Hey y'all! Dang it's been a while right?
So here's a quick update - I live in the midwest now. The last item I was attached to at my place of business wrapped a few months ago and I was whisked from the Carolinas back to the ATL and now I'm stationed in the Midwest. It's been an adjustment, but there are casinos everywhere (apparently due to the heavy presence of Injuns). The people are a little different, as you might expect, and some things are indeed bigger as you get closer to Texas.
Two things about living in the midwest:
1) Being on Central time sucks. Have you ever noticed how whenever they show what time thigns are coming on TV central time is always starting an hour ahead? You might think, wow, I could get an extra hour of sleep if Gossip Girl got done early! (I know I do!) Anyway, that's really not how it works. Most of the time your brain doesn't activate "TV time" until it's well past prime time and you're stuck watching the tail end of some shitty drama because you can't sleep yet and there's nothing else on.
2) I think that the United State is one giant bell shaped curve and the statistic being demonstrated is "ugly people." Each end of the bell shaped cureve would be a coast.... are we getting the mental picture? Granted I'm not one to talk, but as someone who grew up in Southern California and spent a large amount of my life in the South, the midwest seems to horde all of the uglies... from an aesthetic perspective I guess you could say I fit right in.
Other random notes on the new living arrangements -
I've met a bizarro Tagen. I really have no other way of putting it. Basically this guy who I've talked to occaisionally is the antithesis of Tagen's personality, but each time I talk to him I can't shake the thought "I'm talking to a bizarro version of Tagen right now." I think it's because they both work in chain eatery management. Or the fact that this guy is a complete douche and Tagen is definitely not. I haven't really decided. (and I'm not being overly judgey; this individual is just completely full of shit)
I think the sports term "homer" or "homerism" really gets its meaning in the Midwest. I may have a West Coast bias and I'm sure an East Coast bias exists, but people in the Midwest are just flat out delusional when it comes to basic concepts. I heard someone refer to Dirk as "clutch" during the recent Mavs Lakers game. That's about the best example I can come up with, and I think it illustrates my point perfectly.
Strip clubs in the midwest suck donkey balls. I realize I've got way too many stripper stories at this point, but I can't drive home the point enough right now. In fact I'm making my own strip club etiquette rule right now: If she's not getting naked, I'm allowed to grab her ass. I don't understand how establishments haven't adopted this rule. The next rule is more for me: if she offers you a menthol, turn it down; youll smell like ass the next day if you smoke it.
Everyone plays poker like their auditioning for a role int he new Maverick movie. Seriously, it's retarded. I've never seen such boorish behavior than what I see weekends in the poker rooms here. Last weekend some idiot busted out a WSOP rulebook and tried to apply those rules to a cash game. Hilarious.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
What they didn't teach me in business school
So last weekend I went down to see Tracy down at the local watering hole and who should be there but my nemesis at our client's company; we'll call him Papa G (which is what he started calling himself). Anwyay, I haven't gotten along all that well with Papa G because early in our dealings I got the distinct impression he didn't like working with someone much younger than himself. I can understand that, and I mostly kept out of his hair whenever I could and had him deal with senior management that he could relate to a little better.
Well apparently the way into the heart of the client is to buy him drinks down at the bar. In fact, you can get away with all kinds of shenanigans by having a beer with the client. It also helps that your client is going drink for drink with you; you drink light beer and he drinks double vodka mixers. I tried to get this on video on my cellphone, but the picture didn't show up at all. At that point he also leaned in and slurred something about showing me how it's done and fucking myself. Anyway I got to watch the Yankees fall apart due to swarms of insects and the early part of the Red Sox game.
Tracy also invited over some of her girl friends. The problem with this is I had absolutely NO game (what else is new, right?) I don't know what it is, but I'm just not comfortable in a town where people smash beer bottles against the necks of people I know. So I walk up to the group and sit at thier table and pretend I have no idea that they're even there. One of them got up and asked me to hold her purse, so I put the purse over my arm. The girls come back from the bathroom and the girl asks me for her purse, so I look at her and say "what purse?" She kind of laughs and says that her purseis on my arm, so I reply with "This isn't apurse it's a European carry-all I picked up in Italy!" at that point her friend laughed and I should have moved in on her, but I was a little too hammered.
Disclaimer: this isn't how I normally roll, but if you think about it, this maniever served two purposes - make a funny and help me figure out who has the sense of humor in the pack. Yeah, I'm really grasping at straws here.
I walked back to the bar, stole Papa G's cigarettes and lighter and went outside to sober up.
Yesterday at work I got a phone call from Papa G, he asked me to come over and have a quick meeting with him. Iw as a little worried, as I definitely remember waking up on Saturday thinking, "who the hell did I steal cigarettes from last night?" So I thought I might get the stern talking to, or maybe he wanted to make sure I deleted the videos of him dancing around on my cellphone, or maybe he wanted his cigarettes back. In fact, he wanted to ask a question about the last meeting we had and knew I would have the answer. I did. Awesome.
Alcohol, promoting commerce in our everyday lives.
Well apparently the way into the heart of the client is to buy him drinks down at the bar. In fact, you can get away with all kinds of shenanigans by having a beer with the client. It also helps that your client is going drink for drink with you; you drink light beer and he drinks double vodka mixers. I tried to get this on video on my cellphone, but the picture didn't show up at all. At that point he also leaned in and slurred something about showing me how it's done and fucking myself. Anyway I got to watch the Yankees fall apart due to swarms of insects and the early part of the Red Sox game.
Tracy also invited over some of her girl friends. The problem with this is I had absolutely NO game (what else is new, right?) I don't know what it is, but I'm just not comfortable in a town where people smash beer bottles against the necks of people I know. So I walk up to the group and sit at thier table and pretend I have no idea that they're even there. One of them got up and asked me to hold her purse, so I put the purse over my arm. The girls come back from the bathroom and the girl asks me for her purse, so I look at her and say "what purse?" She kind of laughs and says that her purseis on my arm, so I reply with "This isn't apurse it's a European carry-all I picked up in Italy!" at that point her friend laughed and I should have moved in on her, but I was a little too hammered.
Disclaimer: this isn't how I normally roll, but if you think about it, this maniever served two purposes - make a funny and help me figure out who has the sense of humor in the pack. Yeah, I'm really grasping at straws here.
I walked back to the bar, stole Papa G's cigarettes and lighter and went outside to sober up.
