Year of the Rooster
This past weekend, Las Vegas hosted the Mayweather-Hatton fight, the National Finals Rodeo, a UFC tussle, a Spice Girls reunion show and some sort of International Ballroom Dancing competition. None of which created a stampede like the one from The Venetian sportsbook bar to the poker room when someone said, "It's heads-up. Otis vs. The Rooster."
Funny how people come a-runnin' when El Gallardo is involved. My WPBT weekend "began" with a call from this very character.
Since I wasn't coming in until Friday morning, I warned all the Thursday night folks that I would have my cell off, lest they have any desire toward tilty texts or phone calls. The threat was enough. At least until about 2:30 a.m. local time when I was awakened from light sleep by a ringtone.
"Eff Off, Rooster!" I shouted into the phone.
"Dude, dude, dude," he replied. A stuttering, fucked-up mess. Rooster wasn't in Vegas yet. He was in NYC, unable to access the internet and unaware of a) what time his flight left and b) what airline he was flying on.
Like any good C-lister does for an A-lister, I got out of bed, unpacked my laptop and found his information, punctuating the conversation with, "You pretty much better pack and get to the airport now."
He made it, as we all well know. I did, too, despite a week of trepidation about whether the flu I'd contracted would hinder my good time. It did, for a few short hours, but, even better, the bug gave me unexpected joy in at least three other areas. Stay tuned for information on those, but they involved the greatest $15 ever spent, a hot new fashion direction and a sublime meal, in both taste and name.
Like others, I now need to rest up and try to regenerate brain cells. Another amazing time thanks to all, so much that I'd not rue those lost cells, should they fail to rematerialize. As long as you all come to visit me when I lapse into dementia, which will look a little like my behavior at the IP sportsbook on NFL Sundays.