Top Slut

Awash in love and admiration for the Noodle Bar, Falstaf and I made the arduous trek to the sportsbook bar (distance: 10 yards) where I announced to the assembled masses that my payout (refund) from the tourney would be used solely and entirely to buy booze.

I'm a giver.

$135 doesn't go a long way at The Venetian, but I took the orders of everyone within spitting distance and it was Game On. Waffles was the only one to refuse my offer. This may have been because he was half-on, half-off his bar stool and half-on, half-off his rocker. He slumped benignly against the bar, but his voice was strident and insistent, "I'm (gurglegurglegurgle) not (blechblech) sluuuuurrrrring."

What ever you say. Here's another Fiji.

Geno, Irish Jim, Betty, JD and his Sugar Mama, BG, drizz, Al, G & G Makeout Factory, Bam Bam and others milled about and we pounded drinks and told scatalogical stories because we're all 8 years old at heart and poo is funny. I made a football bet, bought another round and Otis and the Rooster got heads-up. When it was over, we all stood around waiting for someone to do something. Controlling this group might be like herding cats, but when someone comes up with an idea, one that appeals to all, the crowd can get moving pretty quickly.

IP, ho!

I talked with NYC up-and-comer Karol on the brisk walk over, finally donning my knit cap that I had already lost once during a break in the tourney. It had fallen out of my back pocket and I hurriedly re-traced my steps as the break ended, even going so far as to ask a bathroom attendant if he'd picked it up. It was lost, I'd assumed, before I'd ever put it on my head. Until the next break when I saw it sitting on the brush's desk in the poker room. "This is my cap," I told the brush. "Congratulations," he said, and waved me away.

So, anyway, I was warm. And starting to feel a buzz. Those greyhounds had a latent effect. They were simply lying in wait for the catalyst that was Heinekin. Two greenies and I was ready for takeoff. The Geisha Bar provided the turbulence.

I bought another round and just parked myself in the 'U' of the bar. Al was next to me, rooted to his barstool. "I can't get up," he said, over and over. "I'm afraid to fall." And in the next breath he made sure I'd be at the sportsbook bright and early. 8:30, he said. Forget you, I said.

The hookers soon showed, including one with an ornate tattoo on her lower back. It was complicated, swirly like a trellis, classy, in a whorish way, and you could only see the whole thing when she bent over and her shirt rode high enough. We couldn't figure out what the tattoo said.

"Dope Shit."
"Top Slut."
"It continues below her jeans. It says, 'Don't Shit Where You Eat.'"

The last killed us. BG is adament is said, "Pop Shit." I'm still not convinced. And would have liked to play the game longer, but I had the attention span of a gerbil at that point.

Several Newcastles (and one godawful shot) later, I felt the need to focus gamble. Pai-Gow!

We had the usual suspects, maigs, Geno, drizz, Betty. Anyone else? GCox? HellifIknow. I do remember introducing G & G Makeout Factory to my inimitable Pai-Gow style.

I squeeze the cards. Slowly. Tortoise-like. It ups the enjoyment for me. The anticipation, tension and hesitation. I like to know what cards I need before I get down to the 6th and 7th. I cajole them, beg them, curse them.

I had no idea G & G were sweating me, though there were plenty of people walking by and chatting. Not only were they sweating, they were, in Garthski's words, "Riveted.

"(Joe), I can't tell you how much we're enjoying the suspense of watching you play your cards," he said. Or something of that nature. True connoisseurs of the game, those two. I think the enjoyment for all of us was even greater because I was on a heater. Bonus Frenzy. I collected a bonus on five straight hands at one point. I revealed back-to-back boats. I collected an envy bet on somebody's quad deuces. I could not fucking lose, which I find is a common occurance for me when I'm gambling and not giving any shit at all about how things turn out. So, I took a couple hundred off the table.

Sunday would feature the ultimate Slump Buster. But I felt like I'd already turned the corner. Or would have, had I been able to feel anything.