Yesterday at work I got a phone call from Papa G, he asked me to come over and have a quick meeting with him. Iw as a little worried, as I definitely remember waking up on Saturday thinking, "who the hell did I steal cigarettes from last night?" So I thought I might get the stern talking to, or maybe he wanted to make sure I deleted the videos of him dancing around on my cellphone, or maybe he wanted his cigarettes back. In fact, he wanted to ask a question about the last meeting we had and knew I would have the answer. I did. Awesome.
Alcohol, promoting commerce in our everyday lives.
In Jesus name give me a deuce!
Sorry to post this, because it doesn't involve me being drunk and/or doing anything stupid, but I'm watching the final table of the World Series of Poker and the guy who wins (Jerry Yang) is turning the poker room into a revival. Now I'm all for that old-time religion, but I seriously don't think God gives a shit who wins the World Series of Poker...
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Vegas: Did I earn my Junior IRA Merit Badge yet?
I've been bombarded (and by "bombarded" I mean two people) with calls saying "Wow, that was one WILD Vegas entry there Beaver Cleaver!"
Well, the reason I cut that last entry before going into the "lost evening." When we last left off, Alaska had flown in and we sat around drinking, waiting to go out to the Irish Pub Nine Fine Irishmen at the New York, New York. I had made myself a nice little Maker's Mark and Pepsi combo that I did an effective job of spilling all over the table in our room. I made the mixed drink a little strong and drank about half of it, because the rest was just not tasty. I know, I wasted alcohol. Blow me, I was getting a nice pre-buzz on. Murdoch took a sip and cringed, but LQ too a sip and said "Wow, that's really good," so the jury is still out on how bad it was. Also, I think it should be noted that when I was living on the West Coast, the only liquor I ever drank when I went out was vodka (unless I was drinking shots - then it was mostly whatever is in a liquid cocaine and Jaeger). When I got back to the East coast, I realized there were mixed drinks and alcohol's I wasn't familiar with, and that I needed to expand my repertoire. Whiskey is one of those situations where I might not be used to it yet.
So we decided to go out and I volunteered to double back to the hotel when the Don showed up. For this, LQ decided that she would buy me a drink. Let the record state that this is the first drink I think LQ has ever bought me, so cheers to LQ. We got to the bar, and there was no cover (SCORE!). Let the record show I detest paying cover. Cover is the last refuge of the vapid and corrupt. The night was already shaping up well until... LQ asked me what I wanted to drink, and I thought "Hell, if I'm in an Irish pub, I want a damn Irish car-bomb." If you are unfamiliar with the Irish car-bomb, it's a shot of equal parts Jameson and Bailey's that you drop into a half pint of Guiness and chug. It may sound horrible, but I swear it's delicious. So LQ went to the bar to get the drink and I headed upstairs to see if there was anywhere to sit. I did a horrible job of this, only because all of the tables were full of people eating complete meals. Anyway, Jugs and co. got us seats and LQ brought me my drink. YES! I AM GOD OF THE SEA PEOPLE!
I down the first drink and ask LQ how much it was for such a wonderful glass of alcoholic goodness. She said $10.
Okay, at this point I am putting a disclaimer up. THE FOLLOWING CONVERSATION HAPPENED EXACTLY THE WAY I AM GOING TO WRITE IT.
As soon as I heard that the drink was $10 I said "shit I really didn't want to have a hundred dollar tab tonight." Jugs was seated to my immediate left on the rail looking over the floor level of the pub and said "Then don't." I replied with, "yeah, but I'll probably end up with a hundred dollar tab," to which she replied "You really aren't going to drink ten of those are you?" and I followed with "Yeah, that's about what we used to do each night in Atlanta."Jugs then rolled her eyes and said "oh Jesus Son of Geo Metro." As a joke I then said "I take that as a challenge, you don't think I can drink ten of these do you (acting all pissy, but in my head there was nothing but maniacal laughter). She tried to recover by saying "I'm not saying that at all!" but it was on like Donkey Kong (and I had antagonized for no reason at all, double point!).
So I now had a gaol for the evening. A lot of people say that there's nothing constructive about getting belligerently drunk in public. These are usually people who go knocked up at an Aerosmith concert in the 70's, were forced into a marriage they never really wanted, and then found religion later in life and blame alcohol for all the retarded decisions they made with their life that led to them needing to find God when they are miserable.; this is not me. I had a goal to reach that night, and damnit, I was going to make it happen.
I got up to number five when I had to go back to the hotel to let the Don into the room to drop his stuff off and head on out with us. I was feeling pretty darn good. I ended up having this really amazing conversation on the way back to the hotel with this guy who claimed to know Doug Chau's father back in GA and I have no clue what else we talk about but I think I can list the number of subjects: owning your own business, why people shouldn't get married, why people do get married (which was mostly this guy screaming "don't get her knocked up") how they airbrushed Toni Braxton's penis out of the giant picture of her on the Flamingo, and I'm sure he recommdedI get a hooker when I got out of the cab.
So the Don got up to the room, and it was great to see him, then he put down his bag and we briefly chatted. I need to stop here and say something: there are some things you see in life that just make you stand speechless. After we chatted the Don said "Looks like I've got some catching up to do, grabbed the bottle of Maker's Mark from the table and went vertical with it. and not just a swig either, he held it there for a good five seconds. It was one of the most impressive things I've ever seen.
So we take a cab back to the pub and I go back to getting my drink on. I think I had the next three pretty quickly when we got back. I had told the bartender about the goal for the evening, and he was doing his best to keep things going, even telling the guy sitting at the bar about my goal for the evening. The strangers were impressed, and that made my ego take the thing that's not my ego and choke that bitch out. During this time, I may have done the following: attempted to dance a half-assed jig/square-dance thing with all the dexterity of the offspring of Michael Flatley and a sumo wrestler, crashed and burned while trying to hit on the sexybusty bartender by helping her bus a table (I have to have at least one pathetic moment with a woman), screamed lines from Braveheart over our table in the back. In my defense, Braveheart was in AMC like every damn day in the month of July, and whenever my program would go to commercial, I'd throw Braveheart on. This led to me screaming "Damn the Baelialle can!"over and over in Vegas.
