A NIGHT IN THE LIFE OF A GEEZER
Mostly goofy lamentations to come, but we must start with a little Obama, well, just because. Kelso can no longer vote in the Democratic primary of his former state and will probably not vote in the general presidential election having nothing to do with ideology but rather with personal issues. So, this blog is the means by which Kelso participates in the democratic process of his former country. If we can shake one person off of Obama in any primary, it's better than the vote we would have cast for Kucinich. It doesn't matter if that one person goes for Clinton, Edwards, Mickey Mouse or nobody. Merely shaking one off of Obama works.
Now, what an unpleasant night we've had which has bled into an unpleasant day. Started to feel poorly around 10 pm Central. By 10:30, lunch and dinner had been returned. By 11:00 pm, it is recalled that there is a carryover in the 5-y-6 of $111,000 at Remon today. By 11:30 we're on our way to the casino to buy Saturday's expanaded past performances for the Remon card. At 11:45 we're informed by the dude at the sportsbook that he can't sell me a Remon program because the sportsbook is "closed," nevermind that there's a stack of about 25 of the programs right in front of him. Deciding that a bowl of sancocho and a Coke will settle the stomach we go into the poker room to hit the buffet. There's no 25-50 No-Limit Omaha game which we're in no shape to handle anyway, but there is a 5-5 No-Limit Texas Hold 'Em going with four drunk Mexican tourists playing. Of course, this is irresistable as these guys have had 5 or 6 whiskey's to Kelso's Coke, cranberry juice and strawberry milkshake.
It so happens that the empty seat is right alongside someone we know from the Wynn/Las Vegas. So, naturally, we start talking about old times, etc., and the senior Mexican admonishes Kelso to speak only Spanish at the table. "Vale. Esta bien. No hay ninguna problema..." Y tal. So, a couple of hands later, we catch bottom set on the flop and check-raise the guy to 400. He calls. The turn is an X. He checks. Vale. The River yields another X. He checks; we push all-in for another 400. He's thinking and thinking and two of his friends who have folded their hands tell the guy what they folded and the three begin speculating about what Kelso might have. Kelso goes nuts. Calls over the floorman and complains. The floorman takes Kelso aside and says as unctuously as possible, in English, "I don't want to help you, Mr. _____, because you don't care about the poor people." Kelso's response: "ask any fucking waiter, waitress, dealer or massage therapist if I'm a good tipper. Shit, I fucking gave you $50 for getting me a fucking hockey score while I was in a big hand. And by the way I'm sick and tired of your following me to the cage whenever I make a score in the Omaha game hoping I'll give you chips. It's a vulgar way to behave and no way to run a cardroom. You don't care if I live or die so why should I even give you a single $5 chip? Moreover, your 'poverty' means fuck-all to me because we're not in church, we're in a poker room. You want to make money? Learn how to play. Or fucking go to school."
Mind you, Kelso said all this in Spanish (specifically because the floorman had made his smart remarks in English purely to annoy) so it wasn't quite as ugly as it seems on the page. And this all relates back to a specific event earlier in the week in which Kelso had cashed out of the Omaha game for a large amount and the floorman "volunteered" to help Kelso take his chips to the cage to put in K's account. Kelso insisted there was no need. Kelso pushed the chips toward the cashier, got a receipt and account statement from her and put a $25 chip in the tip cup. And what do you know but there was the floorman standing right beside, looking at the account statement and receipt. Kelso (in NYC English): "What you need, boss?" The dude turned red and walked away. And yes this is the same asshole who let the Chinese guys get away with speaking Chinese at the table but forbid Arabic, Hebrew, Hindi or Yiddish.
So, naturally, nauseated and angry and tired, Kelso catches top set and calls the Mexican's all-in bluff for all of K's chips. Dealer runs the cards and the fucker hits a gut-shot straight to win. Urgh.
Back home to more nausea and no sleep and here we are needing to go back to the sportsbook to get the program and come back home in time to deal with the normal day's work.
OK, here's the plan. Going to drain a sachet of Andrews' Fruit Salts for the nausea, then maybe a nap, a visit to the bank and a run at the 5-y-6 carry at El Hipodromo Presidente Remon. And maybe a good cry before more work.
It still beats the everlovin' tar out of warrantless domestic wiretapping and Barrack Obama, though.
David Ferrer at 85/1 in the French Open outright.
Kelso's Nuts love you.
4 comments:
Kelso in Nighttown, with a Spanish accent. Speaking of which, are there any Irish pubs down there, as you recall there are in every Eastern Europeam city, no matter how godforsaken? I was looking at a cool website, yourfamilypub.com and enjoying the "novelty" pubs page. Here's a plan, before we die, let's meet up once in Your Man's Pub in Ballyduff, County Kerry. Or possibly the Bucket of Blood down in Cornwall. Your Man's Pub reminded me of How Late it Was, where the narrator often refers to himself as "Your Man."
On that subject I have a literary recommendation: "When She Was Good" by Philip Roth, presenting a shockingly horrible woman character who could never exist today when all writers live in fear of Michiko's wrath.
Thankfully, no ersatz Irish pubs here. The one attempt at a micro-brew pub "La Cerveceria" at the Decapolis was a miserable failure.
Having done the Irish pub cicuit from Dublin to Cnoc to Ballinrobe to Sligo and down to Galway including the illegals hidden behind thrift shops, I have tolerance for the knock-offs. But I accept your invitation.
How Late It Was, How Late was one of the great ones to be sure. I'll also take your recommendation to read "When She Was Good" if I can get off my ass and go to the Scribner's here.
Check out "The 27th City", first novel by Jonathan Franzen (1988 or so), if you want to read about a shockingly horrible woman character that would have put Michiko on super-tilt to be sure. Ditto Favorite Son (u remember my "prograahm" from that era, which was made into a decent mini-series with Robert Loggia -- still my favorite character in Scarface, btw).
At the time, I thought that a Latino-Jewish druglord was the screenwriter's conceit. Boy was I wrong!
I read both of the books you mention. I actually found Jammu kind of sympathetic, though in general I didn't really like the book. Corrections was way better, and it's about time for the backlash to the backlash there, I'd say, as Franzen is again hailed.
Favorite Son was an excellent potboiler with a villainess who was something like Monica Goodling, or the Reese Witherspoon character in "Election", if memory serves. For a good current potboiler I recommend "The Ruins."
Don't know how recently you read "The 27th City" but kelso-mere gave K uncorrected proofs in 1987, so it's been a while. Don't remember if Michi Kitchy was reviewing back then but I she had been I doubt she would have gotten the assignment. Kind of like putting her in a round room and telling her to piss in the corner. Whom do you prefer: East St. L, IL, black beserkers? The White Power Elite across the river? Or the South-Asian, not East Asian, fascist female police commissioner? Guess if you're Michi Kitchy, you call it a bad book with charicatures instead of characters and you punt. Not a bad book, at all, though. In some ways, I liked it better than "The Corrections," which was -- let's be fair -- just a little over-written.
Putting "The Ruins" on the list.
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