time we arrived, they were safely back at the Excal. D'oh! We walked part of the way back, stopping for food at O'Shea's (only the best!) where Iggy got tilted over his chicken parm and Heather didn't spill my Gatorade.

Back at the Excal for Beverages and More, including me dropping another buy-in and a half at the 1/3 game, most of it to Garth, meeting Carmen (officially) and having some fun with the non-bloggers at our table.

Blogger (I forget who it was), to random guy with iPod: What are you listening to?
Randome guy: Nothing (takes ear buds out). Battery ran out.
Me: ANGLE SHOOTER!

I'm loud when I'm drunk. What? Oh yeah, somewhere in there I got drunk again.

************************

I had a fantastic time. I have a few regrets, mostly born from the fact I was a drunken chicken running around drunkenly with his drunken head cut off for most of the time. The best parts, as always, were sitting with my freinds, shooting the shit about this that and everything, and in my hyper state, I didn't do enough of that. To those new folks I did meet, however briefly, I apologize for the short shrift. I'm a giddiot. Ask anybody. Next time.