As a complete side-note, I used the how did they airbrush Toni Braxton's penis out of that picture a few too many times. I apologize to everyone who had to hear the joke five or six times, but I thought it was clever and I was usually somewhat inebrienated
So after the tenth car-bomb, I was happy! I'm pretty sure I celebrated like I had just defeated the Soviets in hockey or something, but that lasted all of five minutes until I went to close my tab and the bartender told me "damn, that's impressive, but I've seen a guy drink fifteen of those and still be somewhat coherent. Of course, that guy was a lot bigger than you.." Before he even completed his sentence, I had a new goal. I don't know if it was little-man syndrome, drunken belligerence, or youthful hubris, but I looked at him straight in the eye and said, "Pour me another one." After the eleventh, something in my stomach said "who keeps pouring this shit down here." Before I knew it I was bounding down the stairs towards the men's room. I bolted into the handicapped stall, and a miracle happened. I literally willed myself to feel fine. I had another goal to meet and dammit I was going to make it! I walked back upstairs and everyone started asking me how I felt. I lied and said it was all good and threw down two more car-bombs. I had bought a few for others during the night and this allowed me to announce that I had drank 16 during the night and the bartender then bought me one for my amazing feats of tolerance in the face of overwhelming odds. The final count for drinks that I actually drank was 14. I don't really remember leaving the pub. I had absolutely no recollection of the cab ride home, and had no idea how I got into bed the next morning, I only knew I was sleeping next to a trash can and there was a stain next to my face on the sheets.
The story as it was told to me was that I wasn't that bad getting out of the bar and into the cab, but once I got into the cab I got extremely sick and puked all over the side of the cab. After I had puked all over the side of the cab, and we were on the Strip a crowd started laughing and taking my picture at a red light. I responded by calling them all assholes and shouting "Fuck you!" The Don ended up jumping out of the cab and taking pictures of me (they were hilarious). The cab driver ended up getting a $20 tip so he could get his car cleaned off and apparently he told everyone "Man, I'm glad I stopped drinking years ago, because seeing this would have probably made me stop drinking for good."
Well, the reason I cut that last entry before going into the "lost evening." When we last left off, Alaska had flown in and we sat around drinking, waiting to go out to the Irish Pub Nine Fine Irishmen at the New York, New York. I had made myself a nice little Maker's Mark and Pepsi combo that I did an effective job of spilling all over the table in our room. I made the mixed drink a little strong and drank about half of it, because the rest was just not tasty. I know, I wasted alcohol. Blow me, I was getting a nice pre-buzz on. Murdoch took a sip and cringed, but LQ too a sip and said "Wow, that's really good," so the jury is still out on how bad it was. Also, I think it should be noted that when I was living on the West Coast, the only liquor I ever drank when I went out was vodka (unless I was drinking shots - then it was mostly whatever is in a liquid cocaine and Jaeger). When I got back to the East coast, I realized there were mixed drinks and alcohol's I wasn't familiar with, and that I needed to expand my repertoire. Whiskey is one of those situations where I might not be used to it yet.
So we decided to go out and I volunteered to double back to the hotel when the Don showed up. For this, LQ decided that she would buy me a drink. Let the record state that this is the first drink I think LQ has ever bought me, so cheers to LQ. We got to the bar, and there was no cover (SCORE!). Let the record show I detest paying cover. Cover is the last refuge of the vapid and corrupt. The night was already shaping up well until... LQ asked me what I wanted to drink, and I thought "Hell, if I'm in an Irish pub, I want a damn Irish car-bomb." If you are unfamiliar with the Irish car-bomb, it's a shot of equal parts Jameson and Bailey's that you drop into a half pint of Guiness and chug. It may sound horrible, but I swear it's delicious. So LQ went to the bar to get the drink and I headed upstairs to see if there was anywhere to sit. I did a horrible job of this, only because all of the tables were full of people eating complete meals. Anyway, Jugs and co. got us seats and LQ brought me my drink. YES! I AM GOD OF THE SEA PEOPLE!
I down the first drink and ask LQ how much it was for such a wonderful glass of alcoholic goodness. She said $10.
Okay, at this point I am putting a disclaimer up. THE FOLLOWING CONVERSATION HAPPENED EXACTLY THE WAY I AM GOING TO WRITE IT.
As soon as I heard that the drink was $10 I said "shit I really didn't want to have a hundred dollar tab tonight." Jugs was seated to my immediate left on the rail looking over the floor level of the pub and said "Then don't." I replied with, "yeah, but I'll probably end up with a hundred dollar tab," to which she replied "You really aren't going to drink ten of those are you?" and I followed with "Yeah, that's about what we used to do each night in Atlanta."Jugs then rolled her eyes and said "oh Jesus Son of Geo Metro." As a joke I then said "I take that as a challenge, you don't think I can drink ten of these do you (acting all pissy, but in my head there was nothing but maniacal laughter). She tried to recover by saying "I'm not saying that at all!" but it was on like Donkey Kong (and I had antagonized for no reason at all, double point!).
So I now had a gaol for the evening. A lot of people say that there's nothing constructive about getting belligerently drunk in public. These are usually people who go knocked up at an Aerosmith concert in the 70's, were forced into a marriage they never really wanted, and then found religion later in life and blame alcohol for all the retarded decisions they made with their life that led to them needing to find God when they are miserable.; this is not me. I had a goal to reach that night, and damnit, I was going to make it happen.
I got up to number five when I had to go back to the hotel to let the Don into the room to drop his stuff off and head on out with us. I was feeling pretty darn good. I ended up having this really amazing conversation on the way back to the hotel with this guy who claimed to know Doug Chau's father back in GA and I have no clue what else we talk about but I think I can list the number of subjects: owning your own business, why people shouldn't get married, why people do get married (which was mostly this guy screaming "don't get her knocked up") how they airbrushed Toni Braxton's penis out of the giant picture of her on the Flamingo, and I'm sure he recommdedI get a hooker when I got out of the cab.
So the Don got up to the room, and it was great to see him, then he put down his bag and we briefly chatted. I need to stop here and say something: there are some things you see in life that just make you stand speechless. After we chatted the Don said "Looks like I've got some catching up to do, grabbed the bottle of Maker's Mark from the table and went vertical with it. and not just a swig either, he held it there for a good five seconds. It was one of the most impressive things I've ever seen.
So we take a cab back to the pub and I go back to getting my drink on. I think I had the next three pretty quickly when we got back. I had told the bartender about the goal for the evening, and he was doing his best to keep things going, even telling the guy sitting at the bar about my goal for the evening. The strangers were impressed, and that made my ego take the thing that's not my ego and choke that bitch out. During this time, I may have done the following: attempted to dance a half-assed jig/square-dance thing with all the dexterity of the offspring of Michael Flatley and a sumo wrestler, crashed and burned while trying to hit on the sexybusty bartender by helping her bus a table (I have to have at least one pathetic moment with a woman), screamed lines from Braveheart over our table in the back. In my defense, Braveheart was in AMC like every damn day in the month of July, and whenever my program would go to commercial, I'd throw Braveheart on. This led to me screaming "Damn the Baelialle can!"over and over in Vegas.
As a complete side-note, I used the how did they airbrush Toni Braxton's penis out of that picture a few too many times. I apologize to everyone who had to hear the joke five or six times, but I thought it was clever and I was usually somewhat inebrienated
So after the tenth car-bomb, I was happy! I'm pretty sure I celebrated like I had just defeated the Soviets in hockey or something, but that lasted all of five minutes until I went to close my tab and the bartender told me "damn, that's impressive, but I've seen a guy drink fifteen of those and still be somewhat coherent. Of course, that guy was a lot bigger than you.." Before he even completed his sentence, I had a new goal. I don't know if it was little-man syndrome, drunken belligerence, or youthful hubris, but I looked at him straight in the eye and said, "Pour me another one." After the eleventh, something in my stomach said "who keeps pouring this shit down here." Before I knew it I was bounding down the stairs towards the men's room. I bolted into the handicapped stall, and a miracle happened. I literally willed myself to feel fine. I had another goal to meet and dammit I was going to make it! I walked back upstairs and everyone started asking me how I felt. I lied and said it was all good and threw down two more car-bombs. I had bought a few for others during the night and this allowed me to announce that I had drank 16 during the night and the bartender then bought me one for my amazing feats of tolerance in the face of overwhelming odds. The final count for drinks that I actually drank was 14. I don't really remember leaving the pub. I had absolutely no recollection of the cab ride home, and had no idea how I got into bed the next morning, I only knew I was sleeping next to a trash can and there was a stain next to my face on the sheets.
The story as it was told to me was that I wasn't that bad getting out of the bar and into the cab, but once I got into the cab I got extremely sick and puked all over the side of the cab. After I had puked all over the side of the cab, and we were on the Strip a crowd started laughing and taking my picture at a red light. I responded by calling them all assholes and shouting "Fuck you!" The Don ended up jumping out of the cab and taking pictures of me (they were hilarious). The cab driver ended up getting a $20 tip so he could get his car cleaned off and apparently he told everyone "Man, I'm glad I stopped drinking years ago, because seeing this would have probably made me stop drinking for good."
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Vegas: REEEEEMIX! Vol1
Sorry it's been so long since I've gotten back, but I've been working my balls off for a couple of weeks now and reserve my weekends for X-box 360 and foobaw for the remainder of the fall. I will be posting more often, mainly because my brief affair with sobriety has left me a broken and bitter man (not really).
Many months ago I decided to e-mail all of the Santa Clara peoples and organized a get together with everyone in Vegas. This was actually a success in that we had 11 peeps make the trip. I'm struggling to come up with a nickname for everyone so if I end up using a real name, well then shit, I'm sorry you've been outed as a friend of the Son of Geo Metro, it sucks to be you.
So anyway, we flew into Vegas on a Wednesday and some of the crew was there when I checked in. The flight in was pretty uneventful, I slept on the way to the layover stop, had some good food while I was at the layover stop and then had a few drinks but kept my cool (if you've read any previous posts, you know how dangerous this can be), watched "The Lookout" on the way into Vegas (would have been better unedited, but decent enough), landed and headed over to the hotel (a return trip to the Imperial Palace). I called everyone a few times in order to see where they were, and lo and behold they were chillin in a bar drinking two foot margaritas (I knew there was a reason these people were my friends)!!! I think I literally threw my stuff into the room and pushed my way onto the packed elevator (a constant problem the entire trip) and headed down to the bar. It was amazing seeing everyone. It's nice to know that your friends are all doing well after not seeing them for so long. It's even better to see your friends doing so well after you haven't seen them in so long while holding cocktails that are measured in feet.
We drank and caught up for a while and waited on the two other members of the group to fly in that night. That included a trip to the liquor store under our hotel (Maker's Mark because they didn't have any Knob Creek, booo!) After the first friend got to the hotel, then half of us said "Fuck it, we're hungry" and headed out for dinner. I gave Jugs (yeah, that's right, on this site your nickname is 'Jugs') her long overdue Christmas present of two tank tops from the Hooters the roomates and I frequent every time I'm in town. So this got me craving the one food group I've been denied in Roxboro - spicy chicken. There's also a Hooters hotel and casino in Vegas that's fairly new (the hotel was actually renovated by the Hooters folks, but the entire place has the feeling of Hooters (which can be great if you don't mind being surrounded by the word 'campy'). So we went back tot eh restaurant portion of the casino and there was a lively waitress and a live band. This Hooters was a bit unlike most of the Hooters I've been in, and I've been trying to figure out why and finally did last week: other than the band, it was really quiet in there. I'm used to rowdy, SEC country during football season crowds. I've even induced a "Let's Go Fal-cons" bang-bang-bangbangbang chant. This place was stone cold silent. Maybe that's the alcohol hearing. Every time the band asked for suggestions I yelled "Play some Skynard," like the good southern boy I'm becoming and was shouted down by the band. Fuck them, they play Wednesday nights at Hooters; Skynard should be mandatory! To their credit they did play a good rendition of "Patience" the one time I yelled a band that wasn't Skynard.
We went back to the hotel and when everyone else went to sleep I decided to gamble. Goodbye $200 it was nice knowing you. I got back up to the room (because of a mix-up with the hotel we had a single with a roll-away the first night), and wouldn't you know it, Murdock and Michael had sabotaged my bed. They ended up fixing the shit they had fucked with and I went to bed, all was correct with the world.
The next morning I think my phone woke everyone up. I tried to ignore the first call, but the phone just kept ringing. I forgot the fact that it was 6:30 in the fucking morning. I returned the call and decided to take a walk. The bad part about living on the East Coast is that you are up before most of civilization the first morning in Vegas. I walked from our hotel down to the Wynn and I passed like three joggers the entire time. Thank God there was life in the poker room. In fact, it was a nice little 4-8 game. I had a good time playing and joked and chatted with everyone at the table for a few hours (this one player guaranteed me that Couture would knock out Gonzaga in UFC 74, which I refused to believe, of course, I don't know shit when it comes to UFC). Anyway, everyone called me and said that it was time for breakfast, so I headed back to the hotel for breakfast buffet. Hey, I made $35! Breakfast felt fantastic in my stomach, bu the eggs were a little too runny. I don't really recommend eating at the Imperial Palace except for one place which we'll come to later.
I headed out of the breakfast in a bit of a hurry because I was going to play in the $200 poker tournament at Caesar's (I should have maybe pressed my luck at the Wynn in the $365 tournament, but whatever. I got to Caesar's and did pretty well the first few rounds, then went completely card-dead for the next 4 hours. Goodbye $200!
We all met up afterward for dinner and ended up going to get Mexican food in the Venetian. I think that might be one of my favorite stops, great food, wonderful view of the canal and shops, and tasty margaritas. I had two. We went back to the hotel to meet up with UPS and Jake. After that we were headed over to the Irish pub in New York, New York. More on that laters...
Many months ago I decided to e-mail all of the Santa Clara peoples and organized a get together with everyone in Vegas. This was actually a success in that we had 11 peeps make the trip. I'm struggling to come up with a nickname for everyone so if I end up using a real name, well then shit, I'm sorry you've been outed as a friend of the Son of Geo Metro, it sucks to be you.
So anyway, we flew into Vegas on a Wednesday and some of the crew was there when I checked in. The flight in was pretty uneventful, I slept on the way to the layover stop, had some good food while I was at the layover stop and then had a few drinks but kept my cool (if you've read any previous posts, you know how dangerous this can be), watched "The Lookout" on the way into Vegas (would have been better unedited, but decent enough), landed and headed over to the hotel (a return trip to the Imperial Palace). I called everyone a few times in order to see where they were, and lo and behold they were chillin in a bar drinking two foot margaritas (I knew there was a reason these people were my friends)!!! I think I literally threw my stuff into the room and pushed my way onto the packed elevator (a constant problem the entire trip) and headed down to the bar. It was amazing seeing everyone. It's nice to know that your friends are all doing well after not seeing them for so long. It's even better to see your friends doing so well after you haven't seen them in so long while holding cocktails that are measured in feet.
We drank and caught up for a while and waited on the two other members of the group to fly in that night. That included a trip to the liquor store under our hotel (Maker's Mark because they didn't have any Knob Creek, booo!) After the first friend got to the hotel, then half of us said "Fuck it, we're hungry" and headed out for dinner. I gave Jugs (yeah, that's right, on this site your nickname is 'Jugs') her long overdue Christmas present of two tank tops from the Hooters the roomates and I frequent every time I'm in town. So this got me craving the one food group I've been denied in Roxboro - spicy chicken. There's also a Hooters hotel and casino in Vegas that's fairly new (the hotel was actually renovated by the Hooters folks, but the entire place has the feeling of Hooters (which can be great if you don't mind being surrounded by the word 'campy'). So we went back tot eh restaurant portion of the casino and there was a lively waitress and a live band. This Hooters was a bit unlike most of the Hooters I've been in, and I've been trying to figure out why and finally did last week: other than the band, it was really quiet in there. I'm used to rowdy, SEC country during football season crowds. I've even induced a "Let's Go Fal-cons" bang-bang-bangbangbang chant. This place was stone cold silent. Maybe that's the alcohol hearing. Every time the band asked for suggestions I yelled "Play some Skynard," like the good southern boy I'm becoming and was shouted down by the band. Fuck them, they play Wednesday nights at Hooters; Skynard should be mandatory! To their credit they did play a good rendition of "Patience" the one time I yelled a band that wasn't Skynard.
We went back to the hotel and when everyone else went to sleep I decided to gamble. Goodbye $200 it was nice knowing you. I got back up to the room (because of a mix-up with the hotel we had a single with a roll-away the first night), and wouldn't you know it, Murdock and Michael had sabotaged my bed. They ended up fixing the shit they had fucked with and I went to bed, all was correct with the world.
The next morning I think my phone woke everyone up. I tried to ignore the first call, but the phone just kept ringing. I forgot the fact that it was 6:30 in the fucking morning. I returned the call and decided to take a walk. The bad part about living on the East Coast is that you are up before most of civilization the first morning in Vegas. I walked from our hotel down to the Wynn and I passed like three joggers the entire time. Thank God there was life in the poker room. In fact, it was a nice little 4-8 game. I had a good time playing and joked and chatted with everyone at the table for a few hours (this one player guaranteed me that Couture would knock out Gonzaga in UFC 74, which I refused to believe, of course, I don't know shit when it comes to UFC). Anyway, everyone called me and said that it was time for breakfast, so I headed back to the hotel for breakfast buffet. Hey, I made $35! Breakfast felt fantastic in my stomach, bu the eggs were a little too runny. I don't really recommend eating at the Imperial Palace except for one place which we'll come to later.
I headed out of the breakfast in a bit of a hurry because I was going to play in the $200 poker tournament at Caesar's (I should have maybe pressed my luck at the Wynn in the $365 tournament, but whatever. I got to Caesar's and did pretty well the first few rounds, then went completely card-dead for the next 4 hours. Goodbye $200!
We all met up afterward for dinner and ended up going to get Mexican food in the Venetian. I think that might be one of my favorite stops, great food, wonderful view of the canal and shops, and tasty margaritas. I had two. We went back to the hotel to meet up with UPS and Jake. After that we were headed over to the Irish pub in New York, New York. More on that laters...
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Internet dating websites + Beer (sort of) = Son of Geo Metro now has an internet stalker
This entry pretty much is a guarantee that I'm going to hell. A little backstory to this: When I moved, I signed up for Match.com. It was a stupid thing to do and I've learned my lesson as you ill soon read. Don't bother searching on there now, because I've deleted the profile for good reason.
So three weeks ago I was sitting home on Sunday night trying to figure out what I was going to do for dinner. Usually when I'm sitting around trying to decide what to eat I usually do one of three things: 1) go to the store, which is always a disaster because I always end up buying way too much food because I'm hungry and everything looks delicious 2) I go get some fast food, to which my options are pretty limited in North Carolina 3) I order a pizza, because I'm lazy. On this Sunday night I went with option 3, because let's face it, I'm lazy.
The problem with ordering pizza was that pizza almost always leads me to having a beer. Having a beer usually leads me to having another beer. Having another beer makes me crave another beer. When I crave more beer I usually acquiesce to the demands of my brain, because if I stop before the brain is ready I will be in some pain in a few hours because my brain still wants beer. So the pizza showed up, I turned on the TV for a night of entertainment, and cracked open a cold Stella. After the first Stella, I went back for more and there was a slight shudder in my heart: I was down to just two more Stella's.
I finished off both Stella's within the half hour, and then had to find more beer. I started digging through the fridge, looking for something light and domestic. I couldn't find anything resembling a Coors Light, but there were about 12 cans of what appeared to be large Red Bulls. Upon closer inspection the cans were something called Gruv (the 'u' had the two German dots over it but I'm too incompetent to know how to create those on a keyboard - I'll also be making a shit ton of retarded puns involving the name of this beverage). So I shout at the roommate, "Dude, what the hell is this Gruv shit?" and his girlfriend yells back "It's bitch beer!" So I ask "Well, I'm sort of desperate for alcohol, does it taste ok?" And she says "Dude, it's bitch beer! Are you a bitch, because if you are you'll probably like it! That's why they make it, because bitches don't like to drink real beer. They're all like, 'beer tastes gross I only want a Mike's Hard Lemonade!'" I didn't have the patience to explain how this did absolutely nothing to answer my question; I was hunting for drunk. I popped open a gruv and took a sip to assess my situation. The sumptuous flavors of papaya and cigarette butts determined I would be chugging each Gruv.
I hit my Gruv after about three cans and decided to flip on the computer to check e-mail and such while I was enjoying the fine original programming on HBO. About this time I see that I've got an e-mail from Match.com. Tigger1056 writes saying, "Hi, I just noticed your profile on here. My roommates and I are playing beer pong tonight and if you want to hang out sometime we are always up to something." Checking her profile she lists herself as 5'10 and "A Few extra pounds." On the site I was listed as 5'9 and "Average." I'm really only 5'7 but all guys under 6' or 6" give themselves a couple of inches; it's just what we do.. Now my first reaction should have been "I'm really sorry but that's a little direct. I don't know you and you don't have a profile picture. I shouldn't have to show up at your house asking your roommates where Tigger1056 is."
Instead I sent the following response: OK, what are y'all up to tomorrow night? I'm a little drunk right now so hanging out sounds cool.
Now let's break this down through my drunken haze and make it crystal clear. I'm a little frightened you may be a water buffalo so I don't want you to come by my house tonight so my roommate can't tell a construction site I'm humping Babbar. But I'm intoxicated, so I'm open to fucking you against my better judgement right now but if you check in with me at a later date I want to be consulted beforehand while I'm sober.
I received the following reply about twenty minutes later: I got this wedding shower pig picken! And then I'm sure we're going out to a bar or playing beer pong or something!
I'm pretty sure that I felt offended at the horrible abuse of the English language in that message. But at the same time there was the possibility of a beer pong engagement. At this point I had gone through 6 Gruv's on top of the 3 Stella's and everything was just gruvee I sent back the following: What the fuck is a pig picken? Anyway, five me a shout when I am sober enough to drive (I really typed 'five' instead of 'give').
I got the reply after another Gruv: You've never heard of a pig picken. It is a southern thing, where some one celebrates something by cooking a pig. It is fun most of the time! I wish I was as drunk as you sound!
This time she included a picture which I've placed in the blog.
This got me sober enough to stop sending messages. The problem with just stopping all communication at once was that she didn't get the hint. I received 6 e-mails the next 3 days asking where I was and what my name was and crap like that. I then deleted the profile altogether. Now I know I'm being a complete asshole, but if you send someone your picture and they stop talking to you, you should probably get the hint. You don't need to tell me, I know I'm going to hell, and I guess I'll see you there.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Thankfully I didn't get tasered by the air marshal - I blame liquor
Ok so a couple of weeks ago I decided that this year was the year to test my meddle at the annual WSOP. I decided to play in a reasonable buy-in tourney ($2K) and take a three day weekend from work. I left on Thursday directly from work and took AirTran down to Atlanta and then over to Vegas. The first part of the flight was rather enjoyable. I upgraded to first class (always worth it on AirTran) and got seated next to this old guy who sold medical equipment to hospitals and such. I always appreciate sitting next to someone that wants to chat on flights. I don't know what it is, but being in first class brings out the socializer in me . It's weird. I always feel like I should have a top hat and monocle on and sip a class of port while discussing the decreasing risk in global markets. Needless to say I read my book and occasionally this guy would stop and ask me a question. He asked me about my trip, and I told him I was going to go play in one of the poker tournaments and this guy was all about talking about the tournament. I've never seen an old guy who had never played poker before in his life get so fired up about the subject. Honestly it could have just been the third scotch he was working on during the flight.
So on the flight over to Vegas I got to listen to the NBA draft in coach. We sat on the tarmac for about an hour before taking off, so I got all the way to Joakim Noah at 9 before we were air born. So I get into Vegas, go buy in to the tournament and go back to my hotel for some sleep. I finally sleep at about 3am and immediately wake up at 6:30am. I'm not used to sleeping in any later than 8:30 EST so I should have expected an early start to the day. I go down to Bally's ad promptly lose $100 playing blackjack. I have to say, I was about to go on a great run when this completely miserable woman came up and sat down in front of me. I hate gambling with people who are already pissed off. I should have started doing some smack talking to get her off the table, but I was in a friendly mood. I ordered a pineapple juice and got a screwdriver. I left that table not the happiest, but fortunately I went to have the best breakfast in Vegas at the crepe stand in Paris (which you can get to directly from Bally's).
So that afternoon I played in the WSOP. If you want to ask me specific questions about this any time, that's cool, I'll be more than happy to answer any of them. I will say the one poker pet peeve I developed when I was there was the talk during the breaks. Basically as soon as a break starts, everyone heads out of the room and immediately picks up their cell phone to tell someone not in Vegas all about Hand X that they played that was so fucking exciting that person Y has to know about it this second and they'll call the person back and talk to them right after the next break. It's infuriating. I will say that I got knocked out 20 places out of the money due to my own brain fart and a nice suck out on the river (in the same hand!). Anyway, after that I kind of went on a bender.
Anyway, the exciting part of the mini vacation was actually the trip home. I got to the airport WAY too early (due to the fact that I couldn't remember what time my flight was). I say it was WAY too early because I had nothing to do once I got there except sit at the bar for four hours and watch the cubs game. It's also about the time in the story to tell you that I hadn't eaten anything since about 5 that morning at the coffee shop in the hotel right before I went to bed. The timeline of the day was 5:30 - sleep, 9:00 - wake up and check out, 10L00am 0 airport, 2:00 pm flight. Well, when I got to the airport bar I ordered some bar food (Nachos!) and a vodka tonic.
That's when this guy Craig from Tahoe pulled up to the bar stool next to mine. I knew Craig was a pretty cool dude when he booed Soriano two minutes after sitting down and when some guy across the bar asked if Craig was a Brewer fan Craig yelled "This idiot is killing my fantasy team!" Craig and I talked ball mostly and about our weekends. We were having a great time chatting up everyone around us as well. I ended up talking to some guy about the politics in Baltimore (seriously I told the dude before we started talking "everything I know about your city comes directly from 'The Wire,'" but he thought that made me more qualified than their mayor). Anyway, Craig basically orders me a vodka tonic for every beer he's drinking. If you know me or you've ever seen me drink on a near empty stomach, you know exactly where this is heading. Craig left for his flight at about 1:30. By this time the vodka tonics tasted like water and I was having a hard time managing to actually get the Chex mix I bought into my mouth. Keeping with The Wire, I was like McNulty after a few fifth of Jameson.
So after a while I decide I need to board my flight... no I think I need to double back for another vodka tonic before I get on the flight because instead of passing out I'm feeling frisky. Lord knows another alcoholic beverage should curb this a little. So I get into the jetway probably bout as red as a high school Asian girl after three beers. In the jetway I start talking to the really attractive girl in front of me an she tells me she lives in DC. I ask her if I can borrow her cellphone briefly and she says "of course. " I then call Murdock in DC and get his voicemail. Now in front of this girl I basically leave he following message (I say basically because things were a bit hazy at this point) "Yo, Murdock, I'm talking to (insert name) and she's really hot and she's from DC so if you have a soul, you need to call her back and now you've got her number so good luck with that. Seriously, she's really hot and you need to call her back!"
Unfortunately we were the last group to board and we had to sit in the empty seat as far back int eh plane as we could go. So naturally I'm stuck next to the two high school girls. The DC girl was a few rows up and I think I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to get her to talk to me again, but for some reason she just didn't want to talk to me. The flight attendants were doing the the announcements at this point, and the middle aged woman across the aisle asked me to be quiet and stop talking. Now I'm a smart-ass when I'm sober, but when I've got a belly full of alkie, I'm downright vicious. I said to the lady (loud enough fr a lot of people around us to hear) "Oh I'm sorry, did you not seethe doors when we got on the plane? Are you taking meds for the Alzheimer's yet, or do your kids want you to slowly rot? Wait, let me show you how to use a seat belt again ma'am." Clearly I'm going to hell.
After a while of m being stupid, they started the drink service. I can't remember if the girls next to me asked me to buy them drinks or not, but I remember basically yelling across the plane to the flight crew "Hey, these girls want me to buy them drinks, but I'm too drunk to see if they're old enough!" Can I get some help with this? Anyone, are these girls old enough to drink or will I get in trouble?" At this point some guy four rows up started yelling that he was going to kick my ass and I responded with a "What the fuck did I do?" which just got him more enraged. The flight attendants then asked me to move to the back row. The guy four rows up followed me and sat two rows in front of me. By now you already know two things - 1) I'm a smartass and 2) I'll say anything I damn well please. Basically when this guy followed me I decided to tell him exactly how I felt and it took a few people I recognized from the bar to hold that guy back and calm him down. After this I pass out for the remainder of the trip to our first stop in Nashville.
When I wake up in Nashville and immediately ask the flight attendant if I can use the lavatory in the back of the plane while the Nashville folks are getting off the plane. She says sure and is totally nonchallant about it. I'll also say at this point that I am quite a bit more sober. So I used the facilities, wash my hands and step out of the lavatory to see something I really hadn't expected: four of Nashville's finest walking towards the back of the plane. The lead officer points at me and puts his hand up in the universal sign for "Hey you, Fuckhead, don't go anywhere!"I stand in the back of the plane and when he gets there he says "Sir I need to talk to you. We were called from this plane to come and take you to jail for terrorizing these people. As you know a lot of crazy things have been happening with airplanes and airports this weekend. Now I think you need to come with me." At this point, to say I was panicked would have been quite the understatement. I have family in Nashville (very distant) so I'm sure if I needed to be bailed it could have happened, but that was definitely not a phone call I wanted to make. So extremely calmly I say to the officer, "Sir is this necessary, I've been asleep the last three hours on the flight." I went from monocle and top hat to breaking rocks with failed country music stars in the space of a weekend. He then tells me that I'm a 'terrorist' for scaring people on the flight. I then say that I'll be on my best behavior the rest of the flight and that if I say a word out of line on the way to Raleigh I'll gladly go to jail there. This guy then gets in my face and tells me I had better be a model citizen and turns with his men and leaves.
Now I had originally thought that it was an airport security guy, but as he turned around I definitely got a "City of Nashville" patch on his arm. Holy shit, they called the city po-lice on me! Needless to say we'll be taking proper precautions next time I fly into Tennessee. So on the flight the rest of the way home the first thing I do is apologize to the flight attendant who says "You weren't that bad, I don't know why they called the cops on you. You were just being loud and stupid." Awesome.
So on the flight over to Vegas I got to listen to the NBA draft in coach. We sat on the tarmac for about an hour before taking off, so I got all the way to Joakim Noah at 9 before we were air born. So I get into Vegas, go buy in to the tournament and go back to my hotel for some sleep. I finally sleep at about 3am and immediately wake up at 6:30am. I'm not used to sleeping in any later than 8:30 EST so I should have expected an early start to the day. I go down to Bally's ad promptly lose $100 playing blackjack. I have to say, I was about to go on a great run when this completely miserable woman came up and sat down in front of me. I hate gambling with people who are already pissed off. I should have started doing some smack talking to get her off the table, but I was in a friendly mood. I ordered a pineapple juice and got a screwdriver. I left that table not the happiest, but fortunately I went to have the best breakfast in Vegas at the crepe stand in Paris (which you can get to directly from Bally's).
So that afternoon I played in the WSOP. If you want to ask me specific questions about this any time, that's cool, I'll be more than happy to answer any of them. I will say the one poker pet peeve I developed when I was there was the talk during the breaks. Basically as soon as a break starts, everyone heads out of the room and immediately picks up their cell phone to tell someone not in Vegas all about Hand X that they played that was so fucking exciting that person Y has to know about it this second and they'll call the person back and talk to them right after the next break. It's infuriating. I will say that I got knocked out 20 places out of the money due to my own brain fart and a nice suck out on the river (in the same hand!). Anyway, after that I kind of went on a bender.
Anyway, the exciting part of the mini vacation was actually the trip home. I got to the airport WAY too early (due to the fact that I couldn't remember what time my flight was). I say it was WAY too early because I had nothing to do once I got there except sit at the bar for four hours and watch the cubs game. It's also about the time in the story to tell you that I hadn't eaten anything since about 5 that morning at the coffee shop in the hotel right before I went to bed. The timeline of the day was 5:30 - sleep, 9:00 - wake up and check out, 10L00am 0 airport, 2:00 pm flight. Well, when I got to the airport bar I ordered some bar food (Nachos!) and a vodka tonic.
That's when this guy Craig from Tahoe pulled up to the bar stool next to mine. I knew Craig was a pretty cool dude when he booed Soriano two minutes after sitting down and when some guy across the bar asked if Craig was a Brewer fan Craig yelled "This idiot is killing my fantasy team!" Craig and I talked ball mostly and about our weekends. We were having a great time chatting up everyone around us as well. I ended up talking to some guy about the politics in Baltimore (seriously I told the dude before we started talking "everything I know about your city comes directly from 'The Wire,'" but he thought that made me more qualified than their mayor). Anyway, Craig basically orders me a vodka tonic for every beer he's drinking. If you know me or you've ever seen me drink on a near empty stomach, you know exactly where this is heading. Craig left for his flight at about 1:30. By this time the vodka tonics tasted like water and I was having a hard time managing to actually get the Chex mix I bought into my mouth. Keeping with The Wire, I was like McNulty after a few fifth of Jameson.
So after a while I decide I need to board my flight... no I think I need to double back for another vodka tonic before I get on the flight because instead of passing out I'm feeling frisky. Lord knows another alcoholic beverage should curb this a little. So I get into the jetway probably bout as red as a high school Asian girl after three beers. In the jetway I start talking to the really attractive girl in front of me an she tells me she lives in DC. I ask her if I can borrow her cellphone briefly and she says "of course. " I then call Murdock in DC and get his voicemail. Now in front of this girl I basically leave he following message (I say basically because things were a bit hazy at this point) "Yo, Murdock, I'm talking to (insert name) and she's really hot and she's from DC so if you have a soul, you need to call her back and now you've got her number so good luck with that. Seriously, she's really hot and you need to call her back!"
Unfortunately we were the last group to board and we had to sit in the empty seat as far back int eh plane as we could go. So naturally I'm stuck next to the two high school girls. The DC girl was a few rows up and I think I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to get her to talk to me again, but for some reason she just didn't want to talk to me. The flight attendants were doing the the announcements at this point, and the middle aged woman across the aisle asked me to be quiet and stop talking. Now I'm a smart-ass when I'm sober, but when I've got a belly full of alkie, I'm downright vicious. I said to the lady (loud enough fr a lot of people around us to hear) "Oh I'm sorry, did you not seethe doors when we got on the plane? Are you taking meds for the Alzheimer's yet, or do your kids want you to slowly rot? Wait, let me show you how to use a seat belt again ma'am." Clearly I'm going to hell.
After a while of m being stupid, they started the drink service. I can't remember if the girls next to me asked me to buy them drinks or not, but I remember basically yelling across the plane to the flight crew "Hey, these girls want me to buy them drinks, but I'm too drunk to see if they're old enough!" Can I get some help with this? Anyone, are these girls old enough to drink or will I get in trouble?" At this point some guy four rows up started yelling that he was going to kick my ass and I responded with a "What the fuck did I do?" which just got him more enraged. The flight attendants then asked me to move to the back row. The guy four rows up followed me and sat two rows in front of me. By now you already know two things - 1) I'm a smartass and 2) I'll say anything I damn well please. Basically when this guy followed me I decided to tell him exactly how I felt and it took a few people I recognized from the bar to hold that guy back and calm him down. After this I pass out for the remainder of the trip to our first stop in Nashville.
When I wake up in Nashville and immediately ask the flight attendant if I can use the lavatory in the back of the plane while the Nashville folks are getting off the plane. She says sure and is totally nonchallant about it. I'll also say at this point that I am quite a bit more sober. So I used the facilities, wash my hands and step out of the lavatory to see something I really hadn't expected: four of Nashville's finest walking towards the back of the plane. The lead officer points at me and puts his hand up in the universal sign for "Hey you, Fuckhead, don't go anywhere!"I stand in the back of the plane and when he gets there he says "Sir I need to talk to you. We were called from this plane to come and take you to jail for terrorizing these people. As you know a lot of crazy things have been happening with airplanes and airports this weekend. Now I think you need to come with me." At this point, to say I was panicked would have been quite the understatement. I have family in Nashville (very distant) so I'm sure if I needed to be bailed it could have happened, but that was definitely not a phone call I wanted to make. So extremely calmly I say to the officer, "Sir is this necessary, I've been asleep the last three hours on the flight." I went from monocle and top hat to breaking rocks with failed country music stars in the space of a weekend. He then tells me that I'm a 'terrorist' for scaring people on the flight. I then say that I'll be on my best behavior the rest of the flight and that if I say a word out of line on the way to Raleigh I'll gladly go to jail there. This guy then gets in my face and tells me I had better be a model citizen and turns with his men and leaves.
Now I had originally thought that it was an airport security guy, but as he turned around I definitely got a "City of Nashville" patch on his arm. Holy shit, they called the city po-lice on me! Needless to say we'll be taking proper precautions next time I fly into Tennessee. So on the flight the rest of the way home the first thing I do is apologize to the flight attendant who says "You weren't that bad, I don't know why they called the cops on you. You were just being loud and stupid." Awesome.